“Chicken salad on rye.” I take a bite of my turkey and cheese because that’s all I had in the fridge. The bread is slightly stale, but I refused to let it go to waste.
“At least we can share a loaf of bread.” He says before launching into my favorite parks to take walks in.
“I prefer the smaller ones with hills, I don’t work out if I can help it, but I enjoy a good walk. Prospect Park is nearby and I take my niece there to play. She’s seven and a handful.”
Van grins explaining how he’s always loved Central Park.
“Laurel, what’s that?” Van points at the screen at something behind me. I half turn and look.
Laughing, “Oh that’s Mickey.” I love that my buddy has come to visit me today chirping with his twitching floofy tail.
“Babe, I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, but that’s not a mouse.” Van is looking utterly confused and I can’t blame him. The fat black squirrel perched on the roof is expecting a hand out. I tear off some bread from my sandwich and toss it at him. We both watch him scurry to pick it up and eat.
“He might have rabies or something, maybe that’s not a good idea.” It’s cute that Van thinks he can protect me from this overweight beggar.
“Nah, Mickey here has been around awhile. He started showing up right after my dad died. I’ve been feeding him since.” I tear off another piece of bread and carefully hold it out daring the fluffy guy to take what I’m offering. It’s not much but when he reaches for it, nose wiggling and beady black eyes I see a little of myself reflected. Hopeful. Patient. Determined to make it. That’s why I keep feeding him.
I turn back to the screen and see Van sitting there. I don’t know if it’s with shock, amazement, or if he’s got animal control on speed dial considering how fresh and new this is. He doesn’t seem like the animal control type, wary sure, protective definitely.
“You know what I’m going to do the moment this shit show is over.”
“What’s that?” I ask biting my lip shy and encouraged by his candor.
“I’m going to kiss you, Laurel Murphy keeper of squirrels, poor taste in delis, and secret rooftop hideouts.”
Van makes me happy and he suggests we go back inside as the clouds move in. I clean up my lunch in the setting sun and carefully carry my laptop to my bedroom where I set him up on my nightstand.
“So how does tonight’s first date end?” I get comfortable in my nest of pillows and see he’s propped me up with him in his bed. A huge king-sized thing with crisp white sheets and downy pillows he’s obviously punched a few times to get comfortable.
“Tonight’s date is going to end strolling one of my favorite museums.” Van sends me a link to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy.
“I’ve never been.” I have a lot of places on my bucket list to visit and I wish I could be doing this holding his hand or bumping against his shoulder. Anything physical. For now I click on the link and explore this with him. We might not have the warmth of each other but the time and attention he gives me is enough.
“Time to explore Caravaggio and Raphael.”
“My luck, I’d get too close checking out the brush strokes and the alarm would go off.”
Van chuckles. “I’d hold you back. My chest against your back and make sure you didn’t pass the sensor.” The words are innocent and yet it’s like hard core porn when you’ve been told you can’t have any contact. I’m picturing him doing exactly that. He’s warm against my skin. I’d wear a summer dress and let his hands skim up my thighs teasing with the flounce.
I didn’t know he was an art major before switching to advertising. He tells me he has paintings he wants to show me and my trained eye in graphic arts salivates for the moment we can. He weaves art history into a fairytale making me feel like I’m a part of his world. We fall asleep together as he tells me the history of the paintings and I imagine holding hands as I clutch mine together under the sheets.
8
Van
“Do you think I could fit a patch of grass up here?” I point to my roof top area. I want her to tell me her secrets, deepest fears, and things she wishes for, but for now I’ll settle for our daily banter.
“What for?”
I shrug. “I’m thinking of getting a goat. You never know how long this is going to last and I might want milk or cheese.”
“Maybe even a garden?” She muses flopping back on her bed teasing me. I see the peak of pink Barbie sheets and bite my tongue from teasing her.
“Rooftop gardens are a thing.”
She isn’t taking me seriously at all. “Okay Farmer Ward and then what?”
“I’ll start a business and charge a thousand bucks a strawberry.” I cross my arms totally serious as I think about the long-term logistics.
“So you’re a fruit scalper then?”
“No. I’d give you my entire harvest.” I would give her anything she asked of me and more. Her words make me melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. Slow and a little lazy waiting for the next sweet drop. What would I do with strawberries anyway? It felt like our conversation about berries was in fact not about berries at all and I didn’t know how to process that.
“And then what?”
“You’d make me a jam and we’d trade it for whatever we needed.” I’d bargain quite a bit to hold her in my arms.
“So you think I know how to make jam?”
“What’s a little sugar and lemon.” I play it off as no big deal but my mind drifts toward naughty fantasies I shouldn’t be having right now.
“Sugar I have, lemons I do not.”
“Ah, but I might be able to help you out,” I wink. “Though you’d be indebted to me for sure.”
She gives me an exasperated look I adore. “You do not have lemons.”
“Wanna see mine?” I leave the screen for a moment before she can say no. Of course I got them, but I’d send her every single one because I hate the fact we’re separated by water, steel, glass, and about million dollars give or take.
She shouts over the screen, “Okay, you better be talking about lemons and not something else.”
“Alright. Proof of citrus.” I drag over a small tree inside a bucket. It’s a Myer Lemon tree my dad sent me one Christmas and I’ve kept it alive somehow. I pluck one off the tree grinning.
Her hand reaches for the lemon transfixed. Laurel murmurs, “I’ll make you jam.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it, Laurel.” My throat constricts and I’d rather I was holding her.
“I’ll bring my A game to the jam party.”
“Good night. I’ll miss your pretty face.”
“I’ll miss yours too.” We end our call and the pit of loneliness returns. It’s not as bad as the day before or the day before that, but I feel like I’m barely hanging on sometimes and Laurel is the only thread holding me together. I think I love this woman and I hope she might be growing to love me too.
9