The music was hauntingly beautiful, a melody that was slow and pensive yet sweet and sorrowful. A violin trilled its heart out to the thick crowd of masked figures as she waded and danced my way through to the center…where he waited.
He was the core, the goal, the focal point of the warm marbled room. Everyone spiraled and twirled and dipped around him as he stood there like an admiring and omniscient statue.
His dark mask looked to be crafted from the very essence of shadows and smoke, resembling a haunting stygian mark against his bright and pale complexion. The moment he saw her dragging her hampering silver skirt into the center ring he smiled wickedly and extended an offering hand.
Such a gesture could not be refused. She was lured in easily, like a moth to a spider’s labyrinth of a web.
They glided together, circling around one another in a melodious and intricate waltz. He held her firmly against him, his powerful arms a mere facet of his true power as he loomed over her tiny existence. The moonstones and silver baubles that dangled from and adorned her attire seemed to match his midnight doublet, as though he were the sky and she the stars.
Suddenly he spun her and dipped her low along with the steep cry of the violin. She felt as though her body was no longer her own. She was merely a marionette, and he controlled her strings.
Those dark eyes of his burned like hot coals sitting in a hearth, watching her every move as the rhythm of the dance grew to its crescendo and slowly began to still.
The hundreds of people who danced around them halted in their own dances, watching, waiting, witnessing their private dance. Their paper faces were blank, becoming less and less animated as she was led into another dip, concluding the song as well as their waltz.
When she returned her gaze to him and fell out of the spell of the violin, she was met by a chaste and frightening kiss. His lips were like poison, drawing her in to his intoxicating presence as though he were wrapping her within a dark cloak. She became cold, then steadily sleepy, as though she were sinking into a warm bath. It was an odd series of sensations that lasted until the kiss ended and the applause filled the room.
When she parted her long eyelashes, the room had changed completely. There were no marble halls or grad stairwells. There were no dancers with masks or musicians. There was no prince. She was alone in her bed, the candle on her bedside table guttered from the open window. The only remnant of the evening’s dream was one of the silver baubles that she had worn, which had stationed itself just underneath her bed.
Still jingling softly.
The ink of a writer comes from the creative juices that live deep within the heart
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Seasons Between Us
It seemed only yesterday that Craig and I were sitting in the tree house blowing bubbles and pretending we were sailing on a pirate ship. The backyard was our imagination’s playground, and anything and everything we could find became a part of the intricate plots we spun. Everything was perfect back then, simple, without responsibility or a care in the world.
That didn’t last long.
Something that beautiful never really does.
It all started when I found Craig hiding in the tree house one stuffy summer afternoon. Taking a hold of the fraying rope that looked to be too fragile to support my 17-year old weight, I climbed up to the entrance and crawled through to find him hunched over and completely lost in thought.
“Craig, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I cast him a doubtful glance, but he didn’t see, so I crawled over next to him and waited for answer. He knew just as much as I do that something had to give.
“Dad was drinking again.”
“I thought he was doing much better after rehab?”
“He was…as least…we thought he was.”
“Why did he start again?”
Craig looked over at me, his face grave and solid, as though it had been chiseled from concrete.
“They fought.”
I put my arm around him, rubbing small reassuring circles on his back as he heaved a big sigh and ran a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.
“My parents are getting…divorced.”
He hesitated on the last word, pronouncing it as though it were a forbidden word to say aloud.
“But…they love each other.” I murmured softly, continuing to rub at his sticky cotton shirt. Due to the temperature of the day, he had been out here a while.
“They did. They used to. Not anymore it seems.”
“Is there anything that can be done?”
Craig shook his head, leaning his head against my shoulder as though it were the last shred of comfort he would receive for a while. In return, I leaned my head against his. I knew he was crying, but I didn’t do anything to stop his tears.
Sometimes, it’s better to let all the pain out at once.
After several hours had passed, I had managed to calm Craig down and get his mind off of things. We quoted movies and played cards and reminisced about the past and all the ridiculous imaginary adventures we had had. It wasn’t until dark that we decided to part ways.
“April,” he stopped me in my tracks by taking a hold of my beaded bracelet, “thank you.”
Smiling, I gave him one last reassuring hug before disappearing into the house and watching him do the same.
It wasn’t until the next day that I found out just how was about to be taken away from me.
I remember that Craig wouldn’t look at me. That he kept his eyes shadowed by his bangs and his hands were tucked away in his denim pockets.
I remember the discolored blotchy skin on his cheek and him telling me that everything was going to be okay. That it would heal within a couple weeks.
I remember him trying to hide the other discoloring with long sleeves shirts and turtle necks in the middle of summer.
I remember the day his mother left the house with all her things packed into a suitcase, and Craig going with her.
I remember the letter that had been dropped through our mail-slot and the rushed and scratchy handwriting within. It revealed nothing, where they were going or how long they would be there…just that he was thanking me for everything, for being a great friend, sidekick and pirate captain. And the last and final words of the letter were the most painful.
Goodbye
And so I was Craig-less. I continued to be for what seemed like ages. I found myself retreating to the safety of the tree house and missing the one person in the world to share it with.
A storm eventually ripped the tree house apart, and that was when I knew I could never go back to those times. That the days of superheroes and playing house and being pirates no longer existed. I had known that for quite some time…I just never seemed to want to let go.
Years passed. I graduated high school and began my college career while living at home to save money. Craig’s father finally moved out the year I was a senior. No one in the neighborhood said their goodbyes, if anything; they were looking forward to not having a gallery of whiskey and vodka bottles in his driveway.
When it was finally purchased, it was immediately renovated, and for all intensive purposes, rebuilt. Instead of a poorly taken care of one layer home that stood out like a sore thumb, it was transformed into a two story country house that looked to be snug as a glove.
By the time the house was completed and the construction crew had vanished, they had already moved in and settled.
I remember getting ready for class the next morning, and as I was pouring my coffee into a thermos I caught sight of something that took my breath away.
The tree house in our backyard had been rebuilt.
That didn’t last long.
Something that beautiful never really does.
It all started when I found Craig hiding in the tree house one stuffy summer afternoon. Taking a hold of the fraying rope that looked to be too fragile to support my 17-year old weight, I climbed up to the entrance and crawled through to find him hunched over and completely lost in thought.
“Craig, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I cast him a doubtful glance, but he didn’t see, so I crawled over next to him and waited for answer. He knew just as much as I do that something had to give.
“Dad was drinking again.”
“I thought he was doing much better after rehab?”
“He was…as least…we thought he was.”
“Why did he start again?”
Craig looked over at me, his face grave and solid, as though it had been chiseled from concrete.
“They fought.”
I put my arm around him, rubbing small reassuring circles on his back as he heaved a big sigh and ran a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.
“My parents are getting…divorced.”
He hesitated on the last word, pronouncing it as though it were a forbidden word to say aloud.
“But…they love each other.” I murmured softly, continuing to rub at his sticky cotton shirt. Due to the temperature of the day, he had been out here a while.
“They did. They used to. Not anymore it seems.”
“Is there anything that can be done?”
Craig shook his head, leaning his head against my shoulder as though it were the last shred of comfort he would receive for a while. In return, I leaned my head against his. I knew he was crying, but I didn’t do anything to stop his tears.
Sometimes, it’s better to let all the pain out at once.
After several hours had passed, I had managed to calm Craig down and get his mind off of things. We quoted movies and played cards and reminisced about the past and all the ridiculous imaginary adventures we had had. It wasn’t until dark that we decided to part ways.
“April,” he stopped me in my tracks by taking a hold of my beaded bracelet, “thank you.”
Smiling, I gave him one last reassuring hug before disappearing into the house and watching him do the same.
It wasn’t until the next day that I found out just how was about to be taken away from me.
I remember that Craig wouldn’t look at me. That he kept his eyes shadowed by his bangs and his hands were tucked away in his denim pockets.
I remember the discolored blotchy skin on his cheek and him telling me that everything was going to be okay. That it would heal within a couple weeks.
I remember him trying to hide the other discoloring with long sleeves shirts and turtle necks in the middle of summer.
I remember the day his mother left the house with all her things packed into a suitcase, and Craig going with her.
I remember the letter that had been dropped through our mail-slot and the rushed and scratchy handwriting within. It revealed nothing, where they were going or how long they would be there…just that he was thanking me for everything, for being a great friend, sidekick and pirate captain. And the last and final words of the letter were the most painful.
Goodbye
And so I was Craig-less. I continued to be for what seemed like ages. I found myself retreating to the safety of the tree house and missing the one person in the world to share it with.
A storm eventually ripped the tree house apart, and that was when I knew I could never go back to those times. That the days of superheroes and playing house and being pirates no longer existed. I had known that for quite some time…I just never seemed to want to let go.
Years passed. I graduated high school and began my college career while living at home to save money. Craig’s father finally moved out the year I was a senior. No one in the neighborhood said their goodbyes, if anything; they were looking forward to not having a gallery of whiskey and vodka bottles in his driveway.
When it was finally purchased, it was immediately renovated, and for all intensive purposes, rebuilt. Instead of a poorly taken care of one layer home that stood out like a sore thumb, it was transformed into a two story country house that looked to be snug as a glove.
By the time the house was completed and the construction crew had vanished, they had already moved in and settled.
I remember getting ready for class the next morning, and as I was pouring my coffee into a thermos I caught sight of something that took my breath away.
The tree house in our backyard had been rebuilt.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Meeting Again
6/30/11
The distinct “crunch” the glass made underneath her black stilettos was quite possibly the worst sound in the world.
It reminded her of the time she was in sixth grade and the class nerd, Peter Gerkin, was receiving his daily teasing/torturing from the stereotypical football bullies. By the time anyone could get to them, Peter had already been completely pulverized. It was as though the bullies enjoyed seeing him change colors like a chameleon throughout the course of a week. It became second nature to the school, the way of life, survival of the fittest. And she hated it.
When Peter was viciously attacked again, it was because he refused to give his packed lunch to them, so they did the only thing they knew best and took it by force.
“Aww look, mommy must have packed an extra candy bar just for us. How did she know?”
“Cut it out!” He yelled.
She watched all of this from behind the Language Arts hallway with fiery determination and mousy courage, someone had to stop this. Someone had to put an end to all of this bullying.
It was one of those moments you wished for a hero to come along. Or even a miracle.
They grabbed him by his polo collar and threw him so hard against the locker that it visibly made a dent.
That did it.
She raced out from behind her hiding place, gigantic Shakespeare book in hand and ready to be used as some form of weapon.
They did not mind her presence one bit, they continued with the routine of beating the poor boy senseless until his glasses flew from his terrified face and directly underneath her foot pattern.
The moment the pressure of her converse sneaker came into contact with the glass, she felt horribly sick.
Oh God…..
Her heart beat faster and faster until it thudded within her ears and she could hear nothing else but the marathon vivace of lubs and dubs.
“Let’s not swell up his eyes today. This chic has already done the job of blinding him.” Like the cowards that they were, they ran off in the opposite direction, howling with triumphant and mocking laughter that echoed along with their escape.
Immediately she fell to the floor and desperately tried to piece his glasses together.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Peter, I tried to help but—“
“Just go away.”
Her heart stopped. It slowly detached itself from her chest cavity and slid down into the nauseous pit of her stomach.
“Do you have spare glasses? Here, at least let me help you up.”
“Don’t touch me! I can do it myself.”
She cradled the Shakespeare book in her arms, holding it tight against her chest for some ounce of comfort.
“You…you should really see the nurse. Let me go get her.”
“As if I need anyone else’s “help” today.” He snatched the glasses out of her hand and folded them as best he could and slid them into one of his kakhi cargo pants pockets.
This hero, this miracle, did not turn out the way she had anticipated. In fact, it turned out quite the opposite.
Nevertheless, she puffed up her chest and gathered whatever courage she had left.
“Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
She set down the Shakespeare book, as though the great poet were to keep an eye on him, and ran off in the direction of the school’s infirmary.
Mrs. Pratchett was leisurely sitting back in her desk chair reading a glossy new addition of the Cosmo magazine. She was a middle aged woman with thick spectacles that would have rivaled those of John Lennon’s. Her overall visage was clearly that of a woman pretending that she was 15-20 years younger than what she actually was. Today her hair was that of a doll’s, as though it had been curled inside of a cotton candy machine and glued in perfect tight ringlets to the top of her head. Her face was terribly pasty and resembled that of a makeup artist gone horribly wrong; with pink dots for cheeks, ghastly red painted lips, an alarming shade of light blue for her eyelids, and drawn on eyebrows that were much too harsh and fake to be reasonably passable.
In comparison to her booth, the top of the little girl’s head was the only thing clearly visible to the nurse.
“Excuse me.”
No response. She was lost within her own little world of Cosmo pages filled with gossip on Leonardo De Caprio.
“Excuse me!”
Finally, she turned around. She looked as though the little girl were a bug that needed to be squashed.
“Can I help you?”
There was no ounce of enthusiasm in the tone of her voice.
“It’s Peter, he’s hurt really bad.”
“Where?” She inquired lazily, as though she were expecting this all day.
“At the end of the Science Hallway.”
When she finally decided to hobble out of her wheelie chair and followed the little girl down the hall, they reached the Science Hallway, where sitting on the ground was nothing more than a Shakespeare book casting a shadow towards the vacant area with a dented locker. Peter was nowhere to be found.
That was the last time she saw Peter Gerkin. His desk remained empty for days, which turned into weeks. Months flew by and it was as though he had become a distant memory, too far back in the brain to even recall. The gossip had finally faded. All the stories were different yet they all managed to blend together once the drama died down. Peter had run away. Peter had moved to a foreign country. Peter transferred to another school. Peter had become home schooled. etc. etc. etc….
Everyone agreed upon the fact that Peter Gerkin was never to be seen again.
Every day after school, she walked past his house. The simple brick and closed shutters were gaunt and riddled with shadows. It sat forlorn, blending in to the background, doing everything within its power to not be noticed. Just like its previous owners, it too was nothing but a memory.
That memory, that moment, resurfaced very quickly as soon as those glasses shattered beneath her stilettos.
Not only did the glass shatter, but her heart shattered along with it the moment she saw whose glasses they were.
“Happens every time! I don’t understand how people can just—”
The man was frustrated, not furious. He was clean shaven, not bloody and black and blue. He was clad in a sharp black suit and tie, not cargo pants and a Spiderman t-shirt.
There was no mistaking those blue eyes.
“Angela?”
“Peter?”
It was quite possibly the most awkward moment she had ever experienced, equal to that moment she stepped on another pair of glasses.
“Peter! I am so sorry, your glasses, I, err, I can pay for those, are you okay?”
She didn’t realize she was flailing her arms frantically until he took both of her hands and caught her gaze.
“Angela it’s alright. Really.”
“But, I—”
It was then she noticed that the rest of the office was also tuning in to their conversation. Molten heat flooded up the pale column of her throat and pooled into her cheeks and burnt the tips of her ears.
“Might I suggest,” He murmured softly, “we take this into my office.”
“Most definitely.”
Gathering up the (ridiculously expensive) bits of glass and the contorted metal frame, she followed closely behind Peter until they reached the elevator and quickly slipped inside.
She inconspicuously endeavored to fan her face, hoping that it wasn’t as red as she perceived it to be given the heat it was currently radiating.
He wasn’t speaking.
WHY wasn’t he speaking?
Her heart raced, pumping frantically as she desperately waited for something, anything, to be said. She watched him straighten his tie and fold his arms behind his back like a proper gentleman.
Out of all the places…. Of all the corporations in all the buildings in all the cities in all the continents of the Earth….she had to step on Peter Gerkin’s glasses for a second time.
“You do not need to be so tense.”
“What?”
“You’re wrinkling your skirt.”
Sure enough, one of her hands was clutching the living daylights out of her pencil skirt, and the other remained holding on the remnants of his glasses.
“Can you see?”
He blinked curiously at her, making electrical eye contact for the second time that day.
“Just barely.”
“I’m so sorry…” Her voice cracked slightly, her cheeks stained red with shame and embarrassment as the rest of her went into complete and utter denial.
“Please,” he took hold of the hand that was practically squishing the frame and glass, “Angela, it’s okay.”
The elevator “dinged”, signaling their arrival. Neither of them moved. The world seemed to take a breath between the moment their eyes locked, and the 6th grade seemed to rush back to meet them.
Peter released her hand and motioned for her to follow him into his office. The golden plaque that stationed itself next to his door signaled that he was a high profile manager of the building, a very powerful man.
“Welcome back Mr. Gerkin.” A young woman greeted him with an intercom and her fingers typing furiously at a keyboard. His personal secretary no doubt.
“Miss Persival, would you bring me some ice water please? My guest has had a wee bit of a shock.”
“Yessir. Anything else?”
“No, that will do just fine.”
Peter opened his office door and suddenly her small cubicle of an office paled in comparison. This was like an entire mansion within itself, yet it was very high-tech and very clean, specifically centered around black leather and chrome furnishings. He pulled up a chair to his desk and silently communicated to her that she should sit.
“How much were the glasses?” She croaked, trying her best of uphold a strong composure despite the wave of emotions that churned within her.
“That is not important.” He rummaged through one of the top drawers to his rich cherry wood office desk. When he finally found what he was looking for, he placed a small wooden box in front of him and then came from behind his desk, knelt before her, squinted, and carefully placed a band-aid on her left knee. “There.” The corner of his mouth tugged slightly, as though he were trying to smile, but not reveal it to her.
“So you are allowed to help me when I am injured, but I am not allowed to help you?”
“What do you mean?” He studied her expression quizzically.
“6th grade. You didn’t wait for me to bring the nurse when you were horribly injured.”
For a moment it was as though she had spoken in an entirely different language and his brain were trying to compute and translate everything she had said.
“I was young. I was independent. I was rash. I thought I didn’t need any help.”
“But you did.”
“Yes. Yes I did. And how long was it until you stopped trying to bring me my homework after school each day?”
The burning blush returned with a fury unlike before.
“You knew?”
“Of course. Your efforts were never overlooked.”
“I was trying to pay you back for the glasses.”
He smiled. There it was. At last. It was subtle, amused, warm and kind. It evolved into a silly and almost boyish grin as he picked himself back up, plucking the broken pieces from her hand, and returned to sitting behind his desk.
“You were the only one in the world besides my parents to show me such kindness. And I learned many things that day. Granted, the fact that I was not there when you returned with the nurse must prove otherwise….but….”
He opened the small wooden box that he had retrieved from the desk and revealed a brand-spankin’ new pair of identical spectacles.
“I learned the importance of a second pair.”
She nonchalantly tossed a dark brown curl over her shoulder, trying to act natural.
“That doesn’t dismiss the fact I broke the first pair. I insist upon paying you back for those. I don’t care if I can’t pay the electric bill for four months and I can’t feed myself and my cat, I will pay you back.”
The grin returned, more amused than ever. It evolved across his face the more and more his eyes sparkled with interest.
“Very well. But I shall be the one to choose your method of payment.”
“Deal.”
“How does coffee on Friday sound?”
The distinct “crunch” the glass made underneath her black stilettos was quite possibly the worst sound in the world.
It reminded her of the time she was in sixth grade and the class nerd, Peter Gerkin, was receiving his daily teasing/torturing from the stereotypical football bullies. By the time anyone could get to them, Peter had already been completely pulverized. It was as though the bullies enjoyed seeing him change colors like a chameleon throughout the course of a week. It became second nature to the school, the way of life, survival of the fittest. And she hated it.
When Peter was viciously attacked again, it was because he refused to give his packed lunch to them, so they did the only thing they knew best and took it by force.
“Aww look, mommy must have packed an extra candy bar just for us. How did she know?”
“Cut it out!” He yelled.
She watched all of this from behind the Language Arts hallway with fiery determination and mousy courage, someone had to stop this. Someone had to put an end to all of this bullying.
It was one of those moments you wished for a hero to come along. Or even a miracle.
They grabbed him by his polo collar and threw him so hard against the locker that it visibly made a dent.
That did it.
She raced out from behind her hiding place, gigantic Shakespeare book in hand and ready to be used as some form of weapon.
They did not mind her presence one bit, they continued with the routine of beating the poor boy senseless until his glasses flew from his terrified face and directly underneath her foot pattern.
The moment the pressure of her converse sneaker came into contact with the glass, she felt horribly sick.
Oh God…..
Her heart beat faster and faster until it thudded within her ears and she could hear nothing else but the marathon vivace of lubs and dubs.
“Let’s not swell up his eyes today. This chic has already done the job of blinding him.” Like the cowards that they were, they ran off in the opposite direction, howling with triumphant and mocking laughter that echoed along with their escape.
Immediately she fell to the floor and desperately tried to piece his glasses together.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Peter, I tried to help but—“
“Just go away.”
Her heart stopped. It slowly detached itself from her chest cavity and slid down into the nauseous pit of her stomach.
“Do you have spare glasses? Here, at least let me help you up.”
“Don’t touch me! I can do it myself.”
She cradled the Shakespeare book in her arms, holding it tight against her chest for some ounce of comfort.
“You…you should really see the nurse. Let me go get her.”
“As if I need anyone else’s “help” today.” He snatched the glasses out of her hand and folded them as best he could and slid them into one of his kakhi cargo pants pockets.
This hero, this miracle, did not turn out the way she had anticipated. In fact, it turned out quite the opposite.
Nevertheless, she puffed up her chest and gathered whatever courage she had left.
“Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
She set down the Shakespeare book, as though the great poet were to keep an eye on him, and ran off in the direction of the school’s infirmary.
Mrs. Pratchett was leisurely sitting back in her desk chair reading a glossy new addition of the Cosmo magazine. She was a middle aged woman with thick spectacles that would have rivaled those of John Lennon’s. Her overall visage was clearly that of a woman pretending that she was 15-20 years younger than what she actually was. Today her hair was that of a doll’s, as though it had been curled inside of a cotton candy machine and glued in perfect tight ringlets to the top of her head. Her face was terribly pasty and resembled that of a makeup artist gone horribly wrong; with pink dots for cheeks, ghastly red painted lips, an alarming shade of light blue for her eyelids, and drawn on eyebrows that were much too harsh and fake to be reasonably passable.
In comparison to her booth, the top of the little girl’s head was the only thing clearly visible to the nurse.
“Excuse me.”
No response. She was lost within her own little world of Cosmo pages filled with gossip on Leonardo De Caprio.
“Excuse me!”
Finally, she turned around. She looked as though the little girl were a bug that needed to be squashed.
“Can I help you?”
There was no ounce of enthusiasm in the tone of her voice.
“It’s Peter, he’s hurt really bad.”
“Where?” She inquired lazily, as though she were expecting this all day.
“At the end of the Science Hallway.”
When she finally decided to hobble out of her wheelie chair and followed the little girl down the hall, they reached the Science Hallway, where sitting on the ground was nothing more than a Shakespeare book casting a shadow towards the vacant area with a dented locker. Peter was nowhere to be found.
That was the last time she saw Peter Gerkin. His desk remained empty for days, which turned into weeks. Months flew by and it was as though he had become a distant memory, too far back in the brain to even recall. The gossip had finally faded. All the stories were different yet they all managed to blend together once the drama died down. Peter had run away. Peter had moved to a foreign country. Peter transferred to another school. Peter had become home schooled. etc. etc. etc….
Everyone agreed upon the fact that Peter Gerkin was never to be seen again.
Every day after school, she walked past his house. The simple brick and closed shutters were gaunt and riddled with shadows. It sat forlorn, blending in to the background, doing everything within its power to not be noticed. Just like its previous owners, it too was nothing but a memory.
That memory, that moment, resurfaced very quickly as soon as those glasses shattered beneath her stilettos.
Not only did the glass shatter, but her heart shattered along with it the moment she saw whose glasses they were.
“Happens every time! I don’t understand how people can just—”
The man was frustrated, not furious. He was clean shaven, not bloody and black and blue. He was clad in a sharp black suit and tie, not cargo pants and a Spiderman t-shirt.
There was no mistaking those blue eyes.
“Angela?”
“Peter?”
It was quite possibly the most awkward moment she had ever experienced, equal to that moment she stepped on another pair of glasses.
“Peter! I am so sorry, your glasses, I, err, I can pay for those, are you okay?”
She didn’t realize she was flailing her arms frantically until he took both of her hands and caught her gaze.
“Angela it’s alright. Really.”
“But, I—”
It was then she noticed that the rest of the office was also tuning in to their conversation. Molten heat flooded up the pale column of her throat and pooled into her cheeks and burnt the tips of her ears.
“Might I suggest,” He murmured softly, “we take this into my office.”
“Most definitely.”
Gathering up the (ridiculously expensive) bits of glass and the contorted metal frame, she followed closely behind Peter until they reached the elevator and quickly slipped inside.
She inconspicuously endeavored to fan her face, hoping that it wasn’t as red as she perceived it to be given the heat it was currently radiating.
He wasn’t speaking.
WHY wasn’t he speaking?
Her heart raced, pumping frantically as she desperately waited for something, anything, to be said. She watched him straighten his tie and fold his arms behind his back like a proper gentleman.
Out of all the places…. Of all the corporations in all the buildings in all the cities in all the continents of the Earth….she had to step on Peter Gerkin’s glasses for a second time.
“You do not need to be so tense.”
“What?”
“You’re wrinkling your skirt.”
Sure enough, one of her hands was clutching the living daylights out of her pencil skirt, and the other remained holding on the remnants of his glasses.
“Can you see?”
He blinked curiously at her, making electrical eye contact for the second time that day.
“Just barely.”
“I’m so sorry…” Her voice cracked slightly, her cheeks stained red with shame and embarrassment as the rest of her went into complete and utter denial.
“Please,” he took hold of the hand that was practically squishing the frame and glass, “Angela, it’s okay.”
The elevator “dinged”, signaling their arrival. Neither of them moved. The world seemed to take a breath between the moment their eyes locked, and the 6th grade seemed to rush back to meet them.
Peter released her hand and motioned for her to follow him into his office. The golden plaque that stationed itself next to his door signaled that he was a high profile manager of the building, a very powerful man.
“Welcome back Mr. Gerkin.” A young woman greeted him with an intercom and her fingers typing furiously at a keyboard. His personal secretary no doubt.
“Miss Persival, would you bring me some ice water please? My guest has had a wee bit of a shock.”
“Yessir. Anything else?”
“No, that will do just fine.”
Peter opened his office door and suddenly her small cubicle of an office paled in comparison. This was like an entire mansion within itself, yet it was very high-tech and very clean, specifically centered around black leather and chrome furnishings. He pulled up a chair to his desk and silently communicated to her that she should sit.
“How much were the glasses?” She croaked, trying her best of uphold a strong composure despite the wave of emotions that churned within her.
“That is not important.” He rummaged through one of the top drawers to his rich cherry wood office desk. When he finally found what he was looking for, he placed a small wooden box in front of him and then came from behind his desk, knelt before her, squinted, and carefully placed a band-aid on her left knee. “There.” The corner of his mouth tugged slightly, as though he were trying to smile, but not reveal it to her.
“So you are allowed to help me when I am injured, but I am not allowed to help you?”
“What do you mean?” He studied her expression quizzically.
“6th grade. You didn’t wait for me to bring the nurse when you were horribly injured.”
For a moment it was as though she had spoken in an entirely different language and his brain were trying to compute and translate everything she had said.
“I was young. I was independent. I was rash. I thought I didn’t need any help.”
“But you did.”
“Yes. Yes I did. And how long was it until you stopped trying to bring me my homework after school each day?”
The burning blush returned with a fury unlike before.
“You knew?”
“Of course. Your efforts were never overlooked.”
“I was trying to pay you back for the glasses.”
He smiled. There it was. At last. It was subtle, amused, warm and kind. It evolved into a silly and almost boyish grin as he picked himself back up, plucking the broken pieces from her hand, and returned to sitting behind his desk.
“You were the only one in the world besides my parents to show me such kindness. And I learned many things that day. Granted, the fact that I was not there when you returned with the nurse must prove otherwise….but….”
He opened the small wooden box that he had retrieved from the desk and revealed a brand-spankin’ new pair of identical spectacles.
“I learned the importance of a second pair.”
She nonchalantly tossed a dark brown curl over her shoulder, trying to act natural.
“That doesn’t dismiss the fact I broke the first pair. I insist upon paying you back for those. I don’t care if I can’t pay the electric bill for four months and I can’t feed myself and my cat, I will pay you back.”
The grin returned, more amused than ever. It evolved across his face the more and more his eyes sparkled with interest.
“Very well. But I shall be the one to choose your method of payment.”
“Deal.”
“How does coffee on Friday sound?”
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