So This Is the End

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So This Is the End Page 5

by Alexandra Franzen


  “But, wait, how will I … I mean, afterwards, what about . . .”

  Tasha shushes me out the door.

  “HAVE FUN,” she says insistently. “This is your post-dying wish, right? Online date? With a hot stranger? A true love connection, possibly? Who knows what might happen? Tell me everything afterwards. Or don’t … and just die in his arms tonight.”

  “Not funny,” I scowl.

  She places both hands on my shoulders, giving me one final nudge towards the door.

  “Daymaker, Nora. Daymaker. Remember who you are. Have fun. Make his day, but more importantly, make yours. This is your time. Do all the things. Feel all the feelings. Enjoy yourself to the max. And remember that you are amazing. This guy is lucky to spend twenty seconds in your presence.”

  “Daymaker,” I repeat to myself. “Right. OK. I’ll just, uh, go … blow his mind? I guess?”

  “Or MORE than that!” she cackles.

  I scurry back through the waiting area, looking back over my shoulder for a moment, casting one more glance at Tasha’s peony-pink lips and tousled lavender hair, wondering if I will ever see my new BFF again.

  Before I can procrastinate any longer, the Uber driver steps out of the black sedan that’s idling at the curb. He opens the rear passenger side door for me, smiling politely.

  This is really happening.

  My first date in nearly two years.

  On the last day of my life.

  Hour Eleven

  The cherry-spoon rises in front of me—massive, bizarre, unlike any sculpture on earth.

  It’s literally a gigantic silver spoon, hundreds of feet tall, swooping from the depths of a serene pond towards the cotton-candy-blue sky. Balanced precariously in the center of the spoon is a rich, seductive, gleaming cherry. I’ve heard they polish the cherry once per year to maintain its otherworldly shine.

  It’s peculiar and beautiful, nestled here in the center of a fairly ordinary public park.

  Taking in the view, I feel a pang of regret.

  The Walker Sculpture Garden is one of my favorite places in Minneapolis—a place I should have visited a lot more often. Really, I should have visited every single weekend—instead of working or watching Netflix or Facebooking or whatever seemed more important at the time. I should have eaten lunch here every day. I should have walked through the garden with my dad more often back when he was alive. I should have . . .

  I shake off the fog of regret. I’m here now. That’s what counts.

  The cherry-spoon is an unmistakable landmark, so there’s no possible chance that AikidoGuy82 could miss me. Unless, of course, he doesn’t recognize me from my photo. But he will. I think. In any event, I have no doubt that I will recognize him.

  I am phone-less, watch-less, clock-less, and witless with pre-date jitters. I figure it’s getting close to our appointed meeting time. But maybe not. Am I early? Too late? Maybe he looked for me and I wasn’t there yet? Did I miss my chance?

  I feel compelled to lunge at a passing family to inquire about the time. The mother is cooing at her infant in the stroller. I decide not to pester them.

  Instead, I lie down in the grass, ankles crossed, arms folded behind my head, enjoying the soft spray of the fountain at the base of the cherry-spoon sculpture.

  I allow my eyes to close, noticing the way my other senses ignite in the absence of sight. The percolation of the fountain. The soft misting of the water prickling my thighs. Distant laughter. The instructional tone of a teacher, or tour guide leader, guiding a flock of visitors through the park. The throbbing heat of the mid-afternoon sun on my face.

  Just a little too warm. The kind that makes you crave deep shade and an ice cube slithering down the back of your dress.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I extend my arms above my head, feeling the grass tickle my shoulder blades as I stretch, fully, deeply, from head to toe, like when you first wake up in the morning. I arch my back slightly, luxuriating in the sunlight, wondering, somewhat morbidly, if this is what it feels like on the other side. Dark. No sight. Yet, somehow, infinitely delicious.

  “Wow and … hi,” It’s a masculine voice, summoning me from my reverie. “Is that you?”

  I gaze upwards. Blazing sunlight smacks my face, half-blinding me, casting the figure in a shapeless black-gold halo. Squinting, I roll onto all fours, and he kneels down to my level in one fluid motion, graceful as a dancer. Our eyes meet. Deep green and molten hazel. He is unfairly, almost painfully attractive. I resist the urge to gasp and swoon like a girl in a cheesy romance novel. But I want to.

  “Are you … AikidoGuy82?” I ask.

  He smiles, and his teeth are not perfect. Slightly crooked with the subtlest hint of an underbite. Somehow, this only makes him even more deliriously attractive.

  “Renzo,” he says. “But everybody calls me Ren. Great to meet you. And you are … ?”

  I nod dumbly, not quite comprehending the English language. After a beat, he tries again.

  “What’s your name?”

  Oh, right. He asked me that already, and I forgot to answer because his eyes have dissolved my brain into waffle batter.

  “Nora,” I respond, legitimately proud of myself for forming words with my mouth.

  “Nora. That’s so pretty.” Hearing him say my name and the phrase “so pretty” in the same sentence almost drives me into unconsciousness. Jesus Christ. I’ve emotionally regressed into a fifteen-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

  “So … are we doing the kneeling-crouching thing for a while?” he asks, gesturing at the grass beneath my fingers and knees. “I mean, I have zero complaints if that’s the case . . .”

  I smile. There’s a hint of mischief in his voice. Just the right amount of flirtatious.

  I make my way to my feet, and he follows, gliding gracefully, like someone who’s masterfully in command of every muscle and tendon in his body. He rises about seven inches above me. My cheeks would nestle perfectly into that warm spot where chest melts into shoulder.

  “This might be weird, but . . .” “Uh oh,” he smirks. “Weirdness? Already? Aren’t you supposed to date me for at least six weeks before the weirdness begins?” He crosses his arms in mock frustration. “Lay it on me.”

  “. . . Can I give you a hug?”

  His face softens. The smirky, cool-guy persona dissolves. Suddenly, he’s just a human being in a T-shirt and jeans, standing in front of a woman who desperately wants to press her body into his, which is, perhaps, a slightly odd request given that we’ve just met, and yet both of our eyes are pleading for connection, and so I hope he’ll say . . .

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Stepping forward, he closes the small strip of space between us. A cloud passes across the sun, creating a momentary wisp of shade.

  “Come here.”

  He wraps me in his arms. Mine encircle his waist. We fit. It’s effortless. Seamless. Soothing and stimulating all at once. It feels like sipping warm coffee from a thermos while the sun rises over the ocean.

  “Whoa,” I exhale softly.

  I don’t even mean to say anything, but it slips out, and I know he hears me because he tugs me a little closer. We stay like that, woven together, hearts beating against skin wrapped in thin layers of fabric. Like mourners comforting each other at funeral. Like lovers waltzing at a wedding. Like friends reuniting after decades apart. Like everything.

  Minutes pass. Children scamper into the fountain at the base of the cherry-spoon sculpture, desperate to cool off while their parents bark various commands. “Get back.” “Not there.” “Time to go.” Another tour group ambles by. Knitted closely, we remain still.

  I rest my cheek against that perfectly sculptured part of his chest, the part that seems custom-contoured for the shape of my face.

  A few more minutes pass. Not a single one wasted. There is nowhere e
lse I’d rather be, nothing else I’d rather be doing. This moment feels like coming home. It’s ludicrous, but it’s true. I wonder if he feels it, too.

  I peel my cheek away from his sea salt-scented body and tilt my eyes upwards. He waits for me to speak.

  What I want to do is say something impossibly cool. Something simple and precise. The perfectly choreographed words of a character from an Emmy Award-winning TV show. Instead, my words come out in a rapid tumble of need, desire, hunger, and awkwardness.

  “So … hi Ren. OK. Here’s the deal. I’m only here for a little while. I know this might sound rushed or whatever, but I want to skip the formalities and just … be with you. Like, let’s skip the part where we have a chit-chatty conversation over dinner, and pay twelve dollars to see a movie that we don’t even want to see, and then wait three days to text each other, and then send emojis back and forth and try to interpret what everything means, and all of that typical dating stuff. Let’s just … be together. Spend time together. In real life. Right here. Right now. Are you into that?”

  If he’s stunned by my outpouring, he doesn’t show it.

  “So, you quote poetry by Hafiz, you’re not interested in small talk or shitty movies, and you’re only in town for a little while . . .” he summarizes.

  “Something like that.”

  “. . . and you’re breathtakingly beautiful, and you want to spend time with me.”

  At “beautiful,” my heart supernova-explodes into ten thousand fragments of excitement.

  “Correct.”

  He pulls me back into a hug. This time, curling his fingers through my hair, sending shivers up my spine and then downward, to each of my toes.

  “Yeah, Nora. I’m into that.”

  I exhale deeply. Relieved. Exhilarated. Slightly guilty, too, for lying to him about only being “here for a little while.” Except it’s not exactly a lie. It’s true. Well, true-ish.

  The pheromone haze of his body distracts me from my inner ramblings. He gently cups the back of my head with one hand, stroking my shoulders and spine with the other.

  “So, Nora, what kind of afternoon did you have in mind?”

  I blush from head to toe. (Dear Tasha Lockwood: wherever you are, please accept this telepathic text message: THANK YOU.)

  “Do you have a car?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Don’t get too excited, though. 2002 VW Rabbit. It runs great except for when it doesn’t.”

  The park is quickly filling with couples and families and assorted pedestrians. Must be close to 5 p.m. The post-workday flood of humanity. I want to get out here and be alone with Ren. Somewhere quieter.

  “Take me to your car, drive me somewhere amazing, and make out with me,” I instruct boldly, feeling surprised at my uncharacteristically bossy tone. Did that seriously just come out of my mouth? Apparently it did. And judging by his expression, he’s not offended by the suggestion.

  I start marching in the direction of the park exit. He strides quickly behind, catching up with me easily. His clasps my hand and pulls me close.

  “How do you know I’m not an axe murderer with sinister plans for you?” he asks with a comedic glint in his eye.

  I giggle. Wouldn’t that be a hilarious twist.

  “I could ask you the same thing . . .” I retort. “You don’t know me at all.”

  He doesn’t know me. And vice versa. Typically, that would concern me. But somehow, today, it doesn’t matter.

  I don’t know if this feeling will last, but right now, inside of this moment, I am completely unburdened. There is no more guilt about the past. No anxiety about the future. No schedule. No agenda. No obligations that need to be fulfilled. Just me and this beautiful man who is willing to spend a few hours of his life by my side.

  I slip into the passenger seat of his car. He pulls into reverse, and I study the sculpted shape of his forearm with fascination, drinking in every detail.

  There’s a faded Jansport backpack in the backseat, a pair of sneakers that smell like well-used sneakers do, a folded karate uniform—it’s called a gi, I think—a half-empty water bottle and then, down by my feet in the front, one peanut butter-flavored protein bar wrapper. The interior of his car is not messy, exactly, but it’s not tidy either. It’s boyish and human and I love it.

  I roll down my window and he mirrors me. He flashes me a smile and I die. No. Actually, the opposite. I live.

  Hour Twelve

  I hear the falls before I see them.

  A symphonic roar of water, crashing and pounding, swallowing all other sounds.

  Gravel crunches beneath my sandaled feet as we move closer to the edge of the water. Late afternoon sunlight, soft and dappled, weaves through tree tops and pours onto the trail. The world is green and honey-gold, and the air is layered with sweetness: clean grass laced with flower blossoms, the faintest trace of warm, freshly-pressed waffle cones from the ice cream stand back in the parking lot.

  With each step down the trail, the thundering of the falls grows louder, and the rest of the world fades away. The chattering families and stroller-pushing parents have long since peeled away from the path. There’s nobody here. Only us.

  I can see the white column of water cascading on the rocks, just off in the distance. We’re close enough to feel the spray on our skin.

  Minnehaha Falls.

  Yet another local landmark I promised myself I’d visit more often, one of these days, except I never seemed to make the time. For the dozenth time today, I remind myself, “I’m here now. That’s what matters.”

  Ren laughs as I kick off my sandals and dip one toe into the cool water.

  He stops laughing when I peel off my white sundress, revealing absolutely nothing underneath. It’s probably the boldest thing I’ve done in my entire life—and while it’s a vaguely creepy and inappropriate thought, I get the feeling my mom would be proud.

  My dress pools onto the grass. I stride knee-deep into the water, seizing up momentarily at the chill, then relaxing as my body adjusts to the temperature. I teeter for a moment, the water lapping just beneath my kneecaps, see-sawing with that timeless debate—enter slowly, or all at once?—and then I decide: all at once.

  I submerge myself completely, feeling my toes graze the bottom of the pool, then kick up and burst through the surface.

  The first thing I see is Ren, framed by sunlight, peeling off his T-shirt so he can join me. He’s barefoot now, running one hand through his hair to loosen the messy topknot samurai-bun. Thick, choppy locks half-cover his eyes, and I wonder, hungrily, if that’s what he looks like when he first wakes up in the morning. Loose and messy. Unfairly sexy without even trying. I wouldn’t mind seeing that sight like a million-billion-zillion times in a row. My imagination frolics down a sensuous path. I feel heat flushing my cheeks.

  He moves towards the edge of the water and asks me, “How deep?”

  I somehow manage to freeze and blush simultaneously. How … deep?

  “Um . . .” I reply, dog-paddling in place, wondering if he can read my racing thoughts.

  He gestures at the water. “How deep is it? Can I dive?”

  Oh. Right.

  “Not very deep. Maybe four and a half feet. At least where I’m standing.”

  He kicks off his shoes, then his jeans, and I try, I mean really try, not to gawk at the impressive situation that’s going on in his burgundy-colored boxer-briefs. I try. But I fail.

  He strides smoothly into the water like a hot knife gliding through butter. Barely even flinches when the brisk iciness splashes his toned midsection, ribcage, and chest. He dips beneath the surface and remerges with his black hair slicked back, shaved sides exposed.

  I am doddering in place, half standing, half dog-padding, doing my best not to faint from sensory overload. He glides over to me with a skilled breaststroke, catches me around my waist, and pulls me c
lose.

  The warmth of our bodies contrasts deliciously with the coolness of the water. I kiss him lightly, almost imperceptibly, on the collarbone. He shivers. Growing bolder, I plant a light kiss on the side of his neck, midway between his shoulder and earlobe. He grasps my waist tighter in response. One more kiss, just beneath his jawline. I am aching for his lips, feeling greedy and frenzied, and yet I don’t want to rush this exquisite moment.

  Apparently, neither does he.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” he asks softly.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, let’s start with … what made you decide to create a dating profile?”

  I lean into his bare chest, considering how to answer that un-simple question. Because a purple-haired death party planner made me do it? Because I’ve never tried it before?

  Because I want to give true love one last shot before I leave this world permanently? I decide to tell him the truth. At least, one version of it.

  “I made a profile because … I want to meet my soul mate and fall in love. True love. The kind of love that lasts forever.”

  He flashes me a look of surprise.

  “Too intense? Have I scared you away?” I ask him, only half-joking.

  “No,” he says, and I believe him. “You just caught me by surprise. Most people aren’t that … straightforward. Most people don’t seem to know what they want or why they’re dating. Or they know, but they’re afraid to say it out loud.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had a few disappointing experiences,” I press, curiously. He nods.

  “You might say that,” he confirms. “I’ve been doing the whole online dating thing for about a year. It’s been … interesting,” he concludes diplomatically. I can tell that “interesting” is probably code for “aggravating and possibly a waste of time.”

  “But what about you?” he inquires. “Dating for a long time? Newly single? Rebounding? Secretly married? What’s your deal?”

  “I’ve been single for a couple of years. I haven’t dated anyone for a long time. Too long. Literally not a single person. But I’ve spent about one thousand hours on Netflix getting intimately acquainted with the cast of Gilmore Girls. If that counts for anything.”

 

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