Loving Rosenfeld

by Leighann Hart

  “Don’t you get bored? Don’t you want a hobby?”

  He retired the brush and turned to her, elbows resting on his knees. “What? Like you with your poetry? I don’t need to sit around and read revered verses from long-deceased men to infuse some arbitrary meaning in my life.”

  “Well, what do you need?”

  “Nothing. See, that’s my point. The details of our lives, what we choose to do with our free time, or if we choose to do nothing … none of it matters. We’re all going to end up six-feet-under. You know that saying, ‘Get busy living or get busy dying?’ I’ve gone with the latter, and I’ve made my peace with it.”

  That dark part of his soul had crept out and manifested itself as the uninvited third-wheel. The part she had first brushed with when he vaguely alluded to his suicide attempt.

  Normally, Ryleigh was enamored with his cynical tirades, but she failed to pick anything attractive out of the latest bleak monologue.

  “God, I didn’t know you were such a nihilist. Wish I had known that before I swiped right on Tinder and arranged this artsy but now seriously depressing date.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I don’t have a Christian Slater-esque comeback for that.”

  “Who’s Christian Slater?”

  “Nevermind.” He smiled to himself, finger tracing the wine glass’ stem. “Some of the things that tumble out of your sassy mouth make it easy to forget your age.”

  Here we go with the age business.

  “Is that something you dwell on? My age?”

  Peter dipped a detail brush into a shrinking puddle of white paint, filling in the final touches on his passable scenery piece. Damn him and his semi-decentness at painting.

  “I try not to. Things between us would be a lot less complicated if I could ignore it entirely. I’m not wired that way. I fixate on something until I’m physically ill.” His expression softened, the scratchy quality of his voice lessening. “You calm some of that, when I’m with you, anyway.”

  “What’s something you obsess over?”

  “With you? Numbers, lately. I push them around in my head, willing them to make sense but they never do. You and I are numbers that never add up, no matter how you arrange us. Like our ages, they’re obscene next to each other. Then I project, you know, in the future. When you’re 40, I’ll be 57, and that doesn’t sound as egregious but the deficit is the same. Always.”

  The irony of him discussing a potential future together while he rejected anything more than making out was not lost on Ryleigh. This man was an enigma.

  And despite the conjectural nature of it all, a light-hearted feeling settled over her. “We could do long-distance. Tons of people do it.”

  “Those are the other numbers I’ve been crunching. Ann Arbor is 700 miles from here. My car’s unreliable in town. I doubt it would survive a 10 and a half hour trip.”

  “So, all of these scenarios you’re exploring ... I can read between the lines but I won’t let myself believe it. I need to hear it from you. You’re going to miss me?”

  “Of course I will. I never expected to feel this way about you. Really, I shouldn’t feel this way about you.” He glanced in her direction, speaking where only she could hear. “You’re so fucking young. It’s absurd.”

  Couples began packing up, returning empty wine glasses to the bar area and carrying their masterpieces out the door, wrapped in the magic of a night out without any complications, soon to be wrapped up in each other.

  Those lucky bastards.

  “I’ve been thinking lately. I got accepted everywhere I applied, including UConn. I know it’s a 40-minute drive but that’s doable. I’ll come home on the weekends and we can be together.”

  Sober, sensible Peter made a comeback as the merlot buzz waned. Balsam and citrus notes playing off his cologne enraptured Ryleigh as he bent forward, leaning into her with feverish eyes.

  “I want you to understand right now, in this moment, that I care for you. Very much.” She cringed when his paint-stained hands cupped her face, feeling the green and blue acrylic sullying the foundation she had blended out to perfection.

  With twitching fingers, he seized her hands, transferring more paint to her porcelain skin. In the span of this conversation, she had become his art project.

  “I’m not going to be complicit in this hypothetical plan you just laid out that will, inevitably, wreck your future.” His pained stare burrowed inside her until it bottomed out at her core, so invasive she had the urge to look away. “You have the world in your pocket, opportunities waiting down every avenue. I’ve already figured myself out; I have a career, I own a home. We’re not on level ground here. You’re going to Michigan, because you and I are an impermanent part of each other’s lives.”

  Impermanent? Ryleigh was convinced liquid pessimism ran through his veins in lieu of blood.

  An ache radiated in her jaw due to the longstanding rigor of its clench. “Because, according to you, we’re a bunch of numbers that don’t add up. Right?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose, mumbling, “I shouldn’t have had that wine.”

  Peter was an expert marksman, never failing to shoot down her expectations when they flew too close to the sun.

  Her neck grew hot as her mind raced, searching for explanations to questions she feared were unanswerable.

  What were they even doing? Peter refused to concede to a relationship, wanted nothing to do with her once she was gone, and continuously rejected her cloying physical advances since her damned virginity had come to his attention.

  “Forget about it.” She untied her smock and draped it on the stool. Swiping her wristlet off the station, Ryleigh crossed her arms, gaze trained on the glossy floor. “Could you drop me off in North Woods?”

  Ryleigh scooped a small handful of white rocks from the Fuentes’ flowerbeds. The first one she flung missed its target, bouncing off the brick house and disappearing into the thick grass. A fire surged in her arm, a byproduct of the amateur, underhand pitch. I need to go to the gym.

  She infused every ounce of her frustration toward Peter into an overhand attempt, which struck the bottom right pane of Andrea’s window. Ryleigh launched another. And another.

  Blue light from the television danced through the glass. If she was inside, she would certainly register the unmistakable clicking of the pebbles.

  “Come on, Andy. It’s freezing out here.”

  A mini dress and no jacket had been a poor choice as she fell prey to the capricious Connecticut night. Goosebumps sprouted on her arms and legs, nipples puckered to the point of unfathomable hurt.

  She had resigned to head to the subdivision’s entrance and order an Uber when a window screeched behind her.

  “Halstock, you have some nerve showing your face after—” A waterfall of extensions cascaded over the window’s outer ledge as Andrea’s face materialized. “Oh, thank God it’s you.” She slumped against the open frame. “I had a shitty night.”

  All it took to mend a broken friendship was a collectively miserable night and boy/man problems.

  Who knew.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Andrea appeared to squint into the yard at her friend, who was in danger of becoming an ice sculpture.

  “Ryleigh Branson, are you wearing bodycon on prom night? This has to be your worst fashion offense of the school year. You look like you’re trying out for a Pretty Woman reboot.”

  “I’d love to give you some context on my alleged fashion crime and swap stories from our respective evenings, but if you don’t let me inside, I’m going to lose my pitiful boobs to spring frostbite.”

  Holding up a finger, she shut the window. Ryleigh jogged in place while on standby for her savior. Her hopeful bout of exercise did little to alleviate the marrow-deep chill which had frozen her bones from the inside out.

  The salmon-colored door swung inward just enough for Andrea to shimmy outside. She tread with ginger steps thr
ough the grass, cringing at the lack of protection her flats provided against the damp blades.

  Pajamas had replaced her prom dress but the regal hairstyle and professionally made up face remained intact.

  A stately aura surrounded her as she examined Ryleigh’s alley rat attire, paying particularly scrutinizing attention to her jawline. “Is that … paint, on your face?”

  “Yeah. Long story.”

  Standing there felt like being naked in a room full of strangers rather than the formerly comfortable company of the girl with whom she had been friends since elementary school.

  Ryleigh tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I saw you and Colin going into prom, looking like you walked off the pages of a fairytale pop-up book. How did he manage to mess things up in the span of three hours?”

  “You saw us? I didn’t see you inside. And trust me, I wouldn’t have missed you in that outfit.”

  Enough about my clothes, woman.

  “No, I didn’t go in. Peter picked me up, which is the origin of my long story.” A knot in her stomach willed her to adopt a bent posture. “Andy, I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you lately. I’ve been spending too much time with someone who’s an impermanent part of my life, and too little time with someone who I know will always be around.”

  “Jesus, what, did you two break up?”

  “You have to be together to break up.”

  “I should apologize, too, for calling your … well, I guess he’s not your boyfriend. I’m sorry I basically called your whatever-he-is a loser. Just because he drives a junkyard on wheels and reports news in a dead-end town doesn’t make him a loser. And he makes you happy, so he must be pretty alright.”

  Every bit of tension rushed from Ryleigh’s body, relief overshadowing her subzero state. She nodded to the flashing window. “What’s on?”

  “The Lumberjack Who Loved Me.” Andrea buried shameful laughter in her hands. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she asked, “Do you want to come up and watch the rest?”

  “Most definitely. It is movie night, after all.” Ryleigh grinned and leaned into Andrea, hooking their arms together as they headed up the cobblestone path. “Give me the damage: what’s the flannel count so far?”

  “2%, 180 for our favorite grumpy journalist.” Oscar slid the steaming cappuccino across the pick-up counter. He backed away, fists balled up to mimic a crybaby.

  The frightening disregard with which baristas flung drinks across cafe counters should have been outlawed. Witnessing that hair-raising journey unfold brought Peter one step closer to an aneurysm.

  He seized the cup. “Yet you wonder why I don’t tip.”

  “Don’t harass my underlings, Rosenfeld.” Kendall emerged from the storeroom with a cocked brow, a subdued smirk and an armful of precariously balanced Torani bottles.

  “Underlings?” Slipping his phone out of his pocket, Peter consulted the time and claimed a seat at the vacant espresso bar. He had a few minutes to kill.

  She pointed to the line below ‘Kendall’ on her nametag, which normally said ‘coffee expert.’

  It now read ‘manager.’

  “Oh, shit.”

  “‘Oh shit’ is exactly right. You better watch your smart comments and limit your beverage remaking requests. There’s a new sheriff in town.”

  “Seriously, Ken, I’m happy for you. You deserve it.”

  Kendall ripped plastic seals off the line of syrup bottles, replacing the caps with pumps. “The timing was weird. I’ve been thinking about leaving and then this happened. Life’s funny like that.”

  The first sip of coffee trickling along his throat mirrored the curative properties of an IV drip. He was wholly reliant on the waking powers of espresso on this particular morning. Morning, a word that had almost been entirely eradicated from Peter’s vernacular. Yet there he sat in The Roast at a spry 8:30 on a Saturday, press badge and sling camera bag in tow.

  “Leaving, what?” He put his elbows on the bar, A/C exposed vinyl icing his forearms. “The shop?”

  “The shop. Connecticut. Jake has a steady thing with that gallery in Boston, you know? He comes home most weekends, but damn if I don’t miss him. The last few months with him coming and going … it’s awful. You get used to having someone around, and then it’s weird when, suddenly, they aren’t there.”

  His activity stilled: breath halting, heartbeat slowing. Soon, he would become painfully aware of that very feeling.

  Finger running along the recycled sleeve, he shrugged, “Boston’s only two hours away.”

  “It’s viable, for now.” She gathered the collection of caps and dumped them in the trash. Sighing, she mimicked Peter’s posture on her side of the counter. Her shimmering umber eyes locked onto his cup. “It won’t work forever. Not like this. Something has to give.”

  Hearing Kendall doubting the endurance of a committed relationship in the face of a 120-mile barrier eased his guilt over ruling against long distance with Ryleigh.

  Eyeing the camera case, she perked up, losing herself in someone else’s business to silence her own misery. “What did they pin you with today? I thought you were allergic to photo assignments.”

  “Graduation coverage. I volunteered.”

  “You mean Ryleigh’s graduation?”

  Tail between his legs, he uttered a soft and slightly ashamed, “Yeah.”

  She tapped one of her neon pink plugs. “Do you know what you’re doing to that poor girl? You’re breaking her heart a little more every day and she’s still head over heels in love with your dumbass.”

  Peter downed the remnants of the cappuccino and dismounted the bar stool, slinging the camera case onto his shoulder. He tilted the empty to-go cup toward her in an accusatory manner as he backpedaled to the side exit. “She is not in love with me.”

  “Yeah, alright. Keep living in your neurotic fantasyland where people don’t catch feelings.”

  Cameras flashed interminably throughout the arena as proud parents captured their child’s monumental achievement. The seniors of Victory Hills seated on the main floor paid no attention to the bright lights, acting like celebrities running errands while disregarding the paparazzi.

  Everything about graduation coverage set Peter off. The unnerving noise when the crowd dispersed to locate their graduates. The sweltering heat hanging in the arena thanks to the thousands of bodies it housed. The inescapable hounding from parents to feature their summa cum laude daughter or son who was snubbed the honor of valedictorian.

  But he refused to fall victim to those standard irritants. Work had taken a backseat. He had come to support Ryleigh.

  Teens followed one behind the other in a constantly sweeping curtain of black Jostens, accepting their diplomas as the remaining names were called.

  On the stage, the principal rambled on and showed no signs of stopping, much to the chagrin of the impatient seniors. Click. Peter snapped a picture of the ancient man delivering the farewell speech. He lurked off to the side, midway through the student seating area, a non-intrusive location for photos.

  Not that any angle in the entire arena would have miraculously refined his lousy photography skills.

  “It is my great honor to dismiss the class of 2019, for the final time,” the principal croaked, hunched over the podium as though he were ready to divulge a secret to the crowd. “Graduates, please rise and move your tassels to the left of your caps. It has been a privilege to know each and every one of you, and I wish you all luck as you transition into this next phase of life. Thank you.”

  Pure chaos ensued once the students were formally dismissed. Parents flooded the main floor in a riptide of prideful zeal, abandoning their seats and belongings. Screams and sporadic bursts of applause erupted around the room, mingling with the perturbing discordance of no less than a thousand voices.

  Okay, the aforementioned irritants still bothered him.

  Ducking into a secluded alcove, Peter studied his subpar shots, a third of which were under-exposed.r />
  Awful. Even worse. Usable.

  He glanced up from the tiny screen displaying his failures, surveying the celebratory scene as much as he was searching for the lone black-robed student who mattered.

  The logical route to locating her would have been a text, but the school had dissuaded the students from bringing cell phones into the ceremony.

  And for whatever reason, Ryleigh had decided to abide by the rules on this one occasion.

  “Oh em gee, are you here with the paper?” came a breathy exclamation, honing the essence of a fangirl.

  Ryleigh had ditched her baggy robe and did not seem to be the least bit concerned with the whereabouts of its lank corpse. Fuzziness blanketed his brain as she twirled around in the required white dress, which he had accompanied her to every department store in the greater Harris area to find. She wore strange shoes with miniature clear heels, raspberry-inked toes peeking out beneath the transparent vinyl bands.

  “Oh, please, take my picture, Mr. Reporter.”

  “You’re going to give me a heart attack on the job. That dress is lethal.” Peter cradled the camera in his hands to spare his aching neck, but the relief was short-lived when he remembered what hid in the sling bag. Tugging on the zipper, he produced a shy smile, “I have something for you.”

  His heart cartwheeled as she clawed at the brown tissue paper, revealing the hardbound journal he had purchased weeks earlier. A Blink-182 rabbit sticker clung to the top right corner, the same one that had adorned her previous journal.

  He clutched the camera strap for support when her awestruck eyes landed on the Langston Hughes poem he had printed out and adhered to the inside cover.

  A wide smile lit up Ryleigh’s face and served as a spotlight in their dim, sequestered hideout.

  “Dreams, definitely apropos for a graduation. Good work, sir.” Her fingers traced those familiar words, stilling when they arrived at his handwritten inscription.

  * * *

  Ryleigh,

  I’m sure you’re well-acquainted with these words, but I found them most fitting for the occasion. Even though you say poetry is just a hobby, you should know that you have a real knack for it. No matter what you choose to do in life, I hope you continue to write.