Coming Over

It was two to three. Stanley stood in her apartment building hallway. He checked his watch. He waited two.

At three, he knocked.

The door opened. Lena stood there. She wore a sweater that looked too big for her.

-You’re punctual, she said.

-I try.

He held up a white cardboard box.

-I brought peace offerings. Pastries.

She eyed the box, then him. She stepped back.

-Come in.

The apartment was small. Tidy. Coffee was brewing.

Stanley stepped inside and looked at the walls. They were covered in black and white photographs. Landscapes. Street corners. People caught in mid-motion.

-You take these? he asked.

She walked to the kitchenette.

-My passion, she said. I like to freeze moments.

-Why?

-Memory is unreliable, she said from the kitchen. It twists things. Changes them to fit the narrative we want. A photograph doesn't lie. It just is.

-It’s all about framing though, isn’t it?

She walked back in from the kitchen with two mugs. She handed one to him. Black. No sugar.

-I didn't know how you take it, she said.

-This is fine.

-So, she said. –“Bel Canto.”

-The ending, Stanley said.

-Let's sit.

She led him to a small couch. She sat in the corner, pulling her legs up. Stanley sat on the other end. He placed the pastry box on the coffee table.

-The ending broke me a little, he admitted.

-It had to, she said. There is no other way for a dream to end. You wake up, or it dies.

She blew on her coffee.

-I missed you, she said. quietly.

-I missed you too.

She looked at him over the rim of the mug.

-Prove it, she said. Tell me about the book.

They picked the book apart. The hostages. The terrorists. The opera singer who held them all together.

-It was a utopia, Stanley said. While it lasted.

-It had to end, Lena said. Reality always breaks in.

She finished her coffee and set the mug down. She lowered her legs and stretched them out on the cushion.

-What’s next?, she asked.

Stanley reached into his bag. He pulled out a worn paperback.

-In Her Day, he said. Rita Mae Brown.

She eyed the cover.

-Feminism? Really laying it on thick,

-1976, Stanley said. -I like the year.

-Read to me, she said.

Stanley opened the book. He read.

Lena closed her eyes. She leaned her head back.

-Her voice, she murmured. It’s tired.

-She’s fighting a war, Stanley said.

-Aren't we all?

The afternoon light faded and the black and white photos got darker.

Stanley stopped reading. He looked at her. Her feet were near his thigh.

-You look tense, he said.

-Always, she said. Holding up walls takes energy.

He reached out. He took her foot in his hand.

She flinched. A reflex. Then she exhaled.

-What are you doing?

-Helping.

He pressed his thumb into the arch of her foot. She made a sound. Small and soft.

-That’s... unexpected, she said.

-Unwanted?

She didn't answer immediately. She shifted deeper into the couch.

-No, she said.