literature

All I Ask

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Clack, clack, clack...the sound bores through my skull like a drill. Her four-inch stilettos on the sidewalk outside. I can pick it out of even the most muddled cocktail of city noise. The sunshine wafts in on a light spring breeze; pages of my term report shuffle aimlessly around before settling like feathers on the floor. I'm bent over double, picking them up, frantic when the clacking stops just beyond my door. The only thing separating me from her.

The door opens. I'm on my knees, papers clutched to my bare chest like the last fibers of my life. It is finals week. Her smile permeates my skin though, and it fills the archway. "Hey, stranger."

It takes a moment to find my breath. It's hitched somewhere up in my chest. "Hi." I stand slowly, like a deer in the presence of a loaded gun. "You're early." Wow. Probably not what she wants to hear.

But she shrugs, taking no offense. "I woke up early. I couldn't wait for the eleven o' clock bus." She picks up a black tee shirt -- still filthy, to my horror -- and unfurls it. She grins. "So unless you're doing something important," she gestures to the papers in my hands, "I thought we'd get an early lunch." She's clipped her big, anonymous sunglasses onto her open shirt; it's taunting me.

"Yeah, uh...I need a minute." As I flee into my closet, I think I can hear her chuckling. I slide into a crisp, sea-green button-down and switch my sweats for a pair of fresh jeans -- my last. God, I need to do laundry, it dawns on me. I flush under my freckles and pray she doesn't notice. While I fight with my hair in the mirror, I'm assuaged with the sounds of the outdoors: birds are chirping, cars are honking, some bros are engaging in what looks like an intense game of frisbee.

In the mirror, I can see her lying on my bed, head propped up with an elbow; her hair is hanging curtain-like over one side of her face. She seems to be inspecting a cuticle. My own dilapidated fingers -- all hangnails and rough callouses from ceaseless scribbling -- flash around my mind. Great.

I pop my collar, donning a spray of cologne. My last shower was on Thursday...one more spray. "Okay. Let's go."

Giddily, she snaps up from my bedraggled sheets and rushes to my side. In her heels, she is about my height. It's disconcerting, to say the least; I gulp. The sight that greets us upon leaving the hall does nothing to quell my insecurity: the aforementioned bros are sprawled across the green, all in various stages of frisbee action. A prickle of jealousy itches my skin.

For a frightening second, her big brown eyes drag over them. Then she looks away, dissatisfied. Is her dissatisfaction in them, perhaps? Or is it in me, for failing to grow into a similar standard. After all, me and my fearsome hundred-and-fifty pounds pale in comparison. I bite the inside of my cheek. But when she wraps her arm in mine, gripping my shoulder with the other hand, I feel my muscles uncoil.
"I've missed you," she whispers in my ear; the words echo, bouncing around my head with fervor.

The most idiotic grin bursts onto my face. "I've missed you, too." My eyes travel arbitrarily up and down her figure. She's wearing a loose, black blouse tucked into some dangerously revealing shorts; her pale legs go on for days, ending in little black boots. They look like they might be suede. Something about the pattern of minuscule rhombus cutouts has me mesmerized.

Traffic is backed up around Springfield Street and, impatient as we are, we dodge through the clotted thoroughfare to a musical barrage of honking horns and angry shouts. It can't break us, however, and we laugh about the incident well onto Worcester. The sunshine feels stronger out of the confines of campus and now I'm more relaxed, nearly skipping with her down the sidewalk.

"How was your trip?" I break our mutual silence.

Surrounded by skyscrapers and fast-moving cars, her face is upturned, the horizon reflected in her dark shades. "Amazing. They were showing a Disney film on the way, and it was funny because my music kept matching up with the dialogue," she laughs. It's like big, booming bells, penetrating the smog of the city. "It was weird watching Woody and Buzz talk in shades of Britney."

I flinch before I can catch myself.

"Don't worry, it'll be Counterparts on the way home," she reassures me, squeezing my hand. The touch jolts through my veins and disorients me. "You're so judgmental," she teases. A large, ecru leather bag is swinging by her side.

"We can't all be so eclectic," I scold gently.

"It might do you good," she insists. I love her voice.

"I can think of things that would do me more good."

She closes her eyes and turns away briefly -- just long enough for her heel to catch in a crack in the cement and stumble into my arms. For a fleeting moment, I get to be her hero.

As we wait for a pause in traffic at Shawmut Avenue, the sun beats down and makes the back of my neck sweat. I'm eager for the air conditioned sanctuary of Mike's. I bristle when her hand runs unexpectedly through my carefully arranged hair.

"I love this," she kisses my cheek; heat infects my skin, burning my lips and making my eyes water a bit.

At last we arrive at the diner, the little bell on the door tinkling as we enter. Cold air rushes over us and she shivers. I hold her closer. We take a seat at the counter, the red enamel meticulously scrubbed. I watch, fixated while she wanders over to a cooler and selects a diet Pepsi.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"Coffee," I answer, already prepared for the sneer this will earn me. I hate pop music, she hates coffee -- it's a fair trade. In spite of her distaste, she fills up a mug with steaming coffee and executes my favorite formula: three sugars, and a splash of cream. I love that she knows that.

Not many minutes pass before we're approached by a waitress; the counter is nearly full, but we're in no hurry. The girl -- Maci, reads her plastic name tag -- lights up with recognition. She's probably seen us here before, regular as we are. "What'll you have?" Maci asks; her voice is brimming with Bostonian.

"Ladies first," I nod at my girl. She is closely studying the menu, like there might be a pop quiz later. The way her nose scrunches is adorable; if I tell her, she will deliberately stop, so mum's the word.

"A grilled chicken salad, I think," she pauses, eyes flitting over the rest of the page, "that's it, thanks." She's polite to our server, even though Maci scrawls this all this down in belligerent silence.

Then she turns to me. "And what about you?" she asks sweetly. Ah. It ,was recognition.

"Um, a Philly steak. With a large fry, too." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see narrowed eyes at my dryness with the waitress. "What?" I ask when Maci disappears into the kitchen.

"You were kind of rude," she notes.

"She was flirting with me," I protest.

She shrugs, snapping the tab on her Pepsi. "You're good-looking. Everybody flirts with you."

I have nothing to say.

Her salad arrives before my sandwich, and it's painful to watch her pick diffidently through the greens, reluctantly selecting a tomato and a few wispy shreds of lettuce. I'm relieved when my Philly follows up so she won't feel so alone.

"Here," I offer her my cardboard box of french fries. "Have some." I even push the salt shaker her way as means of persuasion. She eyes the fries suspiciously. It's thirty seconds before she relents and takes a few for her plate. She chases them immediately with her soda.

I feel bad, but I'd feel worse if I didn't coerce her into eating them.

We eat in companionable silence, just wallowing in the din of the people around us. The crowd builds as the lunch rush trickles in -- business people mostly, hurrying through their lunch breaks, a couple families. At a table in the corner, there's an elderly couple holding hands and sharing a salad. The old man's half is topped with tuna. The old lady's nose wrinkles every time her husband takes a bite, but still she smiles.

At some point, her head falls onto my shoulder and I realize that she hasn't finished her food: more than half of the salad still sits on her plate, accompanied by a strip or two of chicken. I ask for a box. When we're offered dessert, I pass, sparing her further torture. I've done enough damage for the day.

Well, almost. "You're going to eat that, later," I declare as we step back into the sunshine.

"Maybe," she tucks the Styrofoam box into her purse.

"I paid six ninety-five plus tax for that salad," I remind her, taking her hand.

"You paid like, ten dollars for that Philly steak and fries," she points out, tossing her brunette waves back haughtily.

"True," I concede, "but I finished mine." Disgruntled, she pushes me, but doesn't let go of my hand. I come back to her, trapping her waist in my other arm. We are somewhat clumsy in motion together. "You know I just care about you," I say, my fingers clenching around her left hip. "Please eat it."

She sighs, wary. "Fine."

"Thank you."

We walk to Sparrow Park and sit on the grass in the sun, inundated by passers-by: joggers, people with dogs, that sort of thing. Over in a patch of shade are some teenagers, passing a cigarette. I'm tempted to venture into her bag to see if she's brought any. It's never been a deal-breaker, but I always hope that one day she won't have them with her.

"Lean back," she commands. I do as I'm told; I'm complacent, full of food and springtime promise. She lays her head in my lap, her burnished hair fanning out. I stroke the silky strands from root to tip, eliciting a contented moan. It's soft, unadulterated. Still, it crawls up my nerves and burrows into the primal, shadowy parts of my brain. I fight with myself for a good minute. "You smell so good." Her fingers creep up my legs to my stomach, her palm flattening over it. "You always smell good. It's like magic." The corners of her mouth are tugging wildly upward, her teeth gleaming in the afternoon light.

"I do my best," I feign bashfulness.

Just then, our moment is shattered as a child runs by, squealing like a siren. I bolt upright, startled, but she hardly misses a breath. She turns over onto her elbows, making a bridge over my lap. Her eyes are trained on the kid -- he can't be more than five or six. Her smile melts, more placid.

"What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing." But her gaze is still on the child, playing with his father. The man picks up his son and turns him upside-down: the boy screams happily, unintelligibly, reaching for the ground.

"How young do you think they are?" she asks me. "His parents?"

It's an odd question -- just the kind of question she'd ask. I study the father first. He is tall, burly. His face is pretty much devoid of wrinkles or any other signs of age, but is enshrouded with a bristly, black beard. The woman -- a platinum blonde -- stands off to the side, smiling, hands jammed into the pockets of her designer jeans. She is tan, but her eyes look tired. She seems happy, though.

"I don't know. Mid-twenties, maybe older."

"Hmm."

I know what she's thinking. And I know she'll never admit it.

"Let's walk back, alright?"

"What, no window shopping?" I ask jokingly.

She glares at me and swats me firmly in the chest. It stings a little, but I bite back any reaction. "No. I know you have a lot to do." She jerks the hem of my collar and brushes the dirt off my ass. I squirm under the scrutiny, but she holds me still.

As our feet leave the grass and transfer to the hard shell of concrete, she squeezes my hand. "You know, I don't want kids. But...if I did," she qualifies, and I realize what she's about to say. "I'd want yours."

Unfazed by my shocked silence, she pulls out the boxed salad and rummages around her bag for a plastic fork.
Suggested soundtrack:
"Everything I Ask For" by The Maine
"That's Entertainment" by The Jam
"Heretics" by Andrew Bird
© 2011 - 2024 Monroe-West
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