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NANOWRIMO 2

After I ran out of steam I still had a bunch of days left in the month, so I decided to at least finish my goal of 50,000 words. I used those words to brainstorm a better outline: getting rid of the email idea, having the characters know each other already (and live relatively nearby) instead of starting out strangers, plus adding a few extra characters, etc. But I got stuck again. I tried writing the beginning few scenes, to get me going, and I think they turned out well, much better than the original. But my outline never crystallized into anything coherent, and as I kept hammering away at the ideas I just sank deeper and deeper into the mud. So eventually I abandoned it. Here are those first few scenes.
 

Stavroula’s pocket began blaring the theme to Star Wars, and she jumped, scrambled for the phone, hit the answer button by mistake, and then punched the hang up button twice, and then once more for good measure, and slipped it back into her pocket. She bit her lower lip and whispered an apology in English and in Greek, to each of the parties at the table. The woman smiled and said “είναι εντάξει αγαπητέ,”— “it’s okay, dear”; the man ignored her and kept up his rant.

“You can’t just go hanging your laundry in the yard, it’s my yard, not your yard. The second floor apartment doesn’t include access to the back yard.”

Stavroula jumped in as he paused, and translated what he said into Greek, for the benefit of the woman at the table. The woman raised an eyebrow, said nothing, and continued knitting smoothly.

“And one more thing: When you put out the garbage it has to go out after 8pm. It can’t sit around all day attracting rats, and homeless people picking through it.”

Stavroula translated this, too, and then looked at the man. He sat back in his chair with his arms crossed.

“τίποτ 'άλλο?” the woman asked.

“Anything else?” Stavroula asked the man.

“Isn’t that enough? Two months she’s been living here, you’d think she’d know the rules by now. Tell her that she had better start doing things how they’re supposed to be done or I’ll go to the super.”

Stavroula conveyed this threat in slightly more tactful language, and the woman nodded amenably.

“Το κτίριο είναι ιδιοκτησία της ανιψιό μου.” She said plainly, “Αλλά μην του πω ότι. ας νομίζει ότι έχει κάποια εξουσία. ο καθένας χρειάζεται ένα χόμπι”

Stavroula smiled despite herself and told the man “She says she will make every effort to follow the correct procedures, but to please be patient, as she is an old woman and can’t always remember the right way to do things.”

The man grunted, and nodded at the older woman. Not fully satisfied, but placated. He pushed back from the table and stood.

“Δεν θέλετε ένα μπισκότο?” the woman said coyly, letting her knitting fall into her lap and pushing forward a plate of homemade cookies.

The man stood still for a long minute, wrestling internally, then he quickly snatched up a cookie and nodded curtly. He didn’t quite smile, but the scowl on his face softened slightly. He opened his mouth to say one more thing, then shoved the small cookie into it whole, turned, and strode out the door.

The woman thanked Stavroula for coming by, to which Stavroula responded it was the least she could do for family, and after several more sincere pleasantries Stavroula made her escape, laden down with a handful of dolmades, a container of eggplant moussaka, and a half dozen cookies.

When she got home she stowed the food in her fridge and then flopped on the sofa to check her phone. It was Peter who had called, which she’d known from the ringtone, but she wanted to see if he was calling from home or work. Work, damn. He’d never answer. But she phoned anyway, heard: “I can’t answer the phone right now, the aliens have beamed me up to their ship, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you when they’re through experimenting with my brain,” and told him to call her back when he got a chance.

She exhaled slowly and stared at the ceiling, shaking her head. “Peter Alnwith, what am I going to do with you?” she asked herself, only partly rhetorically. Then she shook it off, sat up straight, and dialed a different number.

“Leslie? Lionfish. Stat!” she said into the phone, and was halfway out the door before she hit the hang up button.

It didn’t take her long to get to the Lionfish café. It was just two blocks from her apartment, and half a block from Leslie’s, which is why it was the go-to place of choice. That, and the pumpkin-spice lattes which they served year round, and the sugar scones which were responsible for most of Stavroula’s extra fifteen pounds.

She was in no mood to fight with herself today, so she got both a latte and a scone, and then crumpled into the booth in the corner where Leslie was already licking whipped cream off of her hot chocolate spoon.

“What’s up, Curly?” Leslie asked, “Sounded like Defcon 4 on the phone.”

Stavroula took the time to slurp down a mouthful of ambrosia before she answered, the deliciousness of which brought her down to Defcon 2.

“Oh, it’s all just, you know, my head’s in such a state, I actually lied to a client today.”
 

“You had a job? That’s great!”

“Well, not a real one. Just interpreting for my cousin’s aunt—or was it my aunt’s cousin…I’m not really sure how we’re related. Anyway, she had a problem with her pain-in-the-ass neighbor, so I said I’d help out.”

“And you told the neighbor to get stuffed?”
 

“I wish. I told him she was doing the best she could, but that she was an old lady and sometimes forgot things.”
 

“When what she actually said was…”
 

“She said, ‘Don’t tell him this, but my nephew owns the building. Let him think he has some power. Everybody needs a hobby.’”

“Right on! I like her. Sounds like your reputation for peacemaking stands untarnished. And you weren’t so much ‘lying’ as ‘practicing creative negotiation skills.’”

Stavroula smiled and took a large bite of the sugar scone, and relaxed back into the cushioned upright of the booth.

“But on top of their disagreement, and the fact that I lied—creatively negotiated, the thing that’s bugging me is that I wasn’t really concentrating because my phone went off in the middle of the conversation, and it was Peter.”

”Ah, I see.”

“Obviously I couldn’t answer it, but by the time I got out of there he was gone. Wrapped up at work, and unreachable for who knows how long. So there’s that. And then what if it had been a real job? I can’t let him unravel my whole life. It’s bad enough that he drives me to distraction on my own time, but if I can’t even pay attention while I’m working, I’m in real trouble!”

“Indeed. I sense a need for further sustenance; hold that thought.” She went to the counter and came back with a chocolate chip muffin for herself and another sugar scone for Stavroula, which was good, because there weren’t even crumbs left on Stavroula’s plate. “Okay, let ‘er rip.”

“Agh, where to start?” She pushed her hands into the poof of hair on the top of her head and grabbed a handful of curls on each side. She pulled them out to twice their curled-up length, held them there for a beat, and then let them sproing back into place.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” she said, picking up the fresh scone and pointing it at Leslie, “I like Peter—no, I love Peter, though I haven’t been able to say that to his face. I want to marry him and have his mutant ET babies. He likes me, too – I daresay ‘loves,’ though he’d never say that, and maybe he doesn’t even realize it, himself. When we’re together we get along swimmingly; he pays attention to me, I’m interested in what he has to say, we share the same values, we laugh at the same jokes, we like to cook together, and we’ve even managed to camp out overnight without arguing about who forgot the matches… There’s great potential there.”
 

“Cute buns, too.”

“Yes, and there’s the cute buns! Exactly. So you see that this is meant to be. And yet, inexplicably, he disappears for days – weeks – at a time, with no phone calls, no email, nothing. I ask where he’s been, and he says he was just working really hard and lost track of what day it was. Do I believe him? Do I think that there’s another girl? If there is another girl do I confront him? Or try to figure out who she is and see what I’m up against? And try to somehow fight her and win?”

“Hmm, tricky that. It’s not as if you can just saunter by and peep in his window. What is it, an hour’s drive between here and there?”

“In my clunker, more like an hour and a quarter. But I don’t want to spy on him. And I really don’t think there’s another woman. I think it truly is his work. He’s fascinated by it, and it’s always on his mind, sometimes even when we’re together, which is a whole ‘nother topic which I won’t go into right now. But if it is just work keeping him busy and out of touch, is that really any better? The point is not whether he’s with some girl or just a bank of computers, the point is that he’s not with me, singing silly songs in the kitchen and cuddling up in bed.”

“True. That is a difficulty. Are the times that he’s with you worth the times that he’s not? What sort of ratio are you getting?”

“Yes! They are. But I’m getting maybe one night every two or three weeks. And maybe a few quick emails in between. That’s just not enough bandwith. I’m a self-sufficient gal, but if I’m going to give my heart, I have see it more often than once or twice a month!”

“And there’s nobody else tempting you away from him?”
 

“No. Nor do I want there to be. I really do want to be with him, I just need to figure out how to make him realize that he wants to be with me more than he wants to be gazing off into space at nothing.”
 

“And you have just asked him outright, right?”

Stavroula took a large bite of the scone and chewed it thoroughly. Then sipped her latte. Then took another bite of the scone. All the while looking concentratedly down at the mosaic tabletop.

“The prosecution reminds the witness that a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer is required.”

“Well, but, okay, say that I did? ‘Peter, I want to spend more time with you.’ What’s he likely to say? ‘I do too, and we will. I’m just really busy at work right now. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’ And then I feel bad because he hasn’t given me what I want, and he feels bad because he has to say ‘no’ and because I’ve pressured him, and maybe he decides that it’s not worth it and breaks it off completely.”

“Or maybe he says, ‘Oh, I didn’t realize you felt that way. Let me see how I can shuffle a few things around so that I can make more time for you.’”

“Yeah. What guy have you ever dated that said that to you?”

There was a silence as both of them acknowledged and then slip by the fact that her longest relationship was a disastrous month and a half, and had happened four years ago. They munched their respective doughy desserts and when Stavroula spoke again her voice was more sure, her energy more calm.

“What I keep forgetting,” Stavroula said, “is that things go through phases. This may just be a brief blip that will smooth itself out naturally. In the beginning we saw each other once or twice a week, and that was great. It’s just the last month or so that it’s been less frequent. And we still have our plan to go to Greece. Once I get him drunk with sun and sand and ouzo he’ll remember how nice daylight is, and then maybe he won’t spend all of his nights at the observatory.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

“Yeah, I wish. If there were a God, surely he’d take pity on me. After all, God’s supposed to be all about love, right?”

“God is all about love, yes. But sometimes she works in mysterious, nay, unfathomable ways.”

“Horsepoop! I want a God I can fathom. Why invent a superior being just to be confused by it? The ancient Greek gods, now they were highly fathomable. You make a sacrifice to Aphrodite, and boom! you get your loved one in the palm of your hand. Or else she gets jealous and turns you into a toad. Hmm, I think my best bet in this case is just to wait it out and see what happens.”
 

“Okay. But I still don’t see anything wrong with being honest about how you feel. Even if you’re not asking him to do anything about it, just telling him that you’ve been missing him might make him pull his head out of his cute buns a little.”

Stavroula smiled. “So what’s up in Leslie-land?” she asked, stuffing the last of the scone in her mouth, “How’s your paper coming?”

“Slow, slow and even more slow. I’m trying not to think about it. In fact, I’m having a few people over tonight to distract me from thinking about it. 7:30, if you’re free.”

“Sure. I’m not likely to be zipping off down to Palo Alto on a Thursday night. I’ll see you then.” She gathered up her stuff to go. “Thanks for letting me vent to you.”

“No problem. It beats writing about eigenvectors any day.”
 

“Ah yes. Eigenvectors. They vex me, too.”

“Do you even remember what an eigenvector is?”
 

“Nope, not a clue. But I’m glad you’re on it; saving humanity from eigenvector ignorance.”

“Get out of here. I’ll see you tonight.”

Stavroula took the long way back to her apartment, through the park. She stopped at the little fountain in the middle: a semicircular basin filled by a sheet of water spilling down over an underwater scene, complete with anemones, jellyfish and coral. She pulled out her coin purse, stirring the change around for the shiniest penny she could find. She closed her eyes, made her wish, and tossed the penny into the basin.

She strolled slowly the rest of the way, looking up into the blue sky and trying to imagine something existing out there, beyond what she could see. But she failed, as always. No imagination, she chided herself.

She let herself into her apartment, greeted her cat, watered her plants, and tidied up some scattered books and magazines before finally forcing herself down into a chair to do some work. She was translating the manual for the Fry-O-Matic into Greek, and it was boring as all get out. What self-respecting Greek person would use a deep fat fryer, anyway? No one was ever going to read what she wrote. But it was a paycheck, so she set her kitchen timer for thirty minutes, and worked on and off with stretching and sanity breaks until it was time for Leslie’s party.

[maybe something else in here to set up something for later on]

Stavroula showed up to the party with dolmades and cookies in hand. She was the first to arrive, so she helped Leslie set out drinks and snacks in the living room, and then followed her back into the kitchen to check on the lasagna.

Leslie slipped her oven mitts on and peered in through the encrusted glass window, while Stavroula counted out plates and forks.

“So you never told me the reason for this little get together.” Stavroula said, stacking the plates on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and standing the forks up in a water glass.

“I didn’t?” Leslie said casually, leaning into the open oven and poking the bubbling lasagna with a wooden spoon.

“Well, you said you wanted to ignore writing your paper, but this seems a little more elaborate than just that.” She turned to look at Leslie. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The doorbell rang, and Leslie quickly pushed the lasagna pan back in the oven and slammed it shut, then dashed into the other room. Stavroula heard a chorus of hellos and hugs and kisses.

“I’ll just put this in the fridge” came a voice from the other room, and then the owner of the voice opened the kitchen door and entered. He saw Stavroula, nearly dropped the case of beer, and juggled it to a safe clunk on the floor.

“Roula, hi!” he said, standing up quickly and sticking one hand in a back pocket, then pulling it out, running it over his overly-long but perfectly-orderly hair, then going to put it back in his pocket, pausing and extending it to Stavroula, then pausing again and holding his arms out halfway for a hug, moving them up and down in a maybe-yes-maybe-no? gesture.

Stavroula just stood next to the stove, mouth half open, and the man turned his hug gesture into a little wave, and a slightly forced laugh, calling “Hello…Earth to Stavroula.”

She blinked and shook her head, and said, “Sorry! Hi. Hello, Brian…hi. Nice to see you,” and moved forward into an after-the-fact acceptance of his hug, which he quickly re-offered, but which lagged behind hers, ending up in just a grasp of her forearms. He held them for a second too long, and she pulled back out of his reach, leaning against the counter and holding her arms across her chest.

There was a long silence.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he said finally, leaning back against the counter opposite her.

“I didn’t either. Leslie just invited me today.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you.” He smiled lopsidedly and Stavroula’s stomach did a familiar flip.

“What brings you to town?” she asked, opening the oven to look at the lasagna, then closing the oven door and pulling a knife from the rack next to the stove.

”Leslie didn’t tell you?”

Stavroula stopped and looked at him and then shook her head. Brian ran his hand over his stubbly goatee and said nothing. Stavroula felt her face heat up, and she turned back to the oven, opened the door, and poked the knife down into the pasta. The noodles were still firm.

“I’m promoting my book.” He said to her back, “Letters Never Sent. It’s a book of poems. About you. Or for you, I guess. Or maybe for me, reminding me of how much of an ass I was, leaving the way I did.”

She closed the oven and set the knife down, but she didn’t turn back around. He stood up a little, and held on to the counter behind him.

“I thought I was going to have a little more time to figure out what to say to you. But I guess I have to just dive in. Okay. [poetic quote about the value of telling the straight-up truth] Stavroula, I was an ass. And…well, the truth is that’s why I had to leave. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t know I wasn’t good for you – wasn’t good to you – but I was so wrapped up in you I couldn’t see straight. All I could see was both of us disappearing into a big black hole, and I was scared, but I needed you, and I needed to get some distance, and I knew if I tried to tell you or even thought about you I could never let go, so I just closed my eyes and my ears and I ran.

“And I…well, what I’ve realized after all these years is that if I couldn’t even tell you I needed to have some space, then I wasn’t doing what we’d promised. I wasn’t being truthful, I wasn’t being myself, I wasn’t letting you see all of me. I’ve spent the last five years trying to learn how to do that.

“When I think how much I hurt you…I would peel my own skin off if it would take back that pain.”

He looked down, and nudged the beer case with his toe. Stavroula was still facing the oven, arms crossed tightly in front of her. She was chewing the tiny bits of nail on her thumb as hot, fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me what you’re thinking?” he ventured.

She wiped her cheeks quickly with her palm, and spun around, frantically heading for the door as she mouthed, “I have to go.”

“Wait,” he said, lunging in front of the door and taking her by the arms. She tore her arms free and backed to the opposite end of the kitchen, pacing back and forth in the little space, not looking at him.

“Whatever is going through your mind, say it. Say you hate me, say you can’t forgive me, say I’m the lowest scum on Earth. For your own sake, let out whatever it is.”

Stavroula stopped pacing and slid down in the corner with her back against the cabinets. She wrapped her arms around her knees and started chewing the other stub of a thumbnail, staring fixedly at the floor.

“It’s not fair,” is what finally came out, in a tiny, choked voice. “You’re the one who ran away. You’re the one who couldn’t face me. You’re the one who couldn’t tell the truth. And now you come back and you’ve written a book? And you’re telling me that I should say what I’m thinking? You don’t get to do that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not fair. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

He stood by the door and waited, chewing the inside of his cheek.

She put her forehead to her knees and began crying outright. Big sobs alternating with desperate inhalations. Her body rocked back and forth as she cried, and she squeezed her knees with her arms. Finally, her cries began to slow, and she lifted her head from her knees, and leaned it sideways against the cabinet door with a thunk. She thunked it softly against the cabinet several times, and then looked up at the ceiling, snorting and wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand.

Brian pulled a long span of paper towels from the holder over the sink, went to her, and crouched down to hand it to her. She looked at him wearily as she took it, her eyes red and puffy. She made a small noise that could have meant “thanks” and she clumsily ripped off a square and began wiping her face. He lowered himself to the floor, his back against the cabinet opposite her, holding his hands in his lap.

She blew her nose noisily and he smiled at the familiar sound.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she said poutily, and threw the dirty towel at him.

“Hey!” he said, flinching backwards and knocking his head against the drawer handle, then “Ow!” Stavroula gave a half-snort, half-laugh.

Brian rubbed his head while he leaned out to snag the case of beer and haul it over to them.
 

“Want a warm beer?” he offered, ripping the box open to pull one free. He opened the can, and it exploded foam all over his chest, causing Stavroula to throw her head back in laughter, and knock her own head against a drawer. She laughed and cried in pain and kicked him with her foot and then wiped her face with more paper towel as he slurped up the dripping beer.

They wound down their antics and sat in silence for a long moment, both looking at the floor. Finally she raised her head, and so did he, and she looked him straight in the eye for the first time since he’d come into the room. He held her gaze. She felt how tense her shoulders were, and consciously relaxed them. He put his beer can down, held his palms open in his lap and shrugged his own shoulders slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her eyes filled again, but they didn’t spill over this time. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She shook her head back and forth and opened her mouth to say something, she didn’t know what, but she was saved by the kitchen door swinging open.

“Are you guys okay in here?” Leslie’s worried face peered around the door. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I heard a lot of banging and then silence. I was concerned.”

“Yeah, she had me by the throat and was pounding my head on the counter, but I tripped her up and did some Beer-Fu on her, and now we’re okay.”

Leslie nodded and smiled, but her brows were still crinkled up. “Do you want to come out and have some chips?” she asked. “Lilah brought some homemade hummus…”

“You go,” Stavroula said, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Brian squeezed the toe of Stavroula’s Keds, and pushed himself to his feet. He scooped up the tattered case of beer and shoved it in the fridge, and then put his hand on Leslie’s shoulder as she held the door open for him. She stepped into the kitche and let the door shut behind her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I have surprise ex-boyfriends show up all the time and drive me to tears. Nothing to it.” She began tearing one of the unused paper towels into thin strips.

“I should have told you he was coming. I’m sorry.” Leslie picked up the warm can of beer from the floor, and upended it in the sink. “I’ve just been so used to not mentioning his name in your presence that it wouldn’t come out.”

“So you didn’t plan this whole thing, huh?”

“No. Honest! I wasn’t going to say anything about him being in town, or coming over tonight. But you seemed so upset this afternoon that I thought a party would cheer you up, and only after it was out of my mouth did I remember why I didn’t tell you about it in the first place.”

Stavroula gave her a doubtful look, but didn’t say anything.

“Was it really that awful, seeing him again? He’s changed a lot.”

“Yeah, he finally put some color into his wardrobe. Instead of all black he’s branched out to navy blue socks.”

Leslie smiled and held out her hand to Stavroula. Stavroula scooped up the pile of paper towels and towel shreds and packed it into her left hand, and accepted the offer with her right. Leslie pulled her up into a hug; a long, tight squeeze.

“Okay, now come have some dip. And no poking him in the head with a cocktail skewer.”

Stavroula dumped the towels, rinsed her face and hands, dried them on another couple towels, said a small inner apology to the rain forests, and followed Leslie out into the living room.

The party was getting warmed up, and Stavroula started to enjoy herself. There were people she and Leslie knew from the university and from the neighborhood, plus a few people Stavroula had never met before. The lasagna was delicious, the vibe was friendly, and despite herself Stavroula was laughing and having a good time. And staying on the other side of the room from wherever Brian was.

She managed to avoid him for most of the night, but as she was returning from the bathroom, down the long corridor, she found him blocking her way. He was holding something in his hands and waiting for her. As she walked up to him he held it out and she saw that it was a book. His book.

“I wanted you to have this,” he said, “It’s too little, too late, I know. But I hope it’s at least better than nothing.”

Stavroula looked down at the book, a small hardback with a light indigo dust jacket and the title – Letters Never Sent – printed in boldface. There was a picture of a handwritten letter underneath the title, and, of all things, a quill pen. Ridiculous, she thought.

“I don’t know…” she said. “I’m not ready to…” She trailed off, realizing that it had been five years. If she wasn’t ready to move on by now, then when would she be? But she had moved on, she thought. Maybe what she really wasn’t ready for was to look back. To reopen a box that had been thoroughly sealed and shut away on a high shelf.

“Okay, I understand,” He lowered the hand holding the book. “Sorry. It’s a tricky balance between trying to make up for the past and accidentally making it worse.”

She sighed and held out her hand.

“I can’t promise that I’ll read it.”
 

“Fair enough.” He mock bowed and presented her with the book, which she took and flipped over to look at the back cover. A bunch of quotes by people and organizations she’d never heard of, and an author photo that made him seem like a little boy.

A woman Stavroula didn’t know appeared in the hallway and lightly gripped Brian’s sleeve.

“You’re on,” she said, and smilingly pulled him back into the living room.

Stavroula walked past the living room to the front door. She found her bag hanging on a peg, and stuffed the book down into it, feeling a surge of anger. She quickly tamped it down, telling herself that it was no good getting mad at this, all the damage had already been done. As usual, her anger quickly changed to frustration, and then dissipated, leaving her feeling slightly worn out.

She made her way back to the living room and stood in the doorway, holding onto the frame. Brian was standing in front of the fireplace, another copy of his book in his hands. Everyone was facing him, on the sofas, sitting on the floor, standing at the back with drinks in their hands. He looked at ease as the center of attention, and was joking with some of the people on the floor as he flipped through the book, looking for the right page.

He found the one he was looking for, and creased the spine so the page would stay open. The room settled down. Stavroula tightened her grip on the doorframe. He began.

[poem]

No one was looking at Stavroula, who was behind them all in the doorway, but she felt as if everyone was staring at her. In a way they were, focused on the image of her that Brian was evoking. She felt the air become warm, then stifling, and she was having trouble breathing. She backed away from the living room, but the hallway wasn’t much better. She headed for the door, grabbed her bag on the way out, and shut the door behind her with a barely audible click.

She walked swiftly, head down, eyes blurred with tears, so she had no clue which direction she was going. It didn’t matter. The rhythm of her legs moving was enough to keep her thoughts at bay, and that was what she was after. Well, it was almost enough. Little snippets of thought burst through, like, “how dare he!” and “ridiculous quill pen” and a feeling of heat in her face that was both anger and something else.

She only realized that she was at her car when she had the door open and was getting into it. She sat inside for a long moment, trying to decide where she was planning to drive to. The ocean, she thought. Staring at the rolling waves and breathing the salty air was just the sort of hypnotizing, cleansing atmosphere she needed. She took a deep breath and put the car in gear.

It was nearly 10:30 now, and few people were on the roads. She let herself be lulled by the motion of the car, let her autopilot take her. Her mind wandered to the little town in Corfu where her aunt lived. She’d stayed with her aunt for two years after college, the two most idyllic years of her life.

Walking down the steep cobbled street, clothes lines spanning the narrow width between houses. Warm kofta kebab in her hand, with its greasy, spicy aroma that bursts into dozens of different flavors on her tongue. The friendly “kalimera” from Anastasia at the bakery, and the smiles of the three old men on the corner. She hasn’t asked their names yet, but they recognize each other since every time she comes this way they’re sitting there, drinking their coffee and watching the people go by.

She continues ambling down the street, the steep cobbles giving way to flat, patchy asphalt, sprinkled with sand. She dumps her kebab stick in a trash basket, and continues on past the small pier to where the road becomes a track, becomes a pair of tire ruts through the sandy grass, peters out at the edge of a small beach.

She takes off her sarong and drops it halfway down the beach, kicking off her sandals. The hot sand makes her dance the last few yards to the waters edge, and she doesn’t stop until she is floating in the warm, gently lapping waves. She closes her eyes, and leans back, feeling the sun on her eyelids, on her cheeks, on her forehead. She reaches down with her toes and digs them into the soft sand at the bottom, and she is blissfully happy.

The awareness that her car was stopped, and was idling with a burpy, irregular rhythm, brought Stavroula back into the present. She put the car in park, and turned the engine off. She was about to get out when she realized she wasn’t at the Berkeley Marina at all. She was still in the city. No, she was in a different city. While she had been lost in her reverie, she had driven all the way down to Palo Alto, and was parked outside Peter’s apartment.

She stuck her head out the door and looked up to his window. The lights were on. She pulled her head back in the car and looked at the clock on the dashboard. 11:53pm. She wavered.

Knock, knock! on her passenger window. She shrieked. A grinning face peered in at her. It was holding a pint of Häagen Dazs, and waggling it teasingly.

“Peter!” She jumped from the car and ran around to hug him.

“Hey, kiddo. You came all the way down here just for mint chip?”

Their hug turned into a kiss, which became a longer kiss, and then a long smooch up against the car, with the ice cream slowly melting on the warm hood.

Later, they sat curled up on the sofa together, empty ice cream bowls on the floor. Peter was stroking her hair, and she nestled deeper into the warmth of his long torso, eyes closed, feeling sleepy and content.

“I’m glad you came down here tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing her forehead.

“Me too.”

“I have something I want to show you. Tomorrow. It’s what I’ve been working on for the past few months. I think I finally found something.”
 

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. I have to show you.”

She murmured something quietly and slowly fell asleep with his fingers caressing her scalp.

She awoke to find a note on the pillow that said, “F’lk mdrk frnd nak hqs. Bkkn bk qn rddr ydu hzrja qn Akusfk’v.” She smiled in her sleepiness and kissed the note. She loved that Peter loved puzzles as much as she did. That she didn’t have to feel like a geek. She got up and set the coffee pot percolating, and then pulled out a pen to solve his note.

It was a simple substitution cryptogram – each letter in the note stood for a letter in real life. She just had to figure out which letter was which. In this case she did almost didn’t need to write anything down. “F’lk” was obviously “I’ve”. She didn’t know of any other words that fit that pattern, with the apostrophe and the two letters following. She wrote an “I” above every “f” on the note, and an “e” above every “k”. There were no other “l”s on the note, which was expected, since “v” is an uncommon letter.

The last word, which was capitalized, with an apostrophe then a letter had to be a possessive. And given that she knew the two “k”s were really “e”s, it easily resolved itself as “Herbie’s,” their favorite diner.

She cracked the note in less time than it took for the coffee to finish perking: “I’ve gone into the lab. Meet me at noon for lunch at Herbie’s.”

She checked the clock on the wall. 10:30. She’d have plenty of time to get ready and stroll into town to meet him. Enough time, even, to plan a little puzzle of her own. She wandered through the apartment looking for the objects she’d need.

She found some tape, a almost-empty roll of toilet paper which she denuded. Three long pencils and a super bouncy ball completed the set-up. She taped the pencils to the inside of the tube, coming together at the apex, and affixed the ball at the point where they all met. It looked a bit like a pre-schooler’s rocket ship. She wrote the letters “relati” on the side, and stood the object in the center of the table.

Andrea Blumberg

© Andrea Blumberg 2016-2020