BLUE by Holly Schindler
Rob and geena 4-ever--1990
This admission of affection lies tattooed into the sidewalk's corner square. And just as a blue-inked portrait on skin undoubtedly fades, so has this line found its own shade of blue. Deep indentions once applied with a nail when the cement was fresh have since been filled in with tiny scraps of trash, rain-worn cigarette butts, dirt from the daily traffic of tennis shoes and bicycle tires.
It's a young man on a skateboard--cutoffs slung low on his waist, wind pulling up a solid black T-shirt to reveal the elastic band of red and white boxer shorts-- who brings the girl's attention to the walkway's marking. He flies across the words, yellow plastic wheels scraping against the concrete via motions so easy and fluid they have the appearance of being automatic. It strikes the girl that this is the path he must take every day, wrapped in a blur,too accustomed to the patch of graffiti to notice it anymore. She darts from his path. Her reaction is just slow enough for her to hear her ankle-lenght skirt whip against his knee with the sound like a flag flapping against itself. She continues moving.
It's no longer the girl's leather sandal straps, or her sleeveless white cotton blouse she imagines she feels against her skin. As she moves toward the corner she recalls the feel of a large pair of black Converse high-tops, laces knotted and frayed, soles attached with silver strips of duct tape. She remembers a pair of green plaid polyester pants purchased from the Salvation Army, a fading Metallica T-shirt, waist-lenght blond hair, and the slightly slouched posture of an awkward fourteen-year-old.
She stops near the corner, feeling now only a twinge of her initial reaction-- the same reaction seeing her name strung in lights would have produced. But she doubts this section of the sidewalk still catches anyone's eye, when even she has begun to stop seeing the name on it.
She reaches up to remove pink plastic sunglasses from the bridge of her nose, shakes shoulder-length browning hair loose from a straw hat.
"Oh!" the girl suddenly exclaims, jolted from her thought and forced off balance, having collided with someone for the second time that day.
"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry." The woman belonging to the apologetic voice reaches out, taking hold of the startled girl's elbow. "I wasn't paying any attention to where I was going. Are you all right?" The woman bends down suddenly, reaching again-- this time for the burlap purse she had knocked from its perch atop the girl's shoulder.
"Yes. Yes, thank you." the girl notices the woman's hands as the satchel is pressed into her arms-- neatly-manicured nails engulfed by fair skin spotted with age, long fingers slender enough to have been the girl's own.
"Sure, you're okay, hon," the woman instructs.
The girl looks up, into crow's feet and deep set of laugh lines. "Yeah. Yeah, I was just, uh..." Her head swivels from the woman to the concrete slab. The woman follows her gaze and nods.
"Makes you wonder."
The girl's head swivels back, eyebrows knitting in a frown.
"What...about?"
"Oh, about them," the woman slowly replies, without looking up. "What they looked like, what they liked to do together..." The woman pauses to tilt her head upward, the white glare of the sun enough to erase the hairline fractures across her once smooth skin. Something about the girl's overly-expectant, round blue eyes pulls the corners of the woman's mouth into a smile. "It's silly," the woman finally admits, "but sometimes, I like to imagine that they're still together."
The girl repays the smile, adding a half-chuckle as she adjusts her purse and reapplies sunglasses to the top of her nose. She squeezes the stranger's bicep affectionatly. "Sometimes," the girl confesses, "so do I."
The angry clatter of traffic pounds against the pavement, largely oblivious to the cluster of buildings lining the road. Once one of the few buildings on the block, the bookstore now displays its original hand-painted sign among the neon signs of the other businesses. Within its walls, behind the display windows with their posters of Hemingway and Frost, the grinding gears of automobiles and the horns and shouts of drivers and passers-by are mostly muted.
To the young man behind the counter, the bookstore's gruff exterior does not speak of work needing to be done. Instead, it tells its own story-- not unlike the many other stories pressed between the cardboard covers of the novels inside. But the spring's first rays of sunlight are not disguisable, not even through the scratched front windows. Checking the leather band around his wrist, the young man removes himself from behind the counter. He motions toward a stout woman standing on a step stool. She is filing an armload of paperbacks into the top shelf of a bookcase branded with a black-and-white handwritten "Romance" sign.
"Plain baked potato and a Diet Pepsi," she says, and to his mocking look of disgust, smiles, using her free hand to pat a large thigh hidden beneath a long, shapeless dress.
The young man laughs and says with a wave, "See you in ten."
The woman turns her head toward the bulk cradled in her left arm, reaching for a Danielle Steele, its title swirled in gold cursive writing. "See ya, Rob."
He steps onto the sidewalk, the bell announcing his departure. His skin drinks in the sunlight as he reaches in the breast pocket of his embroidered cowboy shirt to retrieve a soft pack of Camels. He places the yellow filter between his lips and reaches into the pocket again, exchanging the soft pack for matches. Once struck, the orange tip touches the end of the cigarette, sending smoke to curl around his forehead. He takes a drag, exhales through his nose, and begins the walk to the cafe two blocks away.
The liberating heat of the sun scratches at his scalp, he squints into the sun, glad he's left his sunglasses in his car. His Doc Martens kick at bits of gravel along the worn sidewalk. He can't help but think that soon the combat boots will be replaced by sandals. He sighs, his breath a mist of gray smoke, unable to suppress a smile as he pictures the spring weeds which will surely sprout between the cracks in the cement.
He convinces himself the noon hour is bound to elicit a long line at the sandwich shop and takes a detour-- down an alley, around a corner, not caring how he'll be able to wind his path around to meet the cafe. As he approaches a Mexican restaurant, he scowls. His features a mirror of his inner task, he recalls the details of its former facade. A pizza parlor's once black-and-white exterior is now camouflaged with fresh coral-colored paint, and cacti planted in rust-tinted flowerpots.
He believes it must have been the juke box that had drawn them to the pizza parlor, years ago. The only other memorable features had been the seat cushions that were sprouting their stuffing, floor tiles that had cracked and yellowed, tables that were covered with scuffs and dents. He can laugh to himself, remembering how he had once wanted to scratch her name into a tabletop's dark wood, five letters to be displayed in front of the tarnished napkin dispenser of their favorite booth. Something had stopped him then, though the details are now hard to sketch out.
The young man can still see the crooked initials that had appeared before they next returned, the marks left by a couple who had acted upon their own impuse. He can suppress a smile, remembering how he'd made up for his own inhibitions when a construction team appeared outside to repair the sidewalk crumbling around the curb.
He crossed it, that same corner square of sidewalk, now pink polka-dotted with wads of discarded bubble gum. He sucks the last cloud out of his cigarette, the end flaring for a final time. He drops the butt, stamping out any remaining life with the sole of his right boot, and slips his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans, leaving his thumbs to dangle outside. His shoulders round themselves as he tilts his head toward the ground.
He tries to picture her among her own well-worn routines, having to pass the square, her shoes kicking up some of the trash filling in his awkward lettering. He cannot venture beyond the unmistakeable, long blue fingers or the blue saucer eyes to begin to imagine what trappings she might now choose to surround herself with. He wonders if anyone has ever asked her about it, the way she might be asked about a tattoo, his name in rose petals across the small of her back. Would she admit to it? Or wold she shake her head instead? Shrug her shoulders, and wave it away with, "I never knew a Rob."
Would she?
The young man's head lifts to catch a glimpse of himself in the restaurant's window, everything faded and gray in the tinted glass. Everything--even the early spring blue sky. Even the image of himself. Even the promise of a concrete slab.
He averts his eyes, looks at the steady stream of bodies in the noon hour bustle. His thoughts still reel with images of her, although the ink of detail is blurred now, and all the dyes have run together into the same shade of blue. He turns, directing himself back toward the cafe, failing to notice the young woman standing beneath a storefront awning across the street, her features hidden beneath a straw hat and sunglasses. The one who stopped her daily schedule only long enough to watch him walk away.