A man puts on a suit for the last time, across town a woman puts on a dress for the first time. They meet by sunset
Slim cut mohair, dyed soft navy blue, with narrow lapels. Just as his grandfather had. It was passed down to Mike when he was 18. It didn’t fit him then, and he did not care. For now in his Saturn Return it fits him like a glove. Mike looked in the mirror as he buttoned the middle button and adjusted his cufflinks.
I look sharp, worth millions, a dime a dozen. The exponential reality.
The ceiling to floor windows show slight reflection as he turns to look over the skyline. He sees the shadow of himself. The representation, perception, the fickle form that he is. The meaningless sack cradled in millions of highly regarded pieces of paper that do nothing to soak up the blood. The midday sun warms the room, the closer to the sun, the closer to god, if he cares.
The sound of a thundering stampede comes from the hand-me-down Clara Red Wings smacking against the black speckled cracked pavement as she bolts down 7th, turning on Asure St, cutting through the alley behind Lotus Bread Bakery, stealing a sniff of fantasy and luxury on the way, and rounding the corner to Capitol Road skirting to a stop in front of Magnet Miles High Boutique. There her reflection shining back at her in the glass front store, her aura beams like a sun pearl on a perfect blue bird day.
She steps through the doors, smelling of sweat, city, and last night's free sample spritz of Carat by Cartier wafted in Macy’s. The store clerk gives a stare alluding to the archetypal boutique scene in Garry Marshall’s 1990 film Pretty Woman, but much like the film, Lillian knows she belongs there (for once). She walks ,resolute, to the left window and points to the Yoo Collection’s Marigold Edie V Neck Long Sleeve Midi Length Velvet Wrap Dress.
I’ll have that one please. I’ve waited long enough to deserve this, and it has taken me being no one to know that I do.
Our clearance section is in the back, ma’am.
I didn’t ask for clearance. I asked for that dress.
In the dressing room, Lillian weeps with a giddy joy as she wipes her pits with a spare makeup wipe in her Six Dollar thrifted leather backpack. She slips on the dress and stuffs her denim mini and white cami tank into her pack. She skips up to the counter to pay, ripping the tag off the side of the dress making the plastic filled woman behind the counter cringe. Lillian giggles and places ,kindly, the exact amount in cash on the marble counter. The woman counts it meticulously. She notices the law office envelope the money came out of. Looks up to see a beaming young woman of no more than 24 with a deep windless cavern inside her eyes that she is desperately trying to hide. She draws her own conclusions, smiles with a sincerity she had not shown before, and hands her the receipt.
You look radiant, like the dress was made from the sun, just for you.
All 31 of Lillian's teeth (she lost one at 16 while riding a horse at camp and got a gold one in its place) shine back at her and she bolts to the front door, and saunters to the sidewalk.
Mike has made it down to the pier and walks to the art museum perched next to the water. It was his favorite place as a kid, the one memory he could actually spend quality time with both of his parents. Where he was the only person in the world. Walking through the Turnstiles he waves to Gregory Hammrick, the security guard always there on Wednesdays.
Hiya Mikey, the Modern Romantics exhibit is finished on the third floor! Yew gotta check er out, you’ll love it.
Thanks Greg, I’ll be sure to spend an extra moment up there.
Mike has donated more money to this museum than most people make in a lifetime.
Placing his hands in his pockets his gait slows to a rocking amble. The first floor is 19th century portraits. He grazes past these pieces with respect to the vacant stares in each velvet lined oil filled frame, but does not stop to chat with any which one of them. He hangs a left and wanders to the stained glass exhibit of the great churches of the late 18th to mid 19th centuries. The considerable darkness of the room brings a sigh out of him. The shimmering shapes of light hue his skin and ease his mind. When he finds the end of the century, the elevator dings and a small crew of private school kids putter past his legs. He takes a step towards the elevator while simultaneously a young woman in a motorized chair buzzes forward. Both do a polite midwestern pardon. Mike steps back and waves his hand in a royal ‘after you’ with a lovely and unnecessarily low bow. The woman, too young to be as frail as she is, giggles and her pallid skin glows pink with blush. The elevator fills quickly with her chair, caregiver, and company. He leans in, presses the close door button and steps back while waving his hand as if he just missed an invite to the party of the year. Holding the smile until the door closes he slips his hands back in his pockets and drifts towards the stairs and gladly strides up.
The warm autumn sun compliments the newly chilled air. The atmosphere around Lillian seems to decorate her and move with her exclusively. Her stomach growls as she heads south west. She follows her nose to a pretzel stand with a salty aroma and waits behind a gentleman in a grey suit and a tapping toe. He senses the presence of someone new behind him and whips his head around with the intention to claim his aggressive two foot bubble that he requires at all times when hungry. To his surprise the person invading his space had no semblance of worry that she was so close. He was taken aback by the bright sunshine glow of the velvet dress, the sparkle of a hidden gold tooth and the messy knot of dirty blond rope atop her head.
Hi
Hello
He was never nervous but she made him nervous. In the way two 13 year olds feel when they skip gym class to sneak their first kiss. He turned back around as he felt the space in front of him open indicating it was his turn to order. Flustered, hungry, and intrigued, he orders two salted pretzels with a drizzle of cheese on top. He pays with the cash in his clip, places a ten in the tip jar, whether the velvet has made him generous or he was just vacant, he doesn’t know. Turning around slowly, blocking Lillian’s path, he hands her the other pretzel. This 34 year old man all of a sudden radiates the nervousness of the freckled kid on the playground offering a half blown dandelion to the girl he thinks will change his life.
Oh! For me?
Y..yes.
Thank you! Are you sure?
Ple..ease take it. The cheese matches your dress.
He is entranced by the wispy hairs that surround her face and are seemingly glowing as the sunlight catches them.
She howls with laughter as she grabs the pretzel. She observes her snack and notices the cheese does in fact perfectly match her dress and sees it as the most perfect sign for a most wonderful day. She thanks the stranger and bounces down the street towards the midday sun. The man stands glued to his spot fixed on the form walking away from him. He is returned to reality when the man behind Lillian is waiting with a less than kind expression. The man turns with his pretzel in his hand and a mocking voice in his head that will follow him for approximately the next three days as he repeats to himself…
The cheese matches your dress. Good one.
Mike finds the second floor with ancient sculpture. Some of his favorite, how does a man make marble look like flesh. How can the eye be told one thing and the brain another. Where is the illusion and why do we allow it? He wonders.
Excuse me sir.
Pardon...oh, pardon me miss.
I need to read the label for my project and you are blocking it.
A child no taller than three feet, speaks as if she is 60 and seen war.
How do you pronounce this word, sir?
He leans over bending at the waist so his head is level with hers.
Fran-ches-ko Kwey-rol-lo, Francesco Queirolo, if you can roll the R after Kwey, you will sound proper Italian.
She attempts to roll her R as he continues to roll his. They make this apical-alveolar trill back and forth allowing it to form into a dance between them of call and repeat. They both face forward and continue this game for some time. It morphs into singing and they both begin to trill a tune neither of them know the ending to. The little girl bursts into a quick and sharp laugh that makes the whole intellectually quiet room, stir and glare.
Mike gives a glance over his shoulder with a cheeky grin, pleased he disrupted the pretentious ether of the room. He peers down at his new comrade and gives her a full smile. She returns the favor. She grabs his hand, squeezes as tight as her little hand can muster, releases, and skips away, trilling the whole way.
The song in Lillian’s head as she walks is a one woman band cover of Dancing in the Streets by Martha & The Vandellas. Her boots stomp the concrete and part the people ahead of her like Moses and the red sea. The sun is shining towards her as she heads towards the pier. She is going to see how far she can skip a rock out to the sea.
Twist your feet into the sand, root yourself and wind your trunk behind you and flick your branches and let the rock fly from your hand like a blade made to cut air and water. That’s what her grandmother would say when they walked along the beach together.
When the pier arises in her view she strolls down the boardwalk towards the entrance to the beach. Just a few paces past the entrance is the door to the Museum. Continuing on she arrives at the door and She checks her envelope, three dollars left.
Gregory Hammrick Leans over the turnstile.
You’re here with the college to research the Romantics aren’t you?
Oh! N…
He winks and hands her a lanyard with a pass on it. She glows pink and as she presses through the turnstile she smiles bigger than the moon. Gregory notices her eyes are wet with appreciation and he tips his hat and fills with warmth. He doesn’t do that often, but he gets feelings about some people. And some people are just supposed to be in a certain place at a certain time, he never knows why, and he never interferes, only allows.
Lillian is quickly encompassed by the echoing quiet that fills the museum. She's never been here before, let alone to a museum. The high white walls and distant footsteps and murmurs are chilling and thrilling. She walks towards the wall with the guide on it, considering she should probably stay in character and fulfill her part in the play she looks for the Romantics. She skims the long list of eras and themes. No Romantics. She focuses, she must have missed it, intently reading each floor and its descriptions, she reaches the bottom. No Romantics. With a little huff she turns around and looks for someone to ask. A guard is standing by the entrance to the Stained glass exhibit.
Excuse me Ma’am.
How can I help you?
Where is the Romantics section?
Third floor ma’am.
Thank you very much.
You’re welcome, and may I say, you look stunning. Great dress.
She beams once again, expanding the atmosphere around her to include at least a three foot radius now. She walks towards the elevator and hits the button. Waiting with the subtle dings of the elevator to fall down to her level. A elderly woman walks up next to her, waiting as well for the elevator. Lillian turns to see her, observing the woman's chasms and ribbons of wrinkles. Knowing each one carries a laugh, a scream, a cry, a sigh. The woman turns to catch her staring, and laughs in her face. Lillian is taken off guard and shows so on her face. This makes the woman laugh harder.
You are very young, you will learn to laugh as hard as I do.
Pardon for staring, and pardon my frankness, but I hope to age like you do.
Why thank you, I hope to age like you too.
They both laugh at that one, and the elevator arrives. Tossing their heads back together in joy they walk towards the open doors. In laughter, Lillian drops her museum ticket, and turns to grab it. When she whips back around, the elevator door is already closing. She sees the woman laughing at her, not with malice, but with play. Lillian grins and bolts for the stairs.
She climbs the three levels of stairs skipping every other one and reaches the third floor the same time the elevator does and there is her chuckling companion again. The woman exits the elevator and approaches the heavily breathing young lady. She extends her elbow to imply that Lillian should take it and assist her across the floor. They meander the ground as if old friends a few sheets to the wind and without a care.
Mike checks his watch, contemplates his urgency, and steps up to the third floor. The Romantic period is his favorite artistic period. The colors and expansive scenery always makes him feel so small. Which he likes.
Outside the museum window, the sea is lapping up against the lips of the city and the drifting sun is looking tired hanging on by a string below the middle sky.
Lillian has never seen so much rich passion on canvas before. Curving to the right, following the era’s journey, the very first encounter, peering into her meager modern soul is a very Desperate man. Le Désespéré gives her a start and her companion chuckles and informs her of the story of Courbet and his self-portrait. Enthralled with the ache in Gustave’s brow, she leans in and listens intently.
Mike’s habits are poetical and palatial. He often takes an opposing route for the sake of universal spite. If he chooses to obey the bounds of society, it is with quiet Chutzpah. After ascending the stairs, he hooks a left to begin at the end. He is greeted by his own thoughts mirrored in Manfred on the Jungfrau
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs
In dizziness of distance, when a leap,
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed
To rest for ever - wherefore do I pause?
Lovely when others give you the words your brain lacked in vocabulary too perfectly.
Thank you Lord Byron
Forward towards the Western Wall of the top floor, Lillian, still clutching her aged companion, scoots towards the Ruins of Eldena Abbey in Riesengebirge. Little did she know how far a Two dimensional composite of oil could take her into the waters of her soul.
Mike moved slowly without much care for the artistic depictions of religious moments like Christ on the Cross by Delacroix or The Dead Abel by Cole, he found no emotion in Religion and did not find curiosity in humoring the idea of liking God. His gait slows, however, when he encounters Saturn Devouring His Son as it should halt everyone.
Goya saw the time as what we are actually romanticising, the gorey, the bloody, the wrong, the inhuman human nature we all hide.
His pause in a dark fantasy is disturbed by laughter in the room to his right.
Lillian’s chaperone had made an abrupt and crude comment about Love and Psyche that made her snort. Something about Cupid’s face makes for a humorous stance on his performance in bed.
Mike cranes his neck to look around the wall curious as to the source of joy in the room.
Lillian notices a intrigued face pop from behind the room divider. She holds his gaze a little longer than she intended. With a fire in her heart she barks.
Whatcha’ lookin at?
Just curious about the elation. Pardon.
Lillian's companion takes charge on a gut instinct.
Have you ever seen Cupid’s Release?
I can’t say I am familiar.
Lillian begins to giggle because her pal has renamed Love and Psyche to fit her observation. Mike is intrigued having found a painting he has not seen or heard of. The old lady invites Mike to stand on her other side. The small woman hunched over with the weight of her wisdom made it to Lillian's shoulders and Mike’s lower chest. From behind you could mistake them as a family of three, mom, dad, and daughter on an outing, if it weren't for the cane and white hair.
While she went on a tangent about the appearance of Cupid’s face, Lillian snuck her eyes to the side to drink in this man with the blue suit.
Mike’s eyes remained forward, but almost as if his soul was turned, he was looking at the woman in the yellow dress next to him with his mind. Hyper aware of the space that was between them and how he wanted to turn.
A sharp cackle brought Lillian’s eyes forward again. She looked down to entertain her friend to find speedy-van-wrinkled had scooted out from between them and was rounding the corner away from them with a humming chuckle as she did. Lillian felt something in her hand, looked down to see a small piece of paper with a note that wrote:
“Curious how life hands you a friend. Send word when you learn his name”
It contained her address as well. She would write to her that very night.
Mike peered over to notice the woman looking at her hand where the old lady had been. He extended his hand and with a pompous british accent he invited her to a game.
Your highness, may I accompany you to the next painting?
Without missing a beat. Curtsy
Yes, you may.
They promenade through the last few decades of romantic paintings. They land on the western wall looking deep into “Our Banner in the Sky” by Frederic Edwin Church. Mike asks this golden woman next to him if she has ever seen this painting before and why it is so magnificent. Lillian shows intrigue and shakes her head. Mike goes on to sing praises for Church as he was known for his skyscapes and suns. Most paintings the light is implied, in Church’s paintings the sun, although oil on canvas, seems to shine through the frame. This piece, however, is unique in the fact that it is one of his few with a sunset, the sun behind the mountains already. Lillian looks at the painting and bolts to the window along the same hall. Mike stammers and reaches after her, shocked by the sudden movement. He only grasps at the shimmer of soul that she left behind when she darted. She arrives at the window and points out towards the beach and pier.
His vision is happening now.
Mike walks up to the window, classically enthralled, amazed at the quickness of his love for this insanity, and his allowance of the journey at hand.
They walk in tandem down three flights of stairs in silence, as the museum begins to hush to a close. Silent and comfortable they push through the turnstiles out the front. Gregory Hamrick is whistling pacing the door counting the seconds until he can clock out. He sees them approaching and bounds to the door to open it for them. He bows low and peers up at Lillian as she passes. The twinkle in his eye makes her gasp and smile. Mike peers over his shoulder to see Ol’ Greg shrugging off his shoulders a serendipitous acceptance of the evening he has witnessed. They smile.
Hanging a left and waltzing towards the stairs to pier they hop down the steps in rhythm. Before they even step off the concrete Lillian is holding her one leg up and hopping towards the sand as she unties her redwings one at a time. She kicks them off and ties the laces together over the strap of her backpack so they hang behind her. Mike pulls his dress shoes off one by one with a hand on her shoulder and holds them in his outside hand. He reaches for Lillian’s open hand but before he can even pretend to create a romantic moment, Lillian grabs his arm and starts running towards the ocean.
He jerks behind her and follows suit and soon they are leaping in time towards the water.
She stops just short of the reach of the tide still holding onto Mike’s arm. She pulls it up around her shoulders and wraps her hand around his waist. Something about the motion felt natural to Mike, like she had done it a thousand times before with many friends in time.
Mike and Lillian gazed forward towards the mixture of cerise, violet, and marigold coasting over the mirrored image on the horizon.
What is your name?
Mike
Lillian
Pleasure
Likewise
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