Writing in quarantine is hard man. Thank you all for your constant appreciation and for bearing with me... stay safe!
Out of every person Anna has ever met in her twenty-two years of living on this planet, Rapunzel has got to be the quirkiest, most peculiar person on the list—except maybe for that one art teacher she had in ninth grade who liked to show them movies about the end of the world and then ask them to create art out of the chaos they had just witnessed. Frizzy hair, wide smile bordering on wicked. Students made fun of her a lot because she was very intense and had a tiny gap in the middle of her two front teeth, but Anna always thought that the gap really wasn't so bad and that she was rather... inspiring. Quirky yes, but oddly inspiring too. And what was that teacher's name anyway? Something like Mrs. Carey—
"What do you think of this one?"
Anna stares at Rapunzel, then at the painting. There is the shape of the Yin Yang symbol right in the middle of it. She tilts her head to the right: there is a phoenix around it somehow, as if guarding it with its wings (Was it Mrs. Carroll?). On the side of the Yin Rapunzel has painted a sunset kissing the landscape of some fields (Mrs. Carrell, maybe), while on the Yang she's painted violet flowers in the process of blossoming. She tilts her head to the left (She gives up) and says "I love it." She does. It is beautiful and abstract, just like most of the paintings that Rapunzel has shown her this far.
It's as though Salvador Dalí had taken an ecstasy trip straight to the end of the fucking rainbow, but the beauty of it all was that Rapunzel painted them while being a hundred percent sober—or so she said—. They were full of hidden meanings; a picture where different, and sometimes opposite elements, turned into a whole. Where the black, sharp lines that she often used encapsulated the vibrancy of her colors even more, pulling you in, forcing you to take a second look.
It made them stand out amidst the softened, realistic works that were currently being set up next to hers.
The art show, of course. Rapunzel had made it.
"But what do you think of it?" The brunette insists, emphasizing each word with a gentle push of her artwork towards Anna's direction.
The two quirkiest people she's ever met are painters. That can't be a coincidence.
"You're a writer, use your words."
Anna squirms under the intensity of her green-eyed gaze. It's been like that since this morning. Either Rapunzel has had too much coffee or the pressure of having everything set up by the end of this afternoon is starting to get to her. She already made Kristoff cry, and Eugene fled for his life an hour ago saying that he was going to go buy them pizza, but either he went to buy it in Brooklyn or he was lying.
So Anna is the last one standing. For now.
"Well..." She stares harder at the painting. Make holes through it, I dare you. You'll never see the light of day again. "Okay, I think I see a certain duality here but also... the two pictures in the symbol. One of them is a sunset, which could represent the end of something... maybe?" Rapunzel nods frantically. "...And so the flowers that are blossoming, they represent the beginning of something else." A grin splits the girl's face in two; her eyes begin to widen with feral excitement. Anna keeps going: "So the phoenix is... guarding this symbol. With its wings... Cause it represents the transformation from death to birth—another duality."
"Yes!" Rapunzel places the painting on the floor with utmost care before she jumps and throws her arms around Anna's shoulders. "I knew you would get it!"
She laughs nervously. "Yay."
Rapunzel pulls back with a dead stare. The grin is gone. "Are you scared of me?"
"...No."
"Good," she grins again, squeezing her shoulders. "Cause Elsa's not here and you're the closest thing to her that I have right now which means that I need you to be patient with me because I know I can get a little crazy but this place is huge and there are so many talented people I just feel like I'm starting to become an anxious ball of... anxiety."
Anna pats gently at the hands resting on her shoulders. "Maybe we should all sing Kumbaya," she jokes.
The brunette laughs. It is a sharp, single-toned laugh—hysterical. "You're funny, I love you," she says before turning back around to pick up her painting and get back to work.
A sigh of relief.
She gets back to helping her as well, feeling as though she's just dodged a bullet but fully understanding the anxiousness to which she is referring.
Things like these, the public exposure of the works you create, whether they're paintings, or written stories, or movies... it is a nerve wracking thing to go through. No matter how often it is said that the opinions of others don't matter in the end, the high expectation you put on yourself at having created something worthy enough to be spoken about; it is a heavy, ball-of-anxiety kind of sensation. It is pulling at the drapes that hide your mind and your soul, and making yourself vulnerable to the opinions of other people.
It is being brave enough to say: This is who I am, and what I have to offer the world.
This art show, it is a new thing for Rapunzel and in a way it is, too, for Anna. Because she's never been this close to another artist. She's never seen from the outside the effects that exposure can have on you and deep down, Anna is glad that she can be here for her. Even if she gets a little scary at times.
"Maybe we should call Elsa," the brunette suddenly suggests. Random, just like half of what comes out of her mouth. "What time is it over there?"
Anna goes to the folding table they've lent Rapunzel for the event. It is full of silver glitter for some reason. She checks her phone, its back covered in glitter as well, and finds a text from Kristoff: Did rapunzel calm down? eugene is asking if its safe to go back.
She snorts before saying, "It's eight."
"Call her."
She stares indignantly—safely—at Rapunzel's bossy back. The brunette is hanging one of her last paintings up on the laminated board: a mermaid with bright red and yellow hair (it's a fire) and a crescent moon against a dark gray, swirling background. The ocean is, unlike reality, a blue the color of the sky while its waves are delineated with black. Somehow Anna would think that none of it together could work as a whole but Rapunzel manages to do it.
The girl turns around, "What?" And crosses her arms, "You're not the only one who misses her you know?"
Anna smirks. Fair enough. She replies to Kristoff's text (she's fine but you better arrive with pizza) and goes to her Favorite Contacts list. However, she hesitates for a moment before calling because she doesn't know what Elsa is up to or if whatever she's doing will be badly interrupted by their call.
"If she's busy she'll tell you," Rapunzel tells her, reading her thoughts.
She nods but right as she's about to tap the green call button on her cellphone Rapunzel stops her with a sober hand on her arm.
The girl is dead serious when she says: "Don't tell her about the kitchen thing."
Anna tries not to laugh. Rapunzel did almost burn it last weekend and she thinks, just as the video call begins to dial, that this girl should have her own TV show and call it How to a destroy a kitchen with two simple ingredients. Every week will showcase two different ingredients with the same outcome.
In the seconds that follow Rapunzel goes to stand right beside her. She throws her arm around her shoulder with ease, and Anna can't help but smile at the gesture. This is a kind of friendship she never thought she would have with another girl.
Elsa's face shows up on the screen a moment later and Anna has to bite her lip at the sight. Her blonde hair cascades down her shoulders while the few locks that fall across her forehead move a little with the cool October breeze of London.
Her deep, blue eyes squint as she smiles lovingly at the two of them.
"I had a feeling one of you was going to call at some point today," she says.
She is somewhere outside but Anna is so busy still staring at every inch of her face that Rapunzel beats her to the question: "Where are you?"
"I'm in a park," Elsa responds, moving away from the camera's eye to show them where she is. It looks like the park she's often showed Anna in pictures.
Rapunzel coos, "Look at you becoming one with nature and shit."
Anna snorts but elbows the brunette for the sake of keeping face.
An arched eyebrow is the first response. "Is that why you called? To bully me into becoming a city girl again?"
"Of course not," Anna laughs.
"—it's just to bully you in general."
Something happens along the way, like the first link in a chain of reactions. Elsa laughs out loud at Rapunzel's comment until her eyes connect with Anna's and the corners of her mouth drop into a soft smile. The blonde bites her lower lip, and Anna watches it slowly be released before mirroring the action. It ignites something in her, as if in the middle of this art show, amongst the virtual company of others, nothing else mattered except for that brief moment of expressed longing towards each other.
It is promptly broken, however, when Eugene and Kristoff show up; their sheepish, grinning faces guarded by two boxes of pizza. A peace offer.
"Where the hell have you two been?" Rapunzel screeches as she drops out of the conversation as easy as she dropped in.
Anna hears laughter coming from the speakers of her phone.
"Is she acting all crazy?" Elsa asks her.
"You can't imagine," she mutters, "I wish you were here to tame the wild beast that is your cousin."
"You made sure she wasn't around to say that, didn't you?"
She diverts her eyes. "Maybe."
A laugh; it is hearty and honest, and it is all that Anna wishes to hear right now.
"I miss you guys a lot," the blonde then says, "I wish I was there with you even if it's just to shoot a tranquilizer dart at my cousin."
Anna sighs. "I know, sweetheart but just... a little over two months, right?"
Elsa nods dejectedly. "Just a little over two months," she whispers.
They fall into a temporal silence, lost in their mutual wish to urge time to go faster, yet knowing that when it comes to love, time is never truly on one's side.
Walking through the streets of Queens makes her feel like she's not in New York at all.
It is a strange but relaxing sensation: the quiet conventionality of the suburbs. The way birds chirp and flutter their tiny wings as they fly from one branch of a tree to the other; the odd car passing by through one way streets; the stranger that sends a cordial nod your way. She nearly skips as she goes, excited at the prospect of seeing her elder friends and having a nice, ever so enlightening chat with Theo. Excited, more easily put, about tuning everything out for a couple of hours.
She carries a cup of tea in each hand and a puzzle inside her bag still wrapped in its plastic packaging: a 500-piece picture of London's Piccadilly. Because Anna figures that if she can't be there right now she might as well stare at it until her eyes hurt. Of course, she will not be finishing it today, but with the help of Theo's avid searching skills she hopes that they can at least get through half of it before leaving it in the care of Theo's hands.
She observes the person behind the front desk today. A man who's probably near her dad's age, he has black hair speckled with white and kind eyes that augment in size behind his square glasses. He smiles at her and she returns the gesture before glancing at the cover of the book he's reading: The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters. She grins mischievously to herself as she makes her way to the drawing room.
In it she greets Louie—loud; it's always gotta be loud—, and then Sergei with the only Russian word she knows which means 'Thank you,' but she tries anyway and Sergei laughs and calls her malysh which she hopes is a good thing. She waves shyly at a lady she's never seen before and decides to ask Theo about her before Anna can introduce herself. She also makes a mental note to tell Elsa about it because she's sure this is something she'd be interested in knowing.
Theo is wearing the shades of fall today complemented by an orange scarf that ties around her head, showing off the gold hoop earrings that Anna has seen her wear very little times before. It makes her wonder if perhaps today is a special occasion, but when Theo stands up to hug her the question flies out of her mind in order to be substituted by another more pressing matter.
"What's with the cane?" She asks.
Theo dismisses it with a wave of her hand. "You trip once and they think you're too fragile to hold yourself up without a cane."
Anna stares at her unconvinced. "Theo..."
The elder signals for her to take a seat with a stubborn hand but Anna only crosses her arms, refusing to comply.
Theo rearranges herself in her chair, happy to have a stare down if that is what the redhead wishes—knowing, perhaps, that when stubbornness meets impatience, Anna will cave in. And she does; embarrassingly fast.
"Okay fine," Anna mumbles, taking a seat. "But you need to be more careful, Theo. Tripping can be a scary thing. I do that a lot so I know what I'm talking about."
"It wasn't scary, sugar. I'm eighty-four, this was bound to happen. You reach a point in your life where your body ain't the same anymore, so you accept that by lettin' them give you a cane."
She bites her lip, unsure of what to say. She wants to go through the safety measures with Theo, search online about what you should and shouldn't do whenever you take a fall—she should have done that for herself a while ago—or even just discuss this further with her. Does something hurt? Has she nearly tripped since then? Has she felt any differences in her bodily functions? But, she thinks, she's not the doctor one (the doctor one is miles away in London, thank you) and even if she were she decides not to ask any of this because Theo is regarding her with those brown, unwavering eyes of hers, conveying with a single look that she is okay and don't you dare ask again.
So she nods in spite of herself and in the end asks the one thing that is far from rational.
"Can I decorate your cane?"
Theo guffaws. It makes her smile in relief. "Of course you can, honey. Bring your stuff next time and we'll decorate it together."
She agrees to this while making a mental note to keep an eye from now on. They settle themselves before opening the box Anna has brought with her. Theo spreads the pieces over the table before moving them around in order to get a better look, and Anna remembers how she once compared them to words. She'd told her how some of them could go together if you just forced them, like two pieces that fit but didn't connect, and how some others could fit perfectly with only the barest amount of pressure. All you had to do was look for them and the rest would follow. "But how do I find them?" She'd asked, and Theo had looked at her funny and said, "A thesaurus, you silly goose."
Anna takes the lid off her paper cup and blows before taking a slurpy sip. She's trying earl grey today, which is her favorite so far considering that she's been adding cream and sugar as well—an absolutely foreign concept until about two months ago that Elsa had started raving about it. The cheating was real. She sympathized with coffee, truly.
"What's with the tea?" Theo asks teasingly as she drinks from her own non-creamy, non-sugary one. Chamomile for her. Anna had remembered this random fact very well.
"I've been trying tea now cause Elsa won't stop talking about it," she says, sheepish.
Theo laughs a little and then, "And how are things between you two?"
The pieces are scattered on the table and Anna stares at them as if she could find her answer there. She has no idea where to start.
"They're okay," she says, "They're good, really, but... I miss her, Theo. I knew this was going to happen but this is just crazy. I feel like part of me isn't even here and I feel selfish just thinking like that."
"Why selfish, honey?"
She fiddles with a red piece, vaguely thinking that this must either make a telephone booth or a bus. She sets it to the side; she will start with those.
"Because I shouldn't be wishing that she came back already... right? She's doing this incredible thing for herself and I feel so happy for her but at the same time I just—I missher so much."
When no response comes Anna lifts her head up to find Theo watching her. It is until then that she speaks. "I would be a bit more worried if you didn't feel like wanting her back, sugar." She goes back to working on the puzzle before continuing, "Love is not this flat line where you stick to one emotion from start to finish. You'll be angry, and you'll be frustrated, and you'll wish she were right here with you even if you know deep down that London is where she needs to be right now."
"But doesn't that just defeat the whole purpose?"
"What purpose?"
Anna shrugs. She has no idea.
"What is it with you kids tryin' to make sense of every little thing these days?"
She pouts. She's beginning to make some sense of this telephone booth. There's that at least.
"Love is messy, sugar, but you wishing that she were here ain't you being selfish. It's just your sweet, little heart screamin' for the love that only she can give you."
Anna slouches in her chair and props her face on her hands, lost in the emotions that are starting to overcome her. She tries another sip of her tea as she begins to process what Theo's just said. She's right, after all. Goddammit, she's always right. The tea is warm and sweet inside her mouth before it makes its way smoothly down her throat.
A resigned sigh and it is back to business with the telephone booth. Or bus. Whatever.
"Can I ask you something else?"
Theo doesn't look up from the pieces she's handling as though she were shuffling cards against the table. "Of course."
"Do you think that love gets in the way of writing? Or inspiration?"
The elder stops halfway through picking a piece. She stares at Anna through her dark lashes. "What—who told you such a thing?"
"My boss..."
Theo discards the piece without checking where it falls. She exhales with heavy displeasure, crosses her arms and leans closer. "Who'sthis guy again? I'd like to meet him and tell him one or two harsh truths about what he's been teachin' you."
Anna holds onto a single red piece as if she could defend herself with it. "So, I take it you don't think the same way..."
"Hell no, I don't." Theo lifts a finger up and points it at Anna, waving it with every other word. "Nothing gets in the way of inspiration except yourself. What you experience and the way you allow this to affect you is your own damn choice, you tell him that."
The redhead gives a short and obedient nod even if she can't help but visualize Theo lecturing Hans; perhaps even threatening him with her soon-to-be bedazzled cane. It is refreshing and more than a tad amusing.
"He also told me not to live and breathe for love," she adds, expecting a reaction.
"Sweet. Jesus. Lord," Theo exclaims, bringing a hand to her face. "Who is this man?"
Patiently, and with barely contained exasperation, Theo places her hands facing down on the table. She doesn't wait for Anna to respond to her question. "Honey," she says loud and clear, "Nobody gets to choose what love is or isn't to you, understood?"
Anna nods again before accepting the hand that is suddenly being offered to her. She feels Theo squeeze before she continues, "Now I ain't saying he's a bad boss just yet but don't you dare listen to those kinda things. You have a big heart, sugar, and I'll be damned if someone ever tries to come and change that."
"I won't," the redhead says, smiling and placing another hand on top of Theo's, grateful beyond words for having her in her life.
"Speakin' of which... how's your writing?"
The smile is gone, and so is Anna, back to fiddling with the red pieces of the puzzle. She almost has this part completed (oh well look at that there are two booths now who would have thought) and she must focus at all costs, which means that she is currently unavailable for any and all questions. Oh right, the tea. It is sweet still; getting lukewarm rather fast.
"Anna..."
She glances up through her lashes before going back to the puzzle. A few seconds pass and then: "Going so well I might as well stop calling myself a writer," she mumbles, "Just burn my certificate while you're at it."
Theo stares at her with a raised eyebrow. She's having none of it. "So you ain't writing at all."
She deflates a little, shakes her head. "It's been very hard lately," she admits, "And I just keep wondering how long this is gonna take to go away."
Anna can feel Theo's gaze on her even as she takes her time meticulously arranging the pieces she has in her hand. Puzzles are a great way of stalling, she'll give them that.
"How old are you, sugar?"
"Twenty-two."
"So you're still a kid."
"Hardly."
Theo hums. "You're barely gettin' started I'll tell you that. What's the rush?"
She shrugs. "I just feel like I'm not accomplishing anything... maybe my mom was right." And boy if that hasn't been a thought that's been going rampant in her mind lately. So much so that it's started to become a vicious cycle, suffocating the little traces of creativity she was starting to hold onto.
"I'll say..." Theo places a handful of pieces on her side of the table. It succeeds in making Anna lift up her gaze and pay attention to her next words. "Don't chain yourself to a timeline that doesn't belong to you, honey. There's a lot you still gotta learn, a lot of mistakes you gotta write, and a lot of things you gotta discover."
Her eyes fall to her lap again. "I guess..."
A piece of puzzle hits her in the chest before falling to the floor—
"Oops."
"That's not nice," Anna says as she grins.
"I ain't apologizing," Theo responds, grinning back. "Ask yourself why you started writing in the first place, sugar. You may realize that you've been startin' to write for the wrong reasons."
"I will..."
"Good. Now can we pleasefinish that phone booth so that we can move on with this damn picture."
Anna laughs. She manages to complete her part in the next few minutes all by herself; a fact that gives her a much needed, tiny boost of confidence. It's been hard to come by a sense of true happiness lately, but she takes what she can get and today at least, happiness translates into sweet tea, Theo's company and a damn London puzzle.
That, for now, feels like enough.
It isn't until a few hours later that she returns home, high on the temporal success of having finished that puzzle in one sitting after discarding every Saturday chore she had scheduled. She was resolved to complete it, determined; a woman of purpose. Theo hadn't minded. In fact, she'd looked at her with pride and said, "I've taught you well."
It was glorious.
They even video called Elsa at some point, which brought a big smile to her girlfriend's lips and made Anna think that it all had been worth it in the end.
Now at home, Anna has the time to think; to consider everything Theo has said and to try in any way that she can to manifest it into more than just thoughts. It is hard—always harder—to do, but she knows she can start somewhere, and that somewhere is her journal.
Inside, on a new page, she will write a single question. A question whose answer will never change but whose meaning will only transform. A question she will look back to over and over again for many years to come.
What inspires me?
Did Anna ever think that a job like this would involve attending this many social events? She did not. But did it really bother her? She couldn't exactly say it did.
What was it today? Kristoff had asked earlier along with, I thought writers liked their lonely time. To which Anna had given him a death stare and stated that "It's called networking, you doofus." There had been no tampons to throw this time but a sock, yes, which ended up being her farewell gesture because Kristoff had to leave right after this to attend to some matters relating to his father's business.
A timely farewell in the end because now she gets to see Elsa through the tiny screen of her laptop while Anna rummages through her closet to find an outfit for today.
"What about this one?" She asks the computer as she holds a cream-colored sundress up.
"Anna, it's fall," Elsa states, "And aren't you going to be in some rooftop? It will be too cold for you."
Anna discards it on the bed without looking and hears the blonde chuckle. They've gone through this so many times. She cannot ever put it back in the closet, she must first throw it on the bed and let it pile up. Always. It's a habit she has no valid reason to change.
"What about this blouse?"
Elsa narrows her eyes to get a better look. "Yeah, that could be it, I guess."
She narrows her own eyes suspiciously. Elsa doesn't sound convinced. She discards it with the rest.
Another blouse is pulled out of her closet, one of similar style but different color: white. "And this one?—oh shit, never mind."
"What?"
"It has sauce on it. Why did you never tell me?"
"Show me."
She does.
"I've never seen you wear that blouse before."
"How long has this been on it then," she wonders out loud, dreading to know the answer. She throws it in the laundry basket. It's probably a goner by now but it doesn't hurt to try. And by try she means the bare minimum—throw it in the washing machine and let it do its job.
She sits on the bed with slouched shoulders and a pout that's starting to turn into a sobbing face. "I don't know what to wear."
"You have a closet full of clothes, Anna."
She brings her hands to her face, shaking her head. She can't even choose an outfit anymore. What has her life become?
"You could wear the top you wore to our first date," Elsa suggests, and the tone with which she says this reveals something that Anna hadn't fully noticed before; something akin to detachment. Still, she lets her continue, "You can wear a blazer instead of the jacket so that you don't look like you're ready to crash a nightclub as soon as that's over."
She knows that in the end she will follow her advice. In all matters of taste, the top is a good choice, but Anna can't bring herself to stand up again from where she sits on the bed. She is caught up staring at Elsa while the blonde holds her gaze in return; soft, yet unwavering.
There is not a single sign that could give away her state of mind, and so with a weary sigh Anna stands up to change.
She dresses up relatively quickly, all done without exchanging more than just a few words. She glances at her from time to time, feeling uncharacteristically shy when she sees that Elsa is watching her undress.
When she's done and ready she sits back on the bed and places her computer on her lap in order to take a better look at her.
"What's wrong?" She asks.
The blonde frowns. "What do you mean?"
"You have this look on your face and you sound off. Something's wrong, what is it?"
Defensiveness clouds her features. "Nothing's wrong."
Anna looks at her with bitter sadness. "Really, Elsa? Are we going there again?"
She gives a long and heavy sigh before a hand goes up to rub her fatigued eyes. "Nothing's wrong, Anna... I just... miss you, that's all."
The redhead nibbles at her lower lip. "I miss you, too," she whispers. "But why do I feel like you're not telling me everything?"
Elsa smiles sadly at her. This godforsaken distance, it is getting to them both. She can feel it. She can see it in the way Elsa's blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears. She can sense it in the way her own heart feels like it's being plucked right out of her chest.
"Are you happy?" Elsa asks her.
Happy... When has that word started to feel so heavy?
She swallows the lump in her throat. "Define happy."
Another dejected smile. Elsa understands. Of course, she always does.
"Are you content, at least? With work, with the people you're getting to meet?"
Anna thinks hard on this but nothing comes. There is no room right now in her mind nor in her heart for rationality. There is only so much vacancy, and all of it is being forcefully occupied by one and the same ache. She was fine a few moments ago. She could swear she was...
"I am," she breathes.
The blonde nods so faintly it is hard to believe that she means it. "Then nothing's wrong, baby," she says, "I promise."
The aggressive vibration of her cellphone atop her desk startles her back to reality. Anna cranes her neck from where she sits to look at the name on the screen and groans. It is Hans. She checks the time then and closes her eyes in frustration.
"I have to go," she tells the blonde; far from wanting to. "I should have been there already like twenty minutes ago."
"That's okay," Elsa whispers, "I understand."
But she doesn't, and neither does Anna. None of these unfounded emotions are starting to make sense. For they keep colliding against one another, fighting a battle neither of them has the energy to join.
The rooftop is unassuming. Casual without looking like Kristoff's shady birthday party yet classy without looking like some top executives hang out here. It is right on the building where Anna works, although this must have been a well-kept secret all along because she didn't know until a few days ago that they had a rooftop they could actually use. It is covered in greenery from one edge of the rooftop to the other and occupied already by clusters of attendees—many of whom are probably twice Anna's age and have thrice her sophistication.
She's nursing an apple cider—the third of its kind by now—while she roams about the space, trailing after Hans, never too far from him that he doesn't know where she is. She plays the part of attentive assistant very well after all, and that means accepting that Hans is the focal point, not her.
The event is a celebration of some kind. Some say it is the anniversary of the agency but she heard through the grapevine—the other assistants—that this was just an excuse to have a party in a New York rooftop. She's not one to partake in gossip during office hours but she would be lying if she didn't say that she was still trying to find out which one of those two reasons was the real one.
She figures she could ask Hans, but he is so caught up in jumping from one conversation to another that the option is starting to become implausible, to the point where she's given up even following him around. Besides, she really doesn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment—a rare and bitter fact. This is why the third cider has gone untouched, why she hasn't tried a single one of those gorgeous-looking hors d'œuvre, and why she has only eaten a total of one brownie. Her mind is far off pondering away at every word, every expression, and every sound of Elsa's voice.
But the worst and most blatant part of it all is that Anna is sad. She is incredibly and unbearably sad, and that is the hard truth, ladies and gentlemen.
It is as though each day since Elsa's departure has built up to this feeling. Each second spent missing her, each minute wasted in meaningless writing, each hour falling deeper and deeper into a state of functional despondency.
Anna wonders if perhaps that is why a part of her doesn't have to question Elsa's behavior.
Because the only thing keeping them from completely falling apart is the happiness of the other.
She reaches the brick parapet and breathes deeply before letting it out in a prolonged sigh. The view is nice, she thinks to herself, so there's that. Avenue of the Americas is bustling with energy down below, giving off the white noise that is a trademark in a city that rests little. If she cranes her neck to the right and leans slightly over the edge, she will see the trees that delineate Bryant Park.
She smiles a little, thinking back to her birthday and the visit they made to the Public Library. Maybe she should visit again. Just take her notebook and a pen and a few books, and sit in silence for as long as is necessary. Maybe then, if she stops chasing, words will come to her. Yeah, right, when has that ever worked for you? She goes to take a sip of her cider and grimaces at how bad it tastes lukewarm. It is this gesture that makes Lauren laugh and Anna realize that she's not alone anymore.
She blushes when she's pulled back to her surroundings. How long has she been standing here looking like she'll find the answers of the universe if she stares hard enough at the banner across the street that says We Buy Gold And Diamonds?
"You look like you're having a blast," Lauren tells her. The teasing is a little foreign although not unwelcome, but they have only interacted so much that Anna doesn't know how to respond for a moment.
"I am," she says, chirpier than she feels. "It's just... a quiet kind of blast."
Anna turns away from the view of the streets to scan the scattered groups of partygoers.
"If you're looking for Hans he's by the chocolate fountain flirting with another company's agent."
Her eye twitches. Did Lauren just say chocolate fountain?
Her feet begin to move without consulting her brain. "I should, huh, go, you know, look for him."
Lauren looks at her funny. "He doesn't need a babysitter," she jokes.
"But I'm his assistant." AND THERE'S A CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN, LAUREN.
"And I'm his boss," the woman states with an easy smile. "You can stay. I don't recommend you go interrupt him right now anyway... Unless you and him..."
"Oh God no," Anna rushes out. "No, never. I'm not—" EW "—I would never do that."
Lauren cackles. "That is good. The last thing I need to know is what goes on in my agents' love lives."
She shudders before letting out an uneasy laugh. What is it with people thinking there's something going on with Hans? First Kristoff and now Lauren. Is that really so common in movies? She'll have to do some research. Either way, Anna remains where she is because abandoning the boss of her boss to go look for chocolate (but what if they have marshmallows?) is probably not the best of moves. Besides, she could use a distraction right about now. As much as it pains her to even admit that she needs a distraction.
She thinks of what to say and the first thing that comes to mind is: "So what's the occasion?"
"My birthday," Lauren says before lifting her cocktail glass for a drink.
"Oh!"
"I'm kidding."
"Oh."
The woman tilts her head at Anna with amusement drawn on her features. "You're peculiar."
"Thanks," she mumbles. She chooses to take it as a compliment.
"It's the company's anniversary," Lauren continues, "But it is also an excuse to use the space while the weather's still nice. Nothing like a New York City rooftop after all."
Anna nods, that much she can vehemently agree on. In a matter of seconds her mind goes through the memories she's had on them before smiling to herself.
"Rooftops are nice," is all she can say.
"You know what's also nice? This view I have of you two."
Both women turn at the same time. Upon seeing who it is, Anna has to restrain herself from scrunching her nose in distaste. She has seen this man in the various occasions that he's visited the agency but they have never been introduced—not that she has ever truly minded. He is a sharp and vulgar man who takes pride in saying outrageous things in the name of candor and has a thing for openly leering at women. A lovely combination.
"Frank," Lauren deadpans and in the seconds that follow Anna will notice a change in her demeanor. He moves to greet her with a hand on her waist and a kiss on the cheek that she dodges by taking a slight step back and grabbing his hand for a firm shake.
Anna stares at them both as if looking at a tennis match, and thinks that maybe right now is the time to go check on that chocolate fountain in case it needs maintenance or something.
But it isn't.
"And who is this lovely young lady?" He asks, looking at Anna and directing the question at Lauren. He gives her what appears to be a flirtatious grin and not a muscle in Anna's face moves. You are gross, sir.
"This is Anna, she's a writer."
She whips her head towards Lauren.
"She also happens to work with us," Lauren adds, unaffected by Anna's bewildered expression. She expected something closer to This is Anna and she is Hans's assistant (now if you could please excuse her, she's got some chocolate marshmallows to devour while she sulks in silence).
"No wonder I recognized that pretty face of yours," Frank purs.
She feels like gagging. What's nastier, lukewarm apple cider or Mr. Frank? She takes a sip and considers it for about two seconds.
Mister Frank it is.
He drinks from his Scotch while his eyes roam over the skin of her chest left uncovered by her top. Anna pulls at the flaps of her blazer closer together and shares a look with Lauren. Subtle, yet loud; a secret language between women.
"Is she working on anything?" He asks, once more directing the question at Lauren and not at her.
Lauren gives a humorless laugh. "I'm not sure, Frank. Why don't you ask her, she's standing right next to you."
Another tennis match she's barely partaking in, but this time she is the ball. She feels like such an amateur standing between them—like such a kid. And in a sense she is. Lauren must be nearing her forties and Frank is probably reaching a hundred and fifty. The experience these two have compared to her in absolutely everything except probably video games and finding shady bars that don't card you in Manhattan is inmensurable. It makes her feel unsure of herself, like a rock amongst mountains.
"It's... a slow process," Anna says with a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't say just how slow, burying deep inside the struggle she is having to write anything at all... again.
Try and find the constant in this equation, she thinks sardonically.
Frank chuckles, giving himself the time to take another sip of Scotch. When he speaks again Anna can smell it in his breath. "You're a pretty girl," he says, "I'm sure you can just conjure a cute romance novel. The right publisher can put you on some best-seller list and you can call it a day."
She sees Lauren raise an eyebrow. "Why a cute romance novel?" Anna asks.
He waves a dismissive hand. "Isn't that what you ladies write nowadays? Besides angry, feminist books," he laughs.
Oh, HELL NO—
"Is that the only thing you believe women can write?"
He grins. It makes her blood boil. "Well, sweet cheeks, it doesn't require a lot of thinking."
If looks could kill...
"So you think writing romance doesn't require a lot of thinking," she insists, her voice steady and cold.
Another obnoxious laugh. "Kinda pushy this one," Frank comments, glancing at Lauren while pointing a thumb at Anna.
Her nostrils flare up, her hands begin to shake. The urge to scream is there, but she steers herself. Her eyes connect with Lauren's for a brief moment and in them she finds an unreadable expression. The faintest of nods is all she sees before looking back at the man who's taking the liberty to look at her chest again. She feels like bursting with frustration, or crying, or knocking his teeth in. Or all of the above.
But instead she asks: "Do you know who writes some of the cutest romance novels in France today, sir?"
"No," he responds with a chuckle. He doesn't care to know is what he means.
"A man."
His smile falters a little before he turns to Lauren, looking for an explanation. He finds none.
"Must I also remind you," Anna pushes, "who gave us Frankenstein? Or that Agatha Christie became one of the best selling authors of all time by writing mystery books?"
"You ladies," he mutters, condescending, "Never know when to take things lightly, huh? Since when does that have to be such an offensive statement to you?"
"Since the moment you chose to pin a genre to a gender. Men can write romance just as well as women can write horror."
He smirks, staring her down. "I hate to say this, sweetheart, but I've yet to find a good horror book written by a woman."
She holds his gaze without faltering. "How is it that working at a bookstore makes it seem like I know more than you as an agent—"
Anna can see the waxy skin of his neck grow red. "I wouldn't go there, young lady—"
"But we already did," she presses. Ohhhhh shit we did—she feels like free falling from a cliff, and not in a good way. "But if we must stick to this genre that doesn't seem to require a lot of thinking I can suggest something else," (just stop already you're gonna get fired) "When you're able to write anything remotely similar to a novel like Wuthering Heights, I dare you to look at it and call it a cute romance novel."
She throws one last glance at Lauren who is smiling proudly behind her cocktail glass (well somebody had fun at least) before walking away on shaky legs and staring wide-eyed at anything that comes in front of her view.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—
She doesn't feel liberated, she feels angry out of her mind and scared shitless because she has no idea who she just went off on. This could cost her her job for all she knows.
Anna dashes past the chocolate fountain with eyes full of longing, and keeps walking straight towards the restroom. She bursts in, thankful that it is empty, and goes to lock herself inside a stall before pushing her back against the door, willing her heart to ease its pounding, breathing hard through her nose. She thinks of texting Elsa, or calling her, but in the end decides against it.
When she returns ready to say that she has a stomachache so that she can go home, Hans intercepts her. He pulls her to the nearest corner with a hand tight around her bicep.
"What happened?" He asks her.
"I—"
"Frank tells me you were rude to him."
"I... may have said some things," she mumbles.
Hans looks at her with disbelief. "Do you have any idea of who he is?"
She looks downwards. "I shouldn't have said anything... I'm sorry, Hans."
His jaw flexes while his green eyes roam coldly about her face. "You're lucky Lauren was there," he says, and Anna frowns, unsure of what he means. "Just don't embarrass me like that again."
She swallows her pride. It tastes bitter. "I won't."
Hans shakes his head, his eyes softening a little. "It's better if you go now. I'll see you on Monday."
She arrives home downcast and with a bag full of chocolate goodies, ready to spend the rest of the evening watching a cheesy romcom and munching on chocolate pretzels and chocolate ice cream. She is ready to think of nothing at all, to watch as the hours tick by while she wallows and gives way to a new—hopefully brighter—day.
She greets Mr. Nap on her way to check the mail. The lights in the room haven't been fixed and Anna has to roll her eyes at the singe, sad bulb flickering its way to total darkness. Inside her mailbox there is a single envelop, and Anna knows its contents before she has pulled it out.
The handwriting on its front makes her heart ache. She should be happy to see that Elsa's postcard has arrived but it only makes her sadder. It makes the distance all the more real.
Anna doesn't wait to get to her apartment. She puts the Duane Reade plastic bag on the floor before carefully tearing open the flap of the envelope. On the front of the postcard there is an image of London's double-decker. In each window, a happy looking passenger that would otherwise be found in those newspaper caricatures; the ones with large, triangular noses and single-lined smiles. Even the driver is smiling. It looks like utopia.
On the back of it she finds Elsa's handwriting from top to bottom. She takes her time grazing the surface with her fingertips, as if with a single touch she could take herself to the exact moment where Elsa sat down to write this. As if this touch could connect them somehow, in the physical form that she craves so much.
And there, in the middle of that flickering room, Anna sets to read her words over and over again:
Finally found my favorite café! It's cozy and it smells like vanilla.
They have flowers on the windowsills with roses that crawl its front
and chocolate biscuits that I may or may not have eaten too many of.
I'm sure you'd love it and the London eye too, and all the romantic strolls I'd take you out
throughout the city.
I keep picturing you here with me... It makes things easier and harder at the same time.
It makes me realize that I never knew what yearning felt like until I met you.
My heart, is it normal to miss someone the way I miss you?
I feel like a piece of me is not here but back in New York...
How many more weeks until I get to see you again?
In the meantime, don't forget how much I adore you.
-E.
Anna rests her forehead against the cold metal of the mailbox, overcome with emotion; tired beyond words of this heaviness inside. Tears are beginning to prick her eyes, but she lets out a long and heavy breath to steady herself before pushing away and picking up the plastic bag off the floor.
Inside her apartment she kicks off her shoes and pads her way over to Virginia—that one precious birthday gift she's been taking care of since Elsa's been gone. She has grown so attached to her that she's not sure how she'll manage to give her away again when Elsa is back. Virginia has grown to be a lush, green plant with lively, red flowers; the size of which Anna would consider teenager-like, if one could ever define the age of plants the same way people define the age of humans.
She touches the small petals of its flowers, smiling a little as she does so. "It was a shitty day, Virginia," she tells her, "Shitty, shitty day..."
She texts Elsa to let her know she's home despite knowing she will see this until she wakes up but before she can proceed to begin her chocolate-induced comma her phone chimes in her hand.
She frowns when she sees the incoming call and answers immediately.
"Hi, love," Anna breathes.
"Hey," Elsa whispers back.
"Is everything okay? I thought you were sleeping already."
A pause. "I can't sleep..."
Anna closes her eyes at those words, understanding all too well. She pushes her plans to the back burner and goes to lie down in bed, curling up as if into the sound of Elsa's voice.
"Where are you?" She asks.
The blonde gives a dry chuckle before responding, "I'm sitting in the hallway. Not a lot of people around at this time."
She pulls her phone away from her ear to look at the time. It is nearly midnight in London.
"Is there something you wanna talk about?"
"Not really... I just wanted to say I'm sorry for acting weird today... I need you to know that nothing is wrong between us."
"It's okay, Elsa," Anna says, her voice lowered to nearly a hush. "I think I know where it's coming from anyway."
"You do?"
"I do, baby."
Silence meets her and Anna can't help but picture her sitting in the hallway with her knees pulled up to her chest, cradling her phone the same way she is doing right now. A sound then hits her ears. It is quiet but unmistakable. Elsa is crying.
It breaks her heart.
"I just miss you," her girlfriend whispers, "This whole thing... being in London... it's amazing and I love it, but I feel so strange half of the time. I feel like I can't find my ground no matter how much I try..." Her voice breaks near the end, and the tear that had threatened to fall finally does. Anna can feel it as it travels down her cheek before reaching her wrist.
What she wouldn't give to be able to hold her right now. To tell her that she understands because she feels the same way. To finally get to say, "I feel lost, too". Because then they will be in this together, and they can get out of it together. But she can tell that Elsa needs this moment; that she needs to let go of the tears that have been building up for who knows how long. So Anna lets out a shaky breath, holds herself tighter, and tries to do the thing that she knows how to do best.
"Tell me what you like about being in London," she whispers.
"What do you mean?" Elsa asks. Her voice is hoarse, weary.
Anna wipes the wet trails off her cheeks. "Yeah, what do you like about it? Is tea really that much better than coffee? How are people there compared to New York? And the institute? And the streets?"
There's a nearly imperceptible smile on the other end of the line. She can hear it. "I've told you most of this already, Anna..."
"I know," she drawls, smiling too. "But tell me, so that you can remind yourself."
She knows with as much certainty as the love they have for each other that her time will come to open up. It always does. Whether it is an outburst or a thought-out confession doesn't really matter because Elsa will always listen. She is her greatest confidante; her biggest constant. Elsa is her person, and she thinks that in one way or another she always will be. No matter the distance and no matter the time that may separate them.
They talk for almost an hour, reaching without notice a state of soft contentment that will allow them to push forward through another day, before they hang up without either of them really wanting to. It is all they have after all; all they can hold onto for now.
Back to the silence of her own apartment, Anna pushes today's events away from her mind and tries to think not of her present but of her future. She thinks about what Theo said not so many days ago, about having still so much to learn. Perhaps, she muses, it really doesn't do to dwell on the reasons behind this dreadful sensation of going astray. Perhaps it should be the opposite. To keep yourself from drowning you can't add more weight.
It is then that Anna gets up from bed, walks to her desk, and opens her journal in the last page she used. She reads the question again, grabs her pen and writes a single word below it:
Love.
Guillaume Musso is one of France's most popular authors. Parce que je t'aime (Lost and Found) is probably his most famous work. He specializes in romantic thrillers.
Also, some great female horror writers:
Shirley Jackson (The Haunting of Hill House, anyone?), Anne Rice, Daphne du Maurier (Hitchcock adapted three of her novels) Asa Nonami