She looked up from the magazine she was reading and raised an eyebrow.
“What? I do,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked as she closed her copy of Under the Radar and placed it next to her.
“I was just thinking,” I started, “this is so nice. We’re sitting here together, reading, me on one couch, you on the other, and I’m really…”
“Happy?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and moved over to my couch. “Anything else you’d like to say?”
“Mhmm. I adore you. These simple moments, it’s too hot to cuddle, what with the heat wave, and we can’t really do much, so we’re just sitting here, relaxing, not even really feeling the need to chat.”
“Well, until now. Now you’re talking.”
“True, but now you’re cuddling. And it’s 100+ degrees out.”
“It’s 99.”
“Not if you include the heat index.”
“What does that even mean, the heat index?”
“I love that you always call me out.”
“Hey, you do it too,” she said, sliding even closer and putting her arm around me.
“Dude. It’s too hot to cuddle.”
“It’s too hot to talk, too,” she said as she got up, went back to her couch and returned to her magazine .
“It’s all over tonight,” she said as I rolled over and realized she was awake.
“Think we’ll have all of the answers?”
“Nope. But I think they’ll try their best.”
She was always the optimist. That is why I love her. I yanked the comforter off her and she started yelling.
“It’s cold! Give it baaaaaack!”
I laughed hysterically as she jumped up and started tickling me. All of a sudden she became serious, so I made a straight face back at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“We have to decide which party to go to.”
“Which Lost party?”
“Yup,” she said, sitting down and removing her fingers from my armpits. I was just thrilled to catch my breath.
“Well, where do you want to go?”
She looked up, making the face she always made while deep in thought.
“Dunno, you?” she finally responded.
“I’d rather just order a pizza, get some wine, sit on the couch with you under a blanket, and just watch it here. We have a big TV, surround sound, all that, why not?”
She smiled.
“You always have the answer to everything.”
“Except Lost.”
“Well nobody has the answer to that!” she said in a raised voice, warning me it was time to be tickled again. And I was right. She jumped and dug her fingers right back into my armpits, and I was helpless. I giggled until she finally decided it was time to let me breathe again, at which point I pushed her down with my legs and got her back until she started yelling-
“Uncle! Uncle!”
I laughed and let her go. She sat up.
“So pizza and wine? That’s all you need tonight?”
“And you.”
“And me.”
“That’s it.”
She smiled and sat up, fixing her hair, which was a mess from the tickling.
“Who do you think will live? Jack? Hurley? KATE?!?!”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care. I’m just glad it’ll be over. No more wondering. No more hour of television every week like clockwork. No more letting my Netflix movies pile up as we watch and rewatch the episodes in case we missed anything. It’ll all be over tonight.”
“Meet me under the juniper tree,” was all that the note said, and so as she reached the summit of the hill on her vintage green bicycle, she saw a picnic blanket, basket, and an opened bottle of wine. And, of course, her boyfriend.
“Cute,” she said as she approached him, leaving the bike propped against the tree. The blanket, an old plaid one from the sixties they’d bought at a yard sale, was held down on each corner by different objects: his journal, the wine, a stack of 45s, and the old battery-operated 45 player they scored at a thrift shop. He moved the needle over the 45 already on the player, and Woman by John Lennon started playing as he stood up and reached his hand out.
“Care to dance?”
She took his hand and they danced under the juniper tree, the wind blowing through the prickly leaves, berries dropping here and there, one landing in her hair. He reached out and pulled it out, fixed her hair where it was messy from his fingers, and then returned his hand to its original position on the hip of her plaid t-shirt dress.
“You’re something else, aren’t you?” she asked. He smiled. “Don’t get a big head over this. It’s impressive, yes, but still, don’t get cocky.” Her smile told him he was doing a good job. “So what’s the occasion?”
He thought about it as they slowly rotated, moving from sun to shade and back again. He finally shrugged. “No occasion. Just felt like it.”
Her arms squeezed a little tighter, making him exhale a little, move his hand up to the back of her head and into her hair, and he brought his lips to hers. She made a tiny sound, letting him know the feeling of excitement in his chest was shared.
The 45 finished playing, and he stopped kissing and released her, returning to the blanket and opening the basket as she just stood there, a bit dazed.
“I got us hummus, pita, and of course, for you, green olives. Blech!” he said as he opened the jar and some of the liquid spilled on his hand. He placed everything on the blanket as she walked over, took her flip flops off and sat, knees together and feet under her.
“How thoughtful! Try one.”
“No.”
“Have you ever had one?”
“As a kid, yes, Gross.” He squinched his face so she understood he didn’t like them.
“Just try one. For me.” He looked at her, she pushed out her lower lip, letting him know he didn’t really have a choice. He opened his mouth, and she threw one at him, missing completely as it rolled down his vintage brown shirt, leaving a small trail of wet brine.
“Nice,” he said, smiling at her as he dabbed at the trail with a napkin. He picked up the olive and threw it into his mouth.
She watched.
“Well?”
“What?”
She laughed. “You like it, don’t you.”
“No!” he said with a sound of defensiveness in his voice. She smiled.
“You don’t have to admit it. But I know you do.”
He put out the food as she poured the wine into plastic cups. They ate in silence for a while, taking turns removing the berries from the hummus as they fell from the tree.
“This is nice,” she said to him after a sip of wine. He smiled at her and refilled her cup, and then his. She spread more hummus onto her pita and then passed it over to him. He took a bite and was surprised.
“There was an olive hidden in there!”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a curt smile. He laughed.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” She nodded.
He spread some hummus on a piece of pita and took a bite.
He thought about it for a few seconds, and after much deliberation said, “Can you pass me the olives?”
After a know-it-all smile at him, she passed him the olives, and a berry bounced right off the bridge of her nose, making both of them laugh.
He sat across the couch from her, Broken Social Scene’s Feel Good Lost album playing quietly in the background, as she typed away on her computer, and whenever the clicking paused he knew she was taking a moment to look at him. He knew, but didn’t try to catch her; he didn’t want to. He wondered if she noticed that every time she looked over he was smiling a little. And then he wondered if she knew it was because he knew.
She caught him peeking at her, only once.
“Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Distracting you.”
“You aren’t,” she said with her trademark big smile he was quickly falling for.
She reached out and took his hand and returned to her work, typing one-handed. He didn’t even try writing a story, and not just because she took one of his hands hostage.
“Am I keeping you from writing?”
“Nope,” he said, trying to be coy. He played around online for a bit with his right hand, and eventually gave up. She kept typing, but her mind wasn’t really on the task at hand either. It wasn’t long before she closed her laptop.
“Are you done?”
“Nope.”
“I promised you that if we had a homework date we would actually finish stuff.”
She smiled again, and he knew he would be losing this one. He closed his laptop and put it on the other couch as she scooched closer. She started messing with his hair a little, and so he poked her in the ribs, trying to find a ticklish spot. It didn’t take long.
“Don’t!”
“Don’t what?” he said with a devilish smile. He could see he’d figured it out…he’d been trying to tickle her feet earlier, with no success.
“Come here.”
They kissed, and he stopped her after a bit. “Do some work. I don’t want you to refuse other homework dates because we don’t focus.”
She smiled and started some paperwork, and he listened to her scribbling as he wrote a story. When the scribbling stopped he knew she was trying to read the story he was currently typing on his Mac. He looked up and caught her looking.
“What?”
“Don’t read it as I type!” he said, trying to cover the screen with his hand.
“Can I read it when you’re done?”
“Maybe…we’ll see.”
“Is it about me?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Well..if it is about me, doesn’t that make it my business?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Nope. And don’t worry, it’s not about you.”
She frowned and returned to her paperwork, and he finished the story about their homework date.
Music to go along with this story: Staralfur by Sigur Ros.
Music played in the background as she was stretched out on the couch, resting her head on his lap and her feet on the arm of the old, beaten up couch. He played with her short, brown hair, and she smiled.
“I love how content we can be, just sitting here.” He nodded agreement. She continued. “Do you think we’ll be poor forever?”
“Poor but happy,” he said with a smile as she sat up and he put his arm around her, drawing her closing.
“That sounds nice,” she said, allowing herself to be pulled in.
“Starving artists, and all. But if you want we could totally get nine-to-five jobs. But…”
“We’d miss out on moments like this. If we worked normal jobs, we’d both just be getting home.”
“Complaining about work.”
“Worrying about dinner.”
“Fighting over who has to do the dishes.”
“That’s just not us.”
They both paused, thinking about this alternate world.
“You know, we end up with so many…”
“Responsibilities?” he finished. She smiled at this and nodded, placing her head on his shoulder.
“You know, there’s only one way to ever be free of them, ever again.”
“Going insane?”
“Exactly. And that would put the burden onto someone else, our parents, most likely. Seems unfair. But that’s our only possible escape, from here on out.”
She looked up and played with his hair in the back a little, pulling on it to make him smile.
“Insane is the idea of giving all this up,” she said. He nodded and picked up a nearby notebook.
“Have any of your friends ever told you that you could do better?”
She looked up from the book she was reading, shifted her weight on the park bench and looked at him, gave him a half-smile, then looked down at her shoes.
“So they have then.”
“Why? What does it matter?”
“Curious, I guess.”
She looked him in the eye and then fixed his hair a bit in the front.
“It doesn’t matter. I like you.” She smiled her biggest, friendliest smile.
“Like?”
“You know…” she smiled again, a little embarrassed.
“It’s just…” he started.
She gave him a look, waiting, urging him to finish his thought.
“You’re so beautiful, and let’s face it, I’m average on a good day.”
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. You’re just silly.”
He looked at her, a little hurt.
“Oh come on! I’ve had a crush on you since I read your first short story. And then the way you were shaking a little when you asked me on that first date…adorable!”
“You said you couldn’t tell!”
A small laugh escaped her, but then hid her mouth behind her hand. He relaxed a bit.
She playfully shoved him and he shoved her back. Then she stopped and looked at him, her smile fading.
“Come here.” She waved him closer to her.
“I’m here.”
“No, HERE!” He inched a bit closer, and she gave him a look, forcing him to scoot right up alongside of her.
“I like you,” she said, gently resting her head on his shoulder. She smiled again.
“I think I could do better,” he said with a sly smile on his face.
She sat down at the table and automatically lifted the mug of coffee towards her face, analyzed it, then sniffed it.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said with a snicker. “Why do you always think it’s going to be wrong?”
She took off her hoodie and draped it over the chair behind her. “Because they rarely, if ever, get it exactly how I order it.”
“So negative for an optimist!”
“Let’s just say I’m a realistic optimist and leave it at that.” She stirred the coffee and took another sniff. “I think there’s too much cinnamon.”
He laughed. “No such thing.”
“As too much cinnamon?” she asked with a smile.
“No, jerk. As a realistic optimist.”
“Sure there is.”
“Optimists are dreamers by nature. A person claiming to be a realistic optimist is just an undercover pessimist, trying to figure out why optimists are so optimistic, what makes them tick, why they think there will be a happy ending regardless of how things are in the present.”
“Nah,” she said, swatting his idea away from the table. “I’m a dreamer who hopes for the best, but prepares for the worst.”
“An optimist wouldn’t prepare for the worst. He or she would just know that either the best will happen, or they will take something from the bad event, no matter what it is, that will make them a better person.”
She sighed and took a sip. “Hmmm…I was right, too much cinnamon, not enough milk.” She put it down and pushed it away from her and towards him.
He reached over and grabbed the cup, walked to the self-serve table, and added some milk. He sipped it, added a little more, and returned.
“It still has too much cinnamon, I’ll bet you,” she said. He handed it to her and she sipped it, said nothing, and put it down, this time on the table right in front of her. He smiled.
A Flash of Inspiration 