“How can you expect surrealism and impressionism to have that much in common?”
I think it’s an unanswerable question. But Rhiannon has an answer. She doesn’t even stop to find it.
“Because,” she says, pointing to her head, “they both come from up here.”
RHIANNON
I think we need to get some food. I check my phone to see what time it is, and find a couple of texts from Alexander, asking me what I’m up to. Ever since our non-breakup, I’ve kept him at a distance without entirely pushing him away. Even though I feel the impulse to text back and tell him I was just looking at the Van Gogh he has in postcard form on the wall over his bed, I don’t. I don’t text him back at all.
A catches me checking and asks if everything’s okay.
“It was just Alexander,” I say. “No emergency.”
“And how’s Alexander?”
I don’t know why this question annoys me, but it does. “Please don’t ask me that.”
“Oh. Okay. I won’t.”
“He just wanted to see what I was up to. It’s nothing. The much more pressing question is: Where are we going for lunch?”
“I actually know the answer to that one. Or I will, once I map it out.”
It ends up that A did some research on vegetarian restaurants on my behalf, and we end up at a place called Candle Cafe. It’s more elaborate than any vegetarian restaurant I’ve ever seen, serving things like southern-fried seitan and tempeh empanadas. It’s also the most expensive vegetarian restaurant I’ve ever been to, though it’s probably not all that expensive for New York City.
I come right out and say to A, “I can’t afford this.”
“My treat,” A says.
“We’ve been through this. It’s not your treat. It’s Arwyn’s treat.”
If I’m slightly exasperated at A, A’s slightly exasperated right back at me.
“If Arywn were out with their friends, they’d be spending this much on lunch, too. I’m not costing them any more than if I weren’t here. Believe me, it’s something I’ve given some thought to.”
“One of your rules.”
“Sure.”
I remind myself that we all have rules, not just A. Things that aren’t universally right or wrong—just personally right or wrong.
I give in, and when the food comes, I’m thankful, though I’m not really sure whether to be thankful to A or to Arwyn or to both of them. Probably both of them.
A asks me about all of the things we haven’t really talked about in our emails—school and friends and parents and other things that aren’t us. For someone who forgets so many days, A has remembered a whole lot about the time spent in my town; we talk for a long time about Steve and Stephanie and their ons and offs—because A’s met them, A knows what I’m talking about, but because A doesn’t really have a side in the fight, I’m able to observe things that maybe I couldn’t observe with Rebecca or Preston.
I have to take out my phone and look up tempeh so I can explain what it is. A tries it, likes it—and suddenly we’re eating off each other’s plates, laughing and talking. We’ve shifted back to normal, and neither one of us had to steer. We could be any couple in the world having lunch, and at the same time we are distinctly the two of us having lunch. We are a couple like any other couple, and we are us. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to jinx it. This is what we’ve been trying to return to. Not effortless—we still need to engage, we still need to care. But the effort doesn’t feel like something extra. It feels like normal effort.
I know I should probably be aiming higher. But I’d rather aim on target.
“Look!” A says, pointing over my shoulder.
I turn around and see it’s started to snow.
A
Day 6133 (continued)
We walk outside, and outside has changed. We are standing on the sidewalk, showered with cloudpiece snowflakes that layer us as they fall. We are smiling at this offering of magic, brushing it out of our hair and then letting it stay there. We know there are places that will take us in, for a small admission fee—places full of medieval masterpieces and ancient riddles, reconstructed dinosaurs and priceless gems. But we resist the indoors and retrace our steps, even though our steps are covered now, blanked out by everything that’s happened since. We marvel to one another at what we are seeing. We say it aloud so we can share it. We dance along to the snowfall, and in doing so, we lift. We return to the park, which has fallen eternally quiet. We can hear our own steps. We can see our breath. We watch as all the paths turn white, and take them anyway.
RHIANNON
The skyscrapers disappear. Daylight filters gray. The trees bow and the streetlamps beacon blindly. The wind swirls, contradictory patterns spelled out for the eye to see. The dog walkers retreat to their kennels and the squirrels retreat to their secret city. The sounds of stillness emerge as the cars no longer touch the ground. We can hear the shape of our footsteps.
For all we know, we are the only two people in New York.
A
Day 6133 (continued)
We are missing all the winter vestments—scarves and hats and coats to keep out the wind and its claws.
She shivers and I pull her close.
I shiver and she kisses me.
I rest my forehead on her forehead. Both our foreheads are cold.
The snow gathers around us. Our breath is still warm. We are alive to wonders, and we are recognizing them.
Not a word needs to be said. But we say them anyway.
RHIANNON
It is a small miracle that we find my car.
The snow has transformed the parked cars into statuary, with only an occasional headlight peering out. I go to wipe off my windshield with my sleeve, but A stops me, says we should just get inside, since we’re not driving anywhere right now. There isn’t enough snow to block the door or the exhaust pipe, so I make my way carefully inside, then turn on the heat and unlock the passenger door. A slips inside, and lets out a loud “BRRRRRR” until the temperature rises to accommodate us.
With the windows covered, it’s like we’re in our own cocoon. The snow melts into us as we lean back in our seats, let the heater do its job. The cars that pass on the street are slow and rare. Our car shudders when a plow passes, scraping its way south.
A’s hand drifts into the space between us, and I take it. I can feel my phone vibrate in my pocket—another message.