by Ashley Pullo
“And I’m sorry! I can offer you something at a discount – but since you don’t need jam, would you be interested in a cookbook or a honeypot?”
“Yours?” he asks with a smirk.
Blushing, Thessaly sputters, “Le Creuset.”
“I meant the cookbook.”
“Oh,” she says.
Crossing his arms and showcasing his tan, muscular forearms, Levi asks, “How ’bout you go out with me and we call it even?”
“Oh, I um, have these new labels and cornbread . . .” Thessaly trails off.
Furrowing his brows and scratching his chin, Levi says, “Huh, I don’t know what that means.” Reaching for his wallet, he removes a business card and slaps it on the counter. “But cornbread has to be the best excuse a woman has ever used.”
Thessaly picks up the plain white card with a single green stripe and reads, “Levi Jones, Director and Managing Partner, Brooklyn Soil.” She glances at Levi and asks, “The rooftop farm?”
With hooded eyes and a velvety voice, he replies, “So you’ve heard of me?”
Fighting a smile, Thessaly deadpans, “Sure – most of the fruit I buy comes from your farm.” Testing the frisky banter, Thessaly adds, “And the name Levi Jones sounds familiar, too – like the leader of a religious cult.”
Leaning against the counter again, Levi whispers, “What if I told you my sister’s name is Dandelion?”
Thessaly leans toward him and matches his whisper. “I’d wonder if there were marijuana crops in your rooftop greenhouse.” Placing a jar of jam and the set of silver spreaders inside a small, brown shopping bag, Thessaly rasps, “Enjoy your peaches.”
Levi hugs the bag to his chest with an adorable smirk just as a customer approaches the counter.
“Is this honey kosher, dear?” asks the lady with brightly-patterned culottes.
Turning to the customer, Levi asserts, “Kosher honey is great for seasonal allergies.”
“Oh?” She beams.
“But you’ll need to buy a ton in order for it to work.” Nodding his head while turning back to Thessaly, he hums quietly, “Gonna eat me a lot of peaches, Tess.”
Arching an eyebrow, Thessaly places Levi’s business card in the slim pocket of her black pants and hooks the wire basket on her arm. She watches as Levi walks backwards out the door, clinging the paper bag to his chest, and mouthing, “All honey is kosher.”
Laughing, Thessaly leads the customer to the shelves near the kitchen and says, “This entire wall is kosher and gluten-free.” Replacing the remaining honey jars from Levi’s basket on the bottom row, she adds, “Let me know if you would like a sample.”
“Oh, yes, please. Try it before you buy it,” the customer sings.
“Right,” Thessaly mocks.
Leaving Ms. Culottes to read the ingredient labels, Thessaly wanders to the front of the store to replace the jars of unpurchased jam. As she organizes the shelves and hums, “Movin’ to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches,” there’s a knock on the large window.
Turning toward the window, she finds Levi, waggling his eyebrows and grinning mischievously. With the jam jar in his hand, he unscrews the lid, dips his index finger in the sticky mixture, and then methodically sucks the confection from his finger.
Watching as he licks his lips, Thessaly shouts, “That’s what the fancy knives are for, Levi Jones.”
“What dear?” interrupts the kosher honey lady.
“Nothing,” Thessaly mumbles, placing her hand on the window.
Separated by a single pane of tempered glass serving as both a barrier and a prism of self- reflection, Levi and Thessaly stand on opposite sides of the window – trapped in a suspension of hypothetical outcomes controlled by the fictional rules of a looking glass.
Declaring what he wants, Levi places his hand on the window . . . and then walks away.
Switching hands, Meg asks, “Why am I pulling the wagon?”
“Because your ass bounces like basketballs when you do it.” Seth teases.
Schlepping the wagon toward the kitchen, Meg flicks his arm and shouts, “I’m reporting you to management!”
Trying to get their attention, Thessaly waves her hand and points to the phone pressed to her ear. “Guys, shh. I’m on the phone with Lois.” Seth grabs a stool and sits next to Thessaly to listen. “Sweetie, that’s horrible. What about her dad?” Thessaly continues.
Seth frowns and shakes his head.
“Oh, I didn’t know that, I’m sorry. Please take a few days off – Christina needs you.” Thessaly pauses to listen to Lois while picking petals from a wilting sunflower. “Can I stop by this weekend? Okay, I’ll do that – hang in there, Lois.”
As Thessaly ends the call and places her phone on the island, Seth asks, “Why did you ask about her husband?”
“Because I didn’t know they were separated!” she shouts defensively.
“Not separated – the asshole just disappeared. What’s going on with Christina?”
“It’s not good. Christina stole a lot of cash last week, and then Lois found drugs yesterday.” She sighs.
Returning from the kitchen with three bottles of water, Meg asks, “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Lois found an entire pharmacy of prescription pills.” Thessaly exhales and opens a bottle of water. “Poor Lois. It can’t be easy being a single mom with a teenager.”
Seth slouches over the island and rests his head on his arm. “Shit, what can we do?”
“The only thing we can do right now is support her – she’ll have to make some very difficult decisions in the next few days.”
Leaning against the island and gulping the remnants of her water bottle, Meg adds, “Agreed. I had a friend in high school that was into hardcore drugs and he would do practically anything for his next fix. His parents eventually pressed charges just to get him into a rehab program. I think his dad eventually had a massive heart attack.”
“Hey, Meg, please don’t tell Lois that story.” Seth scowls.
“It’s the reality, dude!” Meg exclaims.
Fidgeting on her stool, Thessaly requests, “Let’s change the subject. How was the market?”
“Did you see the video we made?” Seth nudges Thessaly in the side. “Very film-noir if you ask me. And we sold everything but the two jars I gave away to some Swedish tourists.”
Rolling her eyes, Meg removes a compact from her makeup bag and snickers. “And by Swedish, he means a group of gorgeous blond chicks.”
“I watched the video! Never underestimate the cinematic appeal of an outdoor market on a gorgeous summer day,” Thessaly jokes.
“And never underestimate the appeal of overpriced hand-crafted jam in the hipster capital of the world.” Seth stands and pats Thessaly’s head. “Let’s go, ladies. I’m starving.”
“You coming, Tess?” asks Meg, applying pink lip gloss.
“Oh, I need to catch up on a few things in the shop.”
Frowning, Seth whines, “Turning me down is getting old, Tess. Change it up occasionally.”
Wrapping her arm around Seth’s waist, Meg pouts her glossy lips and teases, “Poor Seth, always getting shot down by beautiful women. Hey, Tess, what happened with that ice cream guy?” Meg’s eyes flutter as she waits for an answer.
“Mr. Softee?” Seth asks.
“There is nothing soft about ice cream guy!” Meg blurts.
Casually, Thessaly replies, “Ice cream guy is really cool. He runs Brooklyn Soil – that rooftop farm at the Navy Yard.”
Clapping her hands, Meg shouts, “He’s perfect! You can trade stories about crops and shit. Did he ask you out?”
“He did, I think. And as soon as I’m not bogged down with the Wild Honey launch, maybe I’ll call him.” Thessaly stands from the island and nudges her friends toward the door. “Go have dinner and relax – y’all did good work today.”
Seth bites the air. “You’re so sexy when your deep-fried accent seeps through.”
Laughing, Thessaly quips, “Go on. Git on outta here, boy.”
Over her shoulder, Meg reminds Thessaly of the following day’s schedule. “Wedding planner at two – I’ll help you set up in the morning. Good night, Tess.” Meg shoves Seth out the door and locks it behind her. Normally Meg would stay and help Thessaly prepare for a tasting at The Hive, but something about the cool breeze and the promise of lobster rolls steers her away from the shop. But more than likely, it’s the company of a redheaded Jewish computer geek that excites her.
As soon as her friends leave, Thessaly syncs the Bluetooth speakers to a Spotify playlist they would find ridiculous – John Mayer, Mumford and Sons, and some Indigo Girls thrown in for folky-fun. Swaying her hips to the sexy bass notes of Marcus Mumford, Thessaly wipes the marble counters with a checkered dish towel while dancing around the island.
In the kitchen, she flips a batch of cooled cornbread onto a small butcher block. Taking a beehive-shaped cookie cutter, Thessaly cuts five individual servings of cornbread, and then carefully places them on a platter to be warmed before tomorrow’s meeting. Scraping the leftover crumbles into a basket for Seth to eat for breakfast, she then covers everything loosely with plastic wrap.
Opening the cabinets, Thessaly selects a set of magenta glasses for the peach tea that will brew overnight. She also grabs four black dessert plates, the color being the perfect contrast against the golden cornbread and colorful jams. After placing the dishes on a wicker tray atop the workstation, and adding four yellow napkins, Thessaly rummages for a sleeve of Starburst she keeps hidden in a canister above the stove.
While removing the yellow wrapper of the unpopular lemon square, her phone buzzes on the counter with an incoming text.
Mason. She sighs, glancing at the vase of peonies that were delivered to her earlier.
Mason: Dinner?
Staring at the text while the tart juice of the lemon Starburst seeps from the corner of her mouth, Thessaly makes a bold decision.
Tess: I can’t tonight.
She opens the dreaded orange square next, always saving the red and pink for last. Popping it into her mouth, Thessaly’s phone dings.
Mason: I’ll come to you.
Knowing that he usually does whatever he wants anyway, Thessaly agrees.
Tess: My apartment in an hour?
Mason: I’ll bring wine.
Thessaly doesn’t respond to the last text, wondering why the man she spent seven years with would bring wine to a girl that hates grapes. Cupcakes, pie, even Sno-cones would have been a more natural gift for Thessaly Sinclair.
Shutting off the lights to the kitchen, but distracted by the wilting sunflowers on the island, Thessaly presses the record button on her phone. “Switch the flowers.”
She powers off the speakers, latches the screen door, shuts off the tiny chandelier in the vestibule, sets the security alarm, and then locks the outer steel door behind her. Seth’s bike is still leaning against the window, so she checks the U-lock attached to a pipe, and then makes her way up Fulton.
The last time Mason came to her Pearl Street apartment, they had unemotional, senseless sex. Less than a year ago, Thessaly was dining with a family friend at a Downtown restaurant when Mason staggered into the bar with a group of stockbrokers in custom suits. Mason noticed Thessaly immediately, always drawn to her light hair and fair skin – my naughty angel, he often called her.
But he didn’t approach her. Instead, he sent a drink to her table – strawberry vodka lemonade rimmed with extra sugar.
“From an admirer at the bar,” the waiter had said.
Thessaly knew instantly who sent the drink, as this was the exact cocktail she ordered on their first night in Manhattan – the same fruity drink Mason teased her about for months. She thanked the waiter and continued the dinner with her friend. But as the evening progressed, and a few glances were exchanged between Thessaly and her admirer, the sexual tension became unbearable. Declining dessert and saying goodbye to her friend, Thessaly eventually made her way to the lounge. She quietly sat at the opposite end, ordered a cocktail of pineapple vodka, threw it back in two gulps, and then slapped a ten on the bar. Full of confidence, she went straight for what she wanted. But as she tapped Mason on the shoulder, her heart raced and her skin prickled with a fiery twinge. They were not a couple anymore, and most likely, never would be again.
“Hiya,” he’d slurred.
“Hey,” she’d replied.
“Let’s get out of here,” he’d demanded.
Taking her familiar hand, Mason led Thessaly through the group of colleagues, knowing the immature assholes would high-five each other in his wake. Once they were outside the restaurant, the two former lovers kissed – Thessaly’s breath sweet and fruity, and Mason’s lips burning from the expensive brandy. Their arms groped each other tightly while their hands teased and fondled their favorite spots. Walking the two blocks to Thessaly’s apartment was painfully intolerable, so as soon as they entered the elevator in her building, clothes were ripped and removed.
And then they fucked.
Against the door. On the couch. And hunkered over the steps leading to her elevated bed.
It had been a night of carnal pleasure shared between two strangers that sort of loved each other. There was a level of trust that allowed them to cross every conceivable boundary yet still remain comfortable.
Lying in bed, sated yet confused, Thessaly quietly asked Mason the important question. “What exactly happened?” she’d probed.
“You didn’t touch that stupid drink. I saw you differently – you weren’t Tess Sinclair the adorable honey heiress, you were a sexy woman I wanted to fuck,” he’d explained flatly.
Had she changed? Or had she actually conquered New York on her own? Either way, Mason had tested her intentions and gave her hope all in the same breath that night. And even now, as she crosses the street to meet her former lover in control of their confusing relationship, Thessaly wonders if she should quickly shave her legs and change into a lace thong, or make some biscuits with honey butter and get out the wedding magazines.
Approaching the steps to her apartment building, Thessaly spots the man with the peacock feathers lounging on the tiny camping stool against the wall of the next building. Stretching out his long, tan legs, he glances at Thessaly, and then returns his attention to a cardboard sign in his lap.
Walking toward him, Thessaly says with a friendly smile, “We meet again.”
Looking up from the cardboard sign briefly, the man smirks. Returning his attention to the sign, he takes a long string, wraps it around the end of a marker, pierces a hole through the cardboard, and then ties the string to the sign. Flipping it around and displaying it on the wall beside him, Thessaly bends to read the text.
LOVE IS ____________
The man offers Thessaly the marker, but she retreats in fear.
Not wanting to scare her away, the man tries to lighten the mood by writing: Starbucks.
Embarrassed and offended by his attempt at humor, Thessaly backs away from the alcove and rushes to the safety of her apartment building.
Asshole. He doesn’t know me.
Love is Starbucks? Ha! With extra caramel, maybe.
What is love?
Love is . . .
“Love is a battlefield,” she blurts.
Taking the stairs to clear her head, Thessaly tries to imitate Pat Benatar, but her pitchy voice echoes throughout the stairwell. When she reaches her floor, she grabs an invisible microphone and performs a dramatic finale before opening the door.
Inside her apartment, Thessaly lights a candle that promises to bring the allure of a Bahamian vacation, lowers her shades, and powers on the Bose speakers. Dancing to her favorite R.E.M. song, she removes her bra and changes into a flouncy kimono shirt and red leggings. Pleased with her casual yet chic attire, she darts to the bathroom to freshen up. She brushes her teeth, spritzes on some perfume, and tops off her you-know-you-want-me look by applying ruby red lipst
ick.
Hyper but still needing a quick fix, she settles for a can of whipped cream stashed in the refrigerator. Careful not to smear her lipstick, she sprays the cold cream in her mouth and swallows. Replacing the cap to the can, she tosses it back in the refrigerator just as there’s a knock on the door.
Shit!
She takes a deep breath and then unlocks the door. Leaning against the door frame with a cocky smile is Mason, dressed in a white dress shirt and loosened tie. He runs his hand through his chestnut hair, and then guides Thessaly back into the apartment with his body.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” she replies.
Dropping a small white bakery box tied with floss to the floor, Mason presses her against the living room wall and breathes into her hair. “Dessert.”
“My first acting audition as an adult was for an off-Broadway play in the role of Hooker #2. I didn’t get the part.”
Chapter Five
“But it was good, right?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Debating whether or not it was good is a waste of time – it was sex.”
“So it was good,” Seth stresses with a grin.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Seth. We can’t do this – I barely like you.” Meg jumps from her bed, yanking the sheet from Seth to drape around her naked body like a giant cape.
Grabbing his boxers from the floor, Seth slowly stands up and stretches. “Oh, you like me. You like my tongue all over your breasts, and you really like my dick jammed . . .”
“Ohmigod, no.” Meg shakes her head as she darts to the bathroom. Slamming the door and locking it behind her, she shouts, “You should leave.”
Meg lowers the sheet and stares at her figure in the full-body mirror behind the door. She hasn’t worked out in years, and it’s slowly beginning to show. Places that used to be firm and tan are now freckled and flabby. Meg cups her breasts and sighs, watching in horror as her boobs lose their perkiness and her stomach puckers.
“Meghan?” Seth says outside the door.
“Go home, Seth!” Meg snaps.
Starting the shower, Meg waits several minutes before getting in. After feeling the vibration of the front door slamming, she jumps in the scalding hot water to wash away her confusing thoughts.