Part 3:
C-
I bike over the shop, nervous and excited and overall just entirely too eager. I feel like a kid heading to the biggest candy shop in the world. I have to force myself to take my time so that I don't arrive sweaty and gross with runny makeup. I wish I had a better ride, too, but I've lived in this city for so long that I know I can bike anywhere faster than any car, and much safer. Plus I can't afford car insurance and gas and rent and loan payments. Not quite.
So I simply dusted off my bike to make sure that no pollen or dirt could possibly ruin my outfit. I chose a cute, springy blue dress with short sleeves and a modest v neck, with a robin's egg blue pair of capri leggings and white flats. I did my hair up in a bun, so I opted to not wear my helmet and instead just take the ride slowly and carefully for safety's sake as well as style's.
I lock up my bike across the way and check my email. Erik texted me instructions for when I arrived, so that I didn't have to go through the shop.
Go around the back through the alley. There is a white wooden fence behind the building. Enter there.
His message reads, cryptically. But, despite the vagueness, I trust him. Maybe I'm being naive and this will all go horribly bad for me, but I just don't feel like that's the case. So, chin high, I march behind the building, using the wide alley way on the approaching side. Sure enough, there's a seven foot tall, white and wooden fence that spans from the Erik's building to the next. It's a huge amount of space… is it all his? The fence gate is all the way at the end, and there's only the one, so I can only assume the veranda is all his, or Darius' uncle, who I guess technically owns the building itself. But if Erik lives here, it might as well be his.
The latch is unsecured, which means that Erik is expecting me. I open the gate and step inside.. I gasp as I see the majestic garden before me. I'm not sure why I didn't think this is what he did with the space, but the thought went completely by me.
The ground is paved with a beautiful and classic orange brown stone, carved slick and smooth. There's a fountain made of the same stone, but it's so gentle it would probably be more accurate to call it a bird bath. There are feeders absolutely everywhere, those raised boxes for growing plants, and they're all blooming and bursting with life. There's even some small trees in the back corner just across from me, like a miniature grove, and a stone bench underneath the largest of these trees.
Even better, there's hanging lights all over, a lot of string lights in the trees, but also draped across the inside of the fence, post lights in all the feeders and along the central path that leads to a wooden staircase to the second floor. There's a small porch up there, also aglow with white string lights, and even a couple lanterns. I am completely agape at the simplistic appeal of it, wandering the well-laid garden like a girl transfixed by fairies.
"I take it you enjoy the garden?" I hear Erik's voice from the upper porch, and I wheel around, still grinning like a goof. He's at the top of the stairs, wearing a simple dress shirt and a charcoal vest with matching dress pants and black shoes. He's also wearing the same milky-white mask, but his long dark hair is slicked back much more tightly than before. "Christine?"
"Oh, yes, yes the garden is amazing. Did you plant all this? Is this where all your flowers come from? How long did it take? It's amazing, Erik." I ask in a rush, spinning around again to take it all in.
"Yes, I planted it all. These are my personal plants, though; nothing I grow back here goes out front." I sigh in wonder. These ones are way nicer than even those in the shop, and that's saying something. "Are you hungry? Our-" He coughs once, starting over. "Dinner is nearly ready."
"Yeah." I nod, and bounce up the stairs. At the top, he offers a hand, and, feeling like it's the natural thing to do, I take it. "Wait. Did you cook?" I pause, halting him as well.
"..yes. Should I not have?"
"I just thought we would order takeout or a pizza. I thought that's what you were asking me all those health questions about." During our back and forth this past half week, he'd asked if I was allergic to anything and what styles of food I'd like- I assumed we would be ordering in.
"Oh." He balks. "Would that have been preferable?"
"Not necessarily, no, but it's a lot of work to pull together a meal- I never expected you'd go to all that effort.." I want to add 'on our first date', but I have to wonder, again, if that's really what this is? I want it to be, but does he?
"I had assumed it was the only proper way to handle things of this nature. Etiquette." Erik shrugs.
"Aw. I can't wait to see it, then! I bet it's fantastic."
"Very well, then. I hope you will enjoy it." He smiles. Though what's visible of his expression shows a pleasantness, the rest of him is tense and nervous as he shows me inside. I try not to focus too hard on him, then, so that he doesn't feel under pressure to look or act a certain way for me. It's not difficult to switch my thoughts away, either, when I see the studio of an apartment.
It's got high ceilings, probably eight or nine feet, but every inch of wall is covered in black cube shelves, full of books and binders and god knows what else. Or if it's not a shelf, it's a painting, and all abstract, brushy, breathy works. I think I recognize a few, but I'm not sure. One corner of the room is sectioned off by a dark curtain, which I suspect is a makeshift bedroom. Another is a kitchenette, not much larger than my own, and the rest is open floor, though there is a small desk with an ancient, blocky computer, and a table that's got candles and roses on it..
Two places are set, everything perfectly aligned as far as I can tell. In the center, there's a large glass dish full of pasta with what looks like chicken and white sauce on top, sprinkled with cheese and herbs. It smells divine. I can hear a radio playing a foreign song, french, I think.
"Did you do all this by yourself?"
"Of course. Is it too much?" Erik puts a hand to his mouth.
"No! It's just.. a lot. A lot of effort, I mean. I like it."
"Ah, then it was worth the effort. Come, would you like to start?" Erik gives a tug on my hand, which I'd forgotten he was still even holding. I'm suddenly very aware of the size and length of his hand under mine, the thinness and the curvature of not just his hand, but his whole self. But it's gentle, he's gentle, and I just smile and nod and let him pull me to the table. He pulls out my chair for me and settles into his own. I set my bag down on the floor beside my chair as Erik takes my plate for me, scoop in hand. "You said you enjoyed italian, yes? I hope that chicken alfredo is well for you tonight."
"It'll be great! I'm still blown away you went to all this effort for this.." 'For me', I almost say.
"Of course! Why would I do anything but the best?" He chuckles, scooping some pasta and a slice of chicken onto a plate, passing it to me. The table is small enough that neither of us has to reach very far. I wait for him to fill his own plate and then dig in. It's.. honestly not the best I've ever had, but it's the best that wasn't made by my dad, and it almost brings me to tears with the first few bites.
"You did a really good job." I say instead, determined not to be an emotional mess through this. I'm nervous enough without reminding myself of my parents and getting sad and weepy being a problem.
"Thank you." Erik says, avoiding my eyes, but I see his ear tips are red again, so it's out of humble pride that he won't look at me. We eat in silence for a while, the radio singing sweetly somewhere behind us. I am acutely aware of how slowly he goes, though, probably due to the mask and how much of his upper mouth it hides. I want to tell him to take it off, for his own sake, but I don't know what it is he feels he has to hide, and I don't want to upset him. So I decide to bring up the other thing. As we both near the end of our plates, I decide to pipe up.
"Erik?"
"Yes, Christine?"
"Can I ask you something that might be silly?"
"You may ask me anything."
"Is this a date?"
"I-it is a get together, which may be referred to as a date." He says cautiously, leaning away from his plate. This dodge of a response is enough to keep me going, assuring me that I need to ask the next question.
"Okay, but.. like a romantic date. Like couples or potential couples do. Because.. I want it to be. But, well, we haven't actually, out loud, like.. called it that. And I want to make sure that that silly miscommunication thing doesn't happen, where one or both of us is thinking something but because we don't talk about it we're constantly doubting or being awkward.. like it's kinda been for me." I admit, blushing. I didn't think it would be both this easy and this hard to just talk about it, but each word I speak feels more and more freeing but also more nerve-wracking.
"Well… I had rather hoped it was.. such a date, but I, like you, was unsure. I didn't want to ruin whatever it was by asking. Not-" He leans forward again, eyes wide behind the mask, "Not that you have ruined it, not at all! I simply-" He takes a deep breath here, "Things that are pleasant do not normally last for me, so I supposed I planned to just wait until it was over to ask questions. But if you are feeling the same way.." He's paled, looking sick. I guess talking about feelings is as hard for him as it is for me, maybe worse..
"I think I am. I like you. I'd like to get to know you. And I want to be clear about things. The last time I dated someone.. it ended because of a lot of miscommunication and.. and mistrust. I don't want that again. So I want to be open. About everything, if I can."
"Everything.. This is a lot to ask." I realize what that sounds like to him and I panic.
"Not all at once, and, and not more than you're comfortable with- I just meant that, that I want to be open. I guess it'd be nice if you could feel the same, but I'd never, ever pressure you. Even if you, right now, decided just to be friends, I mean, gosh this is all moving so fast already we met like a week ago and we're kind of on a date I don't wanna go too fast you know I just want things to not stop I guess-"
"Ah, you're fine!" Erik reaches out, a hand hovering over my own, but still not reaching out. It does it's job, though, calming my little panic.
"S-sorry."
"You seem to scare yourself very easily."
"I have a lot of self doubt." I say, looking down at his hand, now resting on the table. "I'm very scared a lot of the times."
"Do I frighten you?"
"You? As a person, no. As a potential significant other? Oh, very much." I admit, daring to look up, but it seems his eyes are focused on our hands, and the small space between them. "As much as I like you, and would like to get to know you, I'm also very scared to care. Not just about you, either. Meg, too. My coworkers. Even friends I had before, I.. I'm just scared."
"I can understand that. I feel that way too. You are interesting, and this is new and pleasant and I do not wish for it to stop, but it is new and frightening as well. Is it wise, then, to continue?"
"Do you- are you suggesting we stop meeting each other?" I feel myself pale, my heart skidding to a stop.
"I am. It is not an option I desire, but it is something we could do to solve the.. fear factor."
"I don't think I like that option, either. I don't know. I like you." Erik blushes, his ears burning again. I chuckle at it, and he pulls away.
"And I, you. I am not sure how I managed to trick you into this.."
"You didn't trick me. I came back to you. I asked for this." I lean forward, trying to capture his attention. "I asked for you." He blushes all the harder, trembling.
"I do not see why.. but I will not question this. Not tonight." He sighs. "You wish to get to know each other." He states.
"Yeah. I do. Do you?"
"Very much so. I am simply unsure that any.. courtship would last for very long."
"Then we can just be friendly. I'm fine with that."
"I do not wish to disappoint you."
"I don't wanna bore you." I raise an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it, realizing my point. "Can I help you clean up?" I think we're both done eating, now.
"You are my guest."
"And I can help clean up." I stand, picking up my plate and silverware.
"Ah.. if you wish to." Erik stands and takes his own plate and shows me to the kitchenette's sink. "If you will clear the table, I will set away the food. The dishes will soak." I nod. He turns the water on, running the plates under the stream. I carry the remaining half of the alfredo dish, heavy glass still warm, to the counter by the sink, handing the scoop to Erik.
"And what will we do while the dishes soak?"
"I hoped to show you my garden, perhaps, but if there is something you would prefer to do, talk or.." He shrugs, rubbing the excess off the scoop.
"I have no expectations. I'd love to see the garden." I smile before I head back to the table to put out the candles and collect the placemats. It's been a long time since I've had a set-table kind of dinner, and it doesn't feel like a chore to clean up after. And, despite the happy memories it brings back, I don't feel terribly sad in their wake. "Where do the mats go?"
"I do not know. I had Darius buy them the other day. I suppose.. in a cabinet somewhere."
"You bought placemats specifically for this date?" I ask, a little incredulous, but mostly enamored with it. Erik looks to the left with just his eyes, then back at me.
"Yes?"
"You're too cute." I blush, putting my face in my hand.
"If you say so." He sounds uncomfortable, and I look out through my fingers. It's hard to tell, but he seems.. upset. "You may put them anywhere. I will find a home for them later."
"I'm sorry.. Did I say something wrong?" I ask, timidly.
"Wh- no. No." He looks up from the dishes, yellow eyes flashing. "I am.. I am unused to being told positive things. Please, forgive my behavior."
"You're fine. I just.. didn't want to upset you."
"It's all well." He assures me. "I'm nearly done here; I just need to put this away." He points to the casserole dish. "Feel free to take a look around, if you'd like." I nod and decide to look for the radio. I want to know what station this is that only plays french songs that sound like they came out in nineteen-twenty. I browse the shelves as well, seeing all sorts of titles in all sorts of languages. Can he read all these?
I can't find the radio itself, the sound coming from almost everywhere, so I start to think he's got some kind of fancy speaker system, though I'm not sure where he's playing the music from in that case either. This particular song is long and repetitive, and I catch most of what I think are the words, so I try to hum along, mumbling the words I do recognize. I get lost in the covers of books and attempted french lyrics..
E-
I shut off the water and shake my hands to be rid of the remaining drops, and in the new proximal silence I hear a most amazing sound. It's just a hum, just a shadow of what it could be, but it is marvelous nonetheless. I keep myself quiet and slow, so as not to disturb her, wrapping the top of the glass with foil, and sliding it into the fridge.
Even with this task completed, I am loathe to interrupt her, for as she continues, she grows more confident, and as such her voice steadily improves, gaining a kind of momentum. I sink to the counter, my jaw resting on one hand as I listen. Surprises and more surprises from this one..
The song ends and she seems to fall away, getting lost in thought. A new one starts, but she remains still, staring emptily at some book or another.
"Christine?" I call, curious and worried at once. She blinks and looks up, then turns to me, blushing.
"Y-yes?" She doesn't seem to realize that she was singing, or that I heard her. I want to beg her to sing again, want to ask her to never stop, but I restrain myself. That would be too much to ask of anyone, and so suddenly, and for me? No.
"Are you ready?"
"The garden, yes." She nods, floating over to me. Normally there is a literal bounce to her step, something lively and bubbly, but it's gone now, and the effect is an eerily perfect walk. "I'm ready." I stand up, offering an arm, which she tucks her own into. She seems ghostlike, now, trying to be present but only half-succeeding. Somewhere in her mind, she is herself haunted by something that refuses to leave her be.
"Christine. Do you have a favorite flower?" I ask as I walk us toward the door and the outside. I hope to distract her, for a time, from that which plagues her so.
"Me? I'm.. I'm not good at plants." She says, dodging.
"Surely, though, you have something you like the look of. Even if you don't know the name, I might. I could identify it if you described it to me, or drew it."
"No, it's not that I don't know it's name.." She shrugs. I open the door for her, letting her step through first.
"Is it common? What is it? Daisies, roses, sunflowers?"
"Dandelions." She admits. I halt, the door shutting behind me based on momentum and weight rather than purpose. The soft slam and click of it coming closed jar me, but I don't know why I'm surprised.
"But those are-"
"Weeds, I know. But I love them! They're fluffy and bright and they pop up everywhere they can. So determined.. Sunflowers are a decent second place, though. For a 'real' flower." She chuckles, but it sounds sad to me.
"I didn't mean to insult you, Christine. I was merely surprised."
"That's okay. I've got bad taste in plants, I know. I think I only like them because they're the only plants I can't kill. I think I told Meg I have the opposite of a green thumb. Things die when I take care of them.." She jokes, and then she grows even more somber.
"If I am making you sad, you are free to say so." I state, and it seems to shock her.
"You aren't making me sad. I'm making me sad! I'm sorry.. This is turning out to be a weird night, huh?" She grins up at me, the green of her eyes sparkling.
"Not at all. By this time I am usually playing my violin, but it is not uncommon for me to venture out here, when it is cool and quiet and dark." I look down at the garden, my little lovelies a sleeping green, now that the sun has set. The flowering plants have brought their flowers in, and the leaves hang loosely, no longer straining, reaching for the light that's fading. Were we not in a city, we might be able to see the vestiges of orange sunset on the horizon, but here, in the heart of a rising landscape, the sky only appears dark blue, the buildings around us highlighted in silver only by my lights here. In the street, the goldenrod lights stain the edges of buildings and the pavement and cars, making them glow in pale imitation of the sun, but not here.
Here, everything is cast in silver and blue and white, a mirrored reflection of the sky itself.
"It's so wonderful here. Everything about your home is so alive, from the literal garden outside to the, the history you have in your books and the music inside. My apartment is so much smaller, and I really don't have much of anything in it. I had to get rid of a lot, or get it put into storage. Not enough room, and if I couldn't have it all, I didn't really want any of it. Incomplete sets, or something. Your home feels like a home." Christine muses out loud. She, too, is bathed in silver light and soft blue shadows, and she seems at peace this way.
"Does it? I'm glad you feel that way, though I wish you felt more positively about your own place of residence."
"It's temporary. I keep telling myself that, but the more I go on, the more I feel like I'm gonna be stuck there forever."
"How do you mean?"
"Well.. I moved here to study and get a job, just short term, for practical reasons. I moved back home when my dad got sick and then.. I spent a long time there, taking care of him, never sure if today was the last day. And then.. then it was the last day. And then another day happened, just without him, and another, and another, and I realized I had to keep going. Realizing that almost.. broke me. But I moved back here- I couldn't afford the mortgage on my parents house- and I've been here ever since. I wanna save up and buy their house back, but I don't know if I can.."
"That is.. quite stressful. Do you greatly dislike it here?"
"I love the city, I do. I love my job and the people and everything. It just doesn't always feel like.. my home. Where I belong. I just.. in a way, it feels like a cage. Just a really pretty cage. I guess it's not the worst one to live in, all things being what they are, but I don't know."
"I'd like to believe you'll escape. Get that house back, if you truly desire it. Be free."
"And.. how would you feel if I left?" She looks up at me, unhappily curious. I find I cannot stand her gaze, and I look away, back to my garden, where my tulips are just starting to sprout, thinking about it. There is what I feel and would like to say, and then there is what I should feel and say..
"I don't know. I think I would miss you, but I could never condemn you to stay somewhere you hated being. I would simply have to understand." I know the feeling of being trapped all too well. I could never trap someone else, damn them to a single place for the rest of their lives.. Not as I have had done to me, even if I deserve it.
"Hmm." She emotes, simply thoughtful. At last she does not seem sorrowful, only tired, sleepy.
"Are you ready to head home? You seem prepared to fall asleep standing up." I comment.
"I suppose. Didn't you want to show me the garden?"
"I can walk you through it another time, if it pleases you. Besides, it's grown cold out here, and I would hate for you to suffer for it."
"It's only a mild chill. But I do have work tomorrow.." She concedes, yawning. "I guess I should go."
"Will you be well on your own? It is late.."
"I work in a tattoo parlor. Sometimes I don't get home until well after midnight. I think I'll be okay." Christine states, equal parts proud and tired. "But thank you. It was a great dinner, and a good talk." She moves towards the stairs, leaving me behind. Already, something in me lurches at the vacuum of her absence, and I must know, I must-
"When can I expect you again?" I ask, less than eager to see her go. She pauses at the stair top, looking back at me.
"You want me to come back?" She blinks, lips pursed in hopeful query.
"Very much. I apologise if I led you to think otherwise. I am simply.. cautious. A bit afraid, honestly. But not enough to stop wanting to see you, if you still wish to meet with me."
"I'd like to. Very much." She grins, pulling out her phone, waving it at me. "I'll message you," She says, and I feel it is a promise. I return her smile and wave, and watch her go.. down the stairs,through the garden, out the gate.. until she has truly left.
I wait several moments, taking in the strange evening. I wonder if it is strange to me because of my lack of personal experience, the magic sensation that surely follows Christine, or a true oddity to the situation, but in the end, I have no answer. I don't think I need one, either. I only wish for more of her.
