Never a Love Story (aka "Red")
Fox Montgomery:
When she looked back on it all, the year seemed to be a collection of instances, each beginning with her eyes opening and ending when they closed. These memories, pulses of light, flashes of colors stored inside her head were held close some days, rejected others. But they remained strung together like pearls on a necklace, shining and glistening on the surface, but underneath veined, discolored, stained.
--
The icing on the hot-cross buns sitting under the glass in front of her was beginning to sweat from the humidity. She was, too, if she'd been un-ladylike enough to admit it. Trails of moisture dripped down the back of her neck and slid down her spine in a most uncomfortable way. She attempted to wipe them away, but couldn't tuck her hand into the back of her blouse without garnering strange looks from the few patrons littered around the bakery. Her eyes drifted to the pocket watch her boss had left on the slightly-floured counter. It was three thirty and he hadn't come in.
Around three, daily, the same newsboy would come in and order the same thing. He didn't always have the correct change, but after a year of this routine, she had learned to look the other way and pocket whatever handful of coins he slipped her way, passing back a small loaf of bread and a sweet roll. In the winter, if there was coffee brewing in the back, she would offer him a mug. In the summer she would fetch him some cool water from the back. The days he didn't show up always threw her off, though she insisted to herself that they shouldn't, and lately she'd found herself wondering where he was when he didn't show up. More embarrassingly, she found herself thinking of his eyes – plain on first sight, but deep and full of adventure, full of something she herself could never experience herself.
Her mother had raised her to be a lady; when her family passed away in rapid succession, she had done her best to adhere to her mother's wishes. Unfortunately, her mother had never warned her how lonely and boring it could be.
The bell above the door jangled. Her head jerked up hopefully, and the auburn curls that were stuck to her forehead detached themselves with the sudden movement. A woman in a gray dress walked in, holding the chubby hand of a child. A red flower was tucked behind her ear and she walked purposefully up to the counter. The child dawdled behind her, whining as she jerked his arm sharply to bring him along. After taking the woman's order, she turned with a quiet sigh to gather the items requested.
At five in the evening, the bakery finally closed. Her feet ached from standing on them since seven that morning, so she walked slowly, rotating her ankles every few steps to try to alleviate the dull pain spreading up from her heels. Instead it seemed to migrate up her calves.
The August sun beat down mercilessly on the top of her head and her slim shoulders. "Isn't it time for you to set?" she mumbled, shielding her eyes against the glare from the windowpanes of a store in front of her.
"Who you talkin' to?" came a familiar, teasing voice. She whirled around quickly to see her newsboy – the newsboy, that is. He was wearing his familiar cocky grin, and seemed out of breath. He took the red handkerchief from around his neck and mopped his sweaty face with it. "Geez, you walk awful fast."
She stepped to the side, faintly nervous. He hadn't ever spoken to her outside of the bakery. "You followed me?" she replied primly. As soon as she wet her dry lips with her tongue, the merciless sun dried them out again.
He shrugged. "Naw, didn't really follow you – you're jus' going the same way. Where do you live?" A smile lit his handsome face for an instant as his eyes seemed to search hers.
She stepped over a puddle of questionable origin on the sidewalk. "Not really any of your business, is it?" She wasn't in the habit of telling strange boys where she lived, especially not when she didn't even know their last names. Her mother wouldn't have even approved of this exchange.
"Fair 'nough. I live over on Duane Street, you know where that is?" She nodded slightly in response, keeping her eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead of her. "I ain't gonna bite. You shy?"
"No," she retorted, bristling. "Is there something you want?"
Finally, he seemed out of things to say. He shrugged his broad shoulders again, retied the handkerchief around his neck, and placed the cowboy hat that hung around his neck on his head simply so he could tip it to her in an exaggerated fashion. "G'night, miss. I'll be seein' you tomorrow. Iffen I can get to the store 'fore it closes…" The hat slid back off his head, resting against his shoulders again, its cord taut against his neck.
She cut him off tersely. "We close," she turned towards him, "at five." With that, she turned left, feet clicking on the ground quickly as she all but stomped away. He was awfully arrogant, she thought to herself. Simply because he was handsome, did he think he could get away with whatever he wanted? No gentleman would follow a lady home – she knew that and she wasn't even a lady, though she tried.
"Well," she remarked to her cat, who yowled pitifully for its dinner as she unlocked her door, "I'm glad all of that's over."
--
Summer drifted away like a note of music at the end of a symphony – one grand swell of heat and it was over. Nothing changed at the bakery, and her newsboy never followed her home again. She continued to save, penny by penny, hoping someday she wouldn't have to live in a windowless room in a crowded tenement building. As the leaves on the trees curled up at the edges and drifted down in a flurry of reds and oranges outside the bakery windows, she painted pictures of shining silver knights on white horses in her head.
The afternoon was going by slowly and since her boss was out momentarily, she took out a Ladies' Home Journal and opened to the dog-eared page she had marked before leaving for work this morning. Not more than two sentences into an article on becoming hairstyles, the bell sounded loudly. Heavy footsteps made their way up to the counter, barely giving her enough time to hide the magazine and look prepared.
"Hello, miss," he mumbled, dropping a few pennies on the counter.
Instinctively, she scooped the money into her palm, and then paused. "You seem out of your usual spirits." It wasn't in her nature to outright pry into his personal life, but a little curiosity never hurt anyone aside from a cat or two. He'd never been seen in anything but a smirk since he'd come into the shop over a year ago, be it hail and sleet outside or humidity and blazing sun. His good temperament never seemed to waver.
Instead of replying, he just shrugged, barely lifting his already-sunk shoulders. Brown eyes blinked dully at the counter, their clarity exchanged for unexpected murkiness. She paused, weighing the pennies in her hand. "The usual?" Again he shrugged. "Italian bread and a sweet roll, right?"
"Yeah," he answered, finally, his voice barely audible. She bit her lower lip hard for a moment, then went about bagging his purchase. She pushed the bag over the counter, and, as an afterthought, thrust the pennies back into his hand. He smiled wanly and squeezed her fingers, then took his 'purchase' and left without a word.
She sank back into her chair, her cheeks burning red. She glanced at her fingers as if his touch would be lingering there, visible, tangible. Turning her hand back and forth in the fading light of the day, she saw nothing, but she would be able to feel it until the end of the day, where she fell asleep with her hand cradled against her chest like a baby, and the cat kneading at her feet.
--
On their first date, snowflakes drifted down from a white-gray sky. The air was cold enough that they didn't melt right away, but gathered on the brim of his hat and the black wool of her gloves. She brought her hands up to her face; tiny stars glistened in the folds and nubs of the wool.
He took her to a small restaurant, where he eventually told her about the day he had been so sad. Though she didn't say it, she still remembered that day, and his faded expression, and the squeeze of her bare hand. Now he told her the reason for his temperament – another girl who had broken up with him. But things were getting better. As the words left his mouth, he smiled at her, and she blushed again.
They ordered wine with their pasta, and she sipped the merlot tentatively. "You like it?" he grinned at her expectantly. Apparently, the owner was a friend of his and had assured them that this was their best wine.
"I don't drink wine often," she avoided answering directly. The wine's bitter, harsh taste wasn't something she'd expected. She'd never had alcohol before, but based on how much her father had enjoyed it (so much that he had died from it, in fact), she'd always figured it'd have something of a sweet – or at least slightly palatable – taste. Nonetheless she continued to choke tiny sips of the harsh burgundy liquid down, chasing them with dainty bites of pasta.
He stuffed a few pieces of lasagna in his mouth, then, as if realizing his crudity, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. "You look nice tonight," he said while reaching for a slice of bread.
She began to cough as the swallow of wine went down harshly in her surprise. He looked concerned, putting a hand on the back of hers. The action only made her cough harder into her napkin. Her breath returned only after she was completely humiliated.
Yet his grin had never disappeared. His eyes twinkled brighter than ever, captivating her. Before she could help herself, she smiled back at him, and turned her hand over so their palms were touching.
--
Winter was bitter and raging when they shared their first kiss. It was Christmas and she had tentatively referred to him as a suitor in a conversation with some of her girlfriends two days earlier. She had expected him to spend the day with his friends; but he had showed up at her tenement building, throwing snowballs at the window. After the cat started to hiss in protest she ran down two flights of stairs in her felt slippers and her wrapper to let him in. He thrust a tiny bouquet into her hands; two jaqueminot roses, probably picked from a neighborhood yard, surrounded by baby's breath and crinkling tissue paper.
"Thank you!" she laughed, too delighted to care about her dowdy outfit. A sharp wind whistled through the narrow space between the buildings. The snow hitting her cheeks felt like dozens of tiny needles, and her curls whipped around their face as he leaned close. His eyes flicked over her once; the wordless glance warmed the pit of her stomach.
"Welcome." He paused. "Oh yeah, I got you a present." From his pocket he pulled a small gift wrapped in red paper.
She tugged on his hands. "Come inside! It's freezing out here!" Her toes already felt numb, but feeling slowly came back as they tromped up the stairs, laughing, much to the displeasure of her neighbors.
When she reached her own front door, she began to hesitate. At first she pretended the key wouldn't fit the lock, but she hadn't even locked the door. Nervously, she made a few inane remarks. He said nothing at first, then simply nudged the door fully open with his toe, apparently having noticed that the door was not only unlocked, but partially cracked. He then put a hand on the small of her back to propel her into the apartment.
The ginger cat meowed at him plaintively, sniffing his outstretched hand before twining itself around his legs. He nearly tripped, then caught himself on her shoulder. She turned in surprise and suddenly his lips were against hers. Nineteen years old and she'd never been kissed. It was strange – slippery and wet and awkward at first. His hands were rough and calloused, but somehow gentle as they cupped her face.
She dried the roses later by hanging them by their stems in her kitchen, and the present, a small diary, took up permanent residence in her bedside table's only drawer. She couldn't save the kiss, though, and instead spend many weeks remembering it, and many months repeating it and expanding on it.
--
It seemed only fitting that it was deep in the heart of spring when she knew she loved him. Everything was new, fresh, and beautiful. She felt completely new. Only her body seemed present at the bakery now, for her spirit was always with him or at least dreaming of him. She loved him wholly, but if she could distill him, his essence, his being, into one tangible thing, it would have to be his eyes. While her coworkers whispered and giggled over the anatomy of their husbands or lovers, she instead dreamed of his eyes.
When the frequency of his visits stagnated and then waned, she was too in the habit of forgiving him to care. He had forgotten two of their dates lately, but his excuses were so sincere and so understandable that it would have been heartless of her not to forgive him. He had to work hard to support himself – harder than her, she had to admit.
He was charming, funny, handsome, and protective – everything she could have wanted. His faults melted away like the winter ice on the sidewalks, until all that remained was the glimmering perfection she saw in his face. She loved him. When she whispered it in his ear, tentatively, in the midst of a long embrace, he paused. Her heart fluttered in her chest, skipping a beat when he responded in kind.
"I love you, too," he murmured, his hands pulling at the heavy material shrouding her body from him. And so her lady-like values and unfaltering adherence to etiquette disappeared along with the thoughts in her head. The awkwardness from their first kiss returned in full force. By midnight he was snoring in her bed. She limped down the hallway to the shared washroom, relieved to find it empty. In the dim light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling she washed her face and then her thighs, wincing at even the faintest hint of crimson blood.
It was not what she had expected. Harlequin romance novels and whispered tales from other girls had led her to believe it was something much more exciting, much more amazing. She walked carefully, bow-legged, back to her small apartment, climbing into bed beside him. It was so strange to be cramped in her own bed, to roll over only to find an elbow in her ribs or a knee against her calf. Finally, out of exhaustion and emotional overwhelm, she pressed her face into the thin pillow and fell asleep, convinced she was merely too critical. It had been wonderful, fulfilling; she had been made whole, if only for an instant.
--
Eventually it lost its fear-invoking power; the emotional and moreover physical discomfort disappeared, and his obvious happiness made it worthwhile. They now rarely met at anywhere but her small apartment, which she meticulously tidied daily on the off chance that he would show up in the evening.
She leaned out the window, both for a breath of comparatively-fresh air and for a glimpse of him. To her displeasure, neither arrived. A gust of smoggy and humid air slapped her in the face rudely, while the street below the tenement remained disappointingly empty. She shut the window frustratedly, nearly severing her cat's tail. The tabby yowled and swiped a paw at her before retreating under the chair.
A brief newspaper article had shaken her, and while she was fairly certain that an axe-murderer hadn't delayed him, she was too nervous to wait around. She tucked a shawl around her shoulders and hurried across the island, towards Midtown.
She arrived out of breath and chilled to the bone. Very few of the boys clustered downstairs around a heated card game could be bothered to direct her to his whereabouts, let alone recognize who she was. She mistook a few of their wary looks for surprise at a female presence in an otherwise male environment and hurried upstairs.
A smile graced her lips. "Perhaps he's sick and will like the surprise," she thought to herself, moving up the stairs and onto the roof quietly. His back was to her and she nearly giggled aloud, so delighted with the prospect of shocking him as he did to her so often.
Her heart plummeted to her heels in an instant. A pale, well-manicured hand slid up his back, clutching the threadbare fabric of his shirt. Suddenly another hand tangled itself in his shaggy brown hair. She could only watch in horror and disgust. The tiny hand untied the knot holding his bandana around his throat, and let it fall behind him.
The fluttering red fabric snapped her body into motion. She retreated down the staircase hastily, her flat shoes pounding against the floorboards. By the time she was in the lobby, she had broken into a run. One of the boys tried to say something to her, but the words coming out of his mouth were meaningless. The only thing she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears.
She ran across the bustling market of Houston Street and then down a multitude of narrow streets, littered only with vagabonds and discarded furnishings. A deceptively deep puddle of muck splashed up around her white stockings, staining them with splotches of grey.
Her lungs burned for air as she bolted into her apartment, slamming the door behind her with such force that the neighbors yelled. Each gasping breath grew louder and deeper until she was wracked with sobs, tumbling into bed and muffling her anguish against her pillow.
The ginger tabby flicked its tail discontentedly, watching from the windowsill. "I'm such a fool," she moaned aloud. Her cat's ears flattened briefly before it stilled them with a swipe of a well-licked paw, turning its back on her and gazing outside at the quiet street.
--
Rumor must have spread throughout the close-knit lodging house. He appeared on the doorstep the next morning, a bouquet of roses in his hand, tied with a ribbon as red as their petals. She refused to crack the door more than a few inches, not enough to let him in. For the first time in years she was missing work.
Stubbornly he proffered the flowers through the crack. "Listen, it's not what –"
"Go away!" she retorted tersely, attempting to shut the door but hindered by his booted foot in the way. "Get out of the way and leave!" Her voice was raw from crying and from rising anger. She was not a hot-blooded person. "What's happening to me?" her inner voice whispered at each clench of her heart, of her fist, of her jaw.
"C'mon," he coaxed. "Take them. I wanna talk to you." His honeyed voice now rang false instead of tender. Abruptly she opened the door and grabbed the bouquet. For an instant, a smile crossed his lips – before the thorny stems and scented petals hit him right in the face. She took advantage of his surprise and slammed the door, hard. "Don't come back!"
Some urge inside her kept her beside the door, listening. Her nerves were taut violin strings, and her heart plucked them so quickly that she was nearly deafened by the rush of her own blood and energy. A shuffling from the other side of the door, a minor curse, then a mumble as he popped his finger in his mouth to suck away the drop of blood a thorn had created. She could see it in her mind. He was straightening the cowboy hat on his head, picking up the bouquet, dusting his muscled arms off as was his habit. His knuckles touched the wood of her door, but only for a second, before he thought better of it. The only audible knocking was her knees against one another.
"Are you there?" He paused, then blundered on. "I think yer mistaken. Really. Just let me explain." Here his voice drooped to something akin to a lover's coo. "C'mon, come talk to me. I know yer upset, but yer the only one who means somethin' to me. Honestly." He paused again, waiting. She could barely let out her breath, let alone answer. He sighed and took a few steps, probably away from the door. "Well, you know where to find me. Please come talk to me. See ya."
Each muscle felt knotted up upon itself, tied and twisted around bones and nerves, tendons and organs. She took a few lumbering steps towards the couch, unable to bend enough to sit, to lower her shoulders enough to breathe. Finally she forced herself to exhale, and her ensuing shriek of fury was loud enough to wake the dead, or at least the neighbors again.
--
Praying that this was all a dream did nothing for her. Every time she reopened her eyes she saw the one red petal that had drifted inside her door. Even after she threw it out the window it lingered; her fingers seemed to be stained with the scent and the tint. "You know where to find me."
Yes, she had to find him. It was no longer feasible to stay in her tiny apartment, whose close walls seemed to crush her, to squeeze all her rage together so it festered upon itself. With the sunset burning behind her, she headed east, the hollows and angles of her face cast into shadow as the sun's last rays set her hair aflame.
"Excuse me," murmured a slightly-perturbed female voice. She lifted her head quickly and stared at the owner of the voice. The face was uncomfortably familiar: that of his former girlfriend, who he had once pointed out to her from afar. She searched the pale skin and friendly smile for a trace of a different identity, but came up with the same conclusion her first impression had given her. She stumbled up the steps past the girl, then cast a glance over her shoulder. Those tiny hands, clasped around a pocketbook, were painfully memorable. She closed her eyes and they clutched his shirt; she reopened them and they were gone, along with the brunette.
Now she walked with purpose, ignoring the chatter of the young men who were littering the stairwells and hallways. She found him on the roof, unsurprisingly. As the door swung shut behind her, quietly, she could only hear her breathing, and then his familiar voice.
"I'm so glad to see you." He was out of breath, clothes rumpled, even the faintest hint of guilt on his face. To think that she had once loved everything about him nearly turned her stomach. "I've been waitin' for you to come by."
She advanced on him quickly. "You're lying!" Instead of calm and controlled like she had hoped, her voice came out a pained whine. "I know what you were doing!"
His expression faltered before he covered it with a feigned-hurt frown. The sun sank a little lower, outlining his body and the unkempt locks of his hair. "What? I've jus' been sittin' up here." He stood and moved closer to her. "Listen, I really wanna talk…the guys've been sayin' you ran out upset, and you wouldn't talk to me the other –"
Insincere and empty, the words from his mouth didn't even seem to hit her ears. She gasped for air like she was drowning. In a sense, she was. "How could you! Why would you lie to me? You said you loved me; I believed you!" Her voice shrilled. "How could you?!" Her hand slid into her pocket, then back out fluidly.
Now his footsteps brought him slowly away from her, his hands raising up in a flat-palmed gesture of innocence and wariness. "What are you –?" His eyes seemed glued to her trembling hands.
"Shut up!" she screamed, her vision beginning to fade at the edges, as if she were on the verge of losing confidence. "I don't want to hear any more lies!" As the words tore out of her mouth, they seemed to shred her throat with their sharp edges, their shrill tones. She tasted only copper and, in her mind, expelled blood with every breath.
"I'm not – listen, just calm down. Please just calm down." Trickles of sweat made their way down his dusty, flushed face. "It's okay. Just talk to me. I'll explain everything."
She dashed closer, shoving him with a small hand. "You lied!" The push barely budged him.
His eyes darted around the rooftop, looking for a way out that was unlikely to appear. She was blocking the door back inside the lodging house. Finally his façade crumbled and he was no longer able to deny it faced with her fury. "I'm sorry; you know I'm sorry!"
"You're not sorry!" Her left hand wandered across her cheek, fingertips lingering on the soft folds of her earlobe before she shoved her hair back and took a step towards him. "Don't you dare lie to me again! You're not sorry!"
The red bandana tied around his neck was dark with nervous perspiration. "I want you to forgive me, then." He straightened his spine, jutting his chin out slightly. For once her eyes did not linger on the hard muscles of his chest or the firm line of his jaw, the shaggy cut of his light brown hair or the way he pursed his lips.
Though his stance was firm, his eyes were scared like those of a hunted rabbit. The pupils were enormous, almost obliterating the dark brown irises behind them. Slowly they turned in a circle, so his back was now to the door. His eyes were pleading with her, trying to reason, trying to remind her of how she had felt for him.
All she could see in them was the other girl, and after a mechanical blink all she could see was an endless sea of red. Silently and with a steady hand, she fired the pistol at him, barely hearing the crack as the gun powder exploded or the heavy sound as the bullet barreled through his chest or the splintering sound of the door as the bullet lodged itself within the planks. The recoil sent her staggering, but she couldn't blink.
He crumpled to the roof with a strangled noise. Blood welled up from the wound and soaked through his shirt, and his body trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. She moved over and leaned down slightly, caressing his cheek with the still-warm barrel of the gun. "Oh, Jack," she sighed, her eyes damp and sympathetic.
"No –" he protested, lifting his heavy eyelids. She studied his eyes for a second, watching a glassy film form over them. When he stopped moving she stood, avoiding the pool of blood that was slowly spreading out around the body. She began to back away, towards the fire escape on the other edge of the rooftop, then stole a final glance at him. His eyes were like dark brown marbles, captured in disbelief and pain, as he deserved for inflicting the same pain on her.
Blood now flecked her white dress. Her body had stopped its trembling; now everything was rigidly stiff, frozen in time like his motionless corpse. Quickly she turned away from him, and ran. She had fallen in love with his eyes, but her life would never be a love story, and his was now a tragedy.