Back on the ground and eyes closed, knees pointed to the sky, trying to think of nothing. It’s difficult. I can smell the water and snippets of conversation drift in and out of audible periphery. Memories float nearby itching to get in but I keep them at bay, I don’t want to think about that right now. I’ve been here before. I’m here every year under a different purpose, sometimes under a different alias. The breeze picks up and I open myself to the falling of flowers, the graceful touch of a pink petal or a broken stem. They whisper their secrets in an unknown language; I try to listen, but my lack of understanding leaves me in the dark as always. Some day, I think, I’ll learn what they’re trying to say, but then I smile it off as fiction. I’ve invented a world here for myself, for lazy Sunday afternoons when I visit DC and let the sun kiss my skin. It’s easy to imagine something new when you’re alone, and easier to get lost in the idea.
As usual, I consider writing a childrens’ storybook about my surroundings; a silly tale of a cherry blossom in a new country, trying to find its way home only to realize that it’s found its new home and purpose bringing joy to tourists and locals every spring. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to mention the decay and eventual death of each one of these flowers when the season changes; I used to forget about the festival and only see them finally when they lay murdered on the ground, stomped into the earth and replaced by some other natural beauty that will hold the attentions of self-proclaimed nature lovers during the next season. I don’t really care. I think they’re pretty when they’re in bloom and I enjoy the food selection at the Japanese street festival, but aside from that it doesn’t do much for me. Still, here I am on the ground thinking of thinking of nothing and instead letting ideas cross my mind.
After this winter I could easily call winter my favorite season, but sometimes spring’s head pops up and reminds me of warm days without humidity and I have to go outside and enjoy it. Like today. Today’s a beautiful day. I could only think of one way to better spend the day, but I already said I don’t want to think about that right now. What little electronic stimulation I have nearby is buzzing, begging for attention; my friends don’t understand this in me. Sometimes I have to unplug and go somewhere else and empty my brain. I take walks. I put my back to the ground and stare at the sky. I point at clouds and airplanes and blend into large groups of strangers discovering these pieces of history for the first time. Days alone are lonely, sure, but there’s always something to smother that feeling whether it’s escaping into a book or project or leaving the house to see what the world has to offer.
I stretch to feel the muscles relax afterwards. I’m tense. I’ve been in this same position for so long I’ve lost track of the minutes, not that I was keeping count in the first place. Still, I stay where I am with my eyes closed and senses perked. I try not to think of what I’m avoiding, still, and the Earth moves but I don’t feel it. If I had brought fiction, I might be reading, but I brought an account of slavery and genocide in the early days of African colonization and it’s a little too much to swallow in this weather. I might have brought Loki, my nook, if I’d thought I’d be sitting on top of the world today but truth be told, I came to DC to satisfy a craving for astronaut ice cream and deliver a message to a friend of a friend. I wasn’t banking on so much free time or the determination to do nothing at all. And who wants to go home, anyway, when they live with their parents?
The lust for sleep is ever present and I’m thinking of giving in soon, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea alone as I am here. I could cuddle with my purse to secure it, but that might be too obvious. Instead I let myself drift in and out of consciousness for an hour, then take in a sharp breath and sit up.
“No need to get up,” says Owen and I face him to my right, startled that this person has suddenly appeared. How long has he been there? Did I do anything remotely embarassing since he came by? Why didn’t I — and then I stop myself. He stands with his hands in his dark blue jean pockets, slightly to the left on the uneven ground. I wonder if the University jacket is a trademark; it isn’t very chilly outside, but he’d also worn it the warm night when last we met. He was smiling.
“I was falling deep into the nether,” I slur in reply. I yawn and cover my mouth with my shoulder; my hands still keeping me erect.
Owen lowers himself next to me, his legs crossed but knees up to his chin. “Mind if I join you?” he asks belatedly; I smile my consent and tell him I don’t mind at all. We sit like that for a moment, each of us unsure what to say next. As far as I’m concerned, the ball is in his park now. Last time I went out of my way to make conversation, now it was his turn. He looks me directly in the eye and I want to look away but I don’t. His stare is intense as if he’s trying to reach into my soul, or something else stereotypical to the romance novels that my mom reads, but his lips are still curved into a curious smile. I hope my eyes don’t glaze over while my mind is somewhere else; I don’t play this game very well, it provokes memories of more decent times.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, and I think, oh-no. This is going to be that awkward moment when he apologizes for not calling. I brace myself and prepare a canned response, something like, oh, it’s okay, don’t worry about it. We all get busy sometimes. All while knowing full well I probably wouldn’t have ever heard from him if we didn’t run into each other by chance today. He doesn’t hesitate. “It seems we always meet when I haven’t gotten very much sleep.”
“Did you wake up at 5:30 this morning? It’s Sunday!” I respond.
“No, but I was out late last night and didn’t think to sleep in. Actually, it’s hard for me to sleep in on Sundays since I have to be awake for work the next day. You know how it is, I’m sure.”
“Right,” I say, thinking that I don’t know how it is. If I don’t work Sundays, I pretty much spend the whole day sleeping on and off between listening to music, being creative, or doing laundry. I suppose today is an exception. The general idea of getting enough sleep for work the next day doesn’t elude me, though I find I don’t usually get that far.
“So, anyway,” he continues, “I’m going to use that as an excuse as to why I’m not saying anything of interest right now. It definitely has nothing to do with how cute you looked drifting off to sleep here under this cherry blossom tree.” He doesn’t hide his eyes or flinch when he says it, and I wonder if it’s a line, but I don’t care if it is.
“I’d go back to that but I think it’d be pretty creepy knowing you’re sitting there watching me.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Owen responds. “I don’t want you asleep anyway.”
It is at this point that the conversation becomes too weird for me. I am too tired and dull-feeling to keep up with some kind of witty exchange. I want him to stay but I don’t want to talk anymore so I tell him to lay down. I almost say, “lay down with me,” but decide that would have been too much too soon.
“Lay down?”
“Yes, put your back to the ground. I want to show you something. Like this,” I say when he doesn’t budge, and I resume my former position in life, now with eyes open and head turned to my companion.
“This is kind of like a movie. Have you seen 500 Days of Summer? This sort of reminds me of that, except it’s spring and we’re not in love.”
I am not sure what he means; I’ve seen that movie but I don’t see how two people laying down admiring the cherry blossoms is anything like it. Then again, I don’t remember it very well. Maybe he saw it recently. Maybe he has a photographic memory. Maybe he remembers the things he’s interested in. He lays down a little too close for me but I don’t move away. His head is above mine and if you took a picture from above you might think we’d planned this but our bodies don’t connect.
“Just look,” I say but offer no explanation and he looks, I assume, at the flower petals above us, light escaping through the in betweens. When you take a picture of a view like this, the light is too bright and everything looks white, but when you’re there witnessing it in life there is just a hint of deep pink where the shadows lie. You want to hold onto this moment but you know you can’t, or at least I certainly can’t without a better camera. I wonder if Owen is thinking the same, or if this is just a strange moment with an odd girl he met one night and saw again in an unlikely place. “Sometimes you have to look at the world from a different angle,” I half say, half whisper. I want him to hear but I am tired of talking out loud.
“That’s why I read,” he says quietly.
I turn my head slightly to look in his direction before I respond. Without straining, I see his chin; with a little bit of effort I can see the bridge of his nose. That’s why I write, I want to say, but realize then that it’s not why I write. I write probably because I feel it well up inside me and I have to get it out, whatever the idea is. I write selfishly and without regard to my reader. Sometimes I would like for them to see the world from my point of view, but usually it’s just because I thought of a neat way to phrase something and I wanted to share. I make a mental note to figure out the bare bones of my reasons for writing, something that isn’t worthy of exploring in this moment. I can smell his aftershave and I want to sink into his neck.
“Why else do you read?” I say instead.
He hesitates, and then answers almost excitedly. “To learn,” he begins, but despite the pause I know that he is not finished. “Different places, people. Different times. Like that book I recommended you. Sure it was an unpleasant subject, but you probably wouldn’t know about it otherwise. I also read to recommend. I promote it. Maybe that’s weird.”
“I’m a bookseller, remember? I promote books for a living.”
“Yeah, but recommending books for your job is different, I think, from recommending just out of the love of seeing someone enjoying a book you liked.”
Maybe he doesn’t understand me. “I guess it depends on why a person gets into bookselling.” I avert my eyes back to the flowers, but my nose is still in his scent.
“Why do you read?” he asks but he seems somehow disinterested.
“New beginnings,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. I wonder why he sat down next to me, why he laid himself next to me when I asked him to. I recall that when we met previously, I asked all the questions. He was polite, courteous, but clearly uninterested. Maybe I misread interest. It’s happened before.
I’ve never been good at dialogue. It’s my biggest weakness. I can’t write it in my stories without making it sound forced, and I can’t enact it in life and make it sound believeable. The things I say that mean anything are usually said so quietly that no one hears them, while the nothings are heard loud and clearly. (The sweet nothings are rarely if ever heard, because I can only easily say them in text.) In writing, there’s either too much or too little and my characters don’t have distinctive voices. Owen’s voice is deep and smooth, coming out as if he has so many thoughts in mind that can’t wait to escape but which all have to wait their turns patiently. My voice is soft spoken and I don’t think quite as smooth. I feel like I’ve been sick for a decade and my throat is clogged and maybe it makes my voice groggier than it should be. Someone told me once my voice was so monotone that he couldn’t figure out if I was being sarcastic or serious half of the time. I start to think of the voices of my friends and how I can start using them in my writing when Owen moves up onto his elbow and turns his body towards mine.
“Who’s your favorite author?” he asks suddenly as if it’s the most urgent thing in the world; if I don’t give the right answer, the world might explode right then and there. I wait a moment and tell him I have never been able to honestly answer this question because I don’t think I have one favorite author. He tells me that’s a sad cop out.
“It’s true. I’ve read everything by Bret Easton Ellis and Patrick Süskind, I’ve never disliked anything by Haruki Murakami, and I’ve read The Iliad at least ten times in the last eight years. But I don’t think any of them are absolute favorites, my Number One.”
“Oh,” he says, but doesn’t back down. “Does that extend to other areas? Like, do you have a favorite band?”
“It extends to other areas, yes, but my favorite band is The Lucksmiths, followed by Neutral Milk Hotel.” He seems to think that’s a satisfactory answer but doesn’t elaborate on why it was so pressing to ask or whether he wanted to discuss any of it. Usually when I tell people about The Lucksmiths they immediately say they’ve never heard of them and inquire as to what type of music they play. Owen didn’t want me to continue and I start to sense cold discomfort. I want to put a lid on the conversation and enjoy my day off work but he continues to exist in my line of vision. I thought of how this moment might pass a few times after our first encounter and in all those thoughts he had a curious mind. Maybe I don’t seem so curious either, though, I thought. Still, there are dangers to imagining what people might be like outside of their comfort zones.
“I want to kiss you,” he says right before he does. He leans in and I’m surprised to feel his face on mine and this feels odd and unbelievable. I try to blink him away but I think somewhere inside me that I don’t want him to go, and I don’t want this to stop. I return the kiss and he doesn’t let up. One of his hands has found its way to my waist and one of mine to his shoulder but the other two lay unproductive. I want to kiss out his secrets, he holds back mysteriously as if he wants me to dig but I don’t want to take the time to dig. I want him to want me to know and the realization that I’m feeling this for someone else knocks my world off its axle just a bit. Kisses can be tricky, especially if they are good. In the back of my mind somewhere I decide that this will have to be our first and last kiss, or else I will get lost in him the same way I got lost in the book he recommended. Briefly I wonder if it’s possible to get lost in someone while you’re already trying to find your way out of someone else and he takes that moment of confusion to pull away and apologize. “I don’t know why I did that,” he says.
“I don’t know why you stopped,” I say boldly but he doesn’t take the bait. They never do. Over the past year or two I have learned that there’s something about me that repels anyone who has experience in the world. I don’t know what it is or why it happens, but I wish I could figure it out so that I can make it stop. Or maybe it would be nice if someone would tell me why they feign interest and then run away the first chance they get, or why I’m so easily kept at arm’s length.
He laughs it off and sits up to stare at the tidal basin. I sigh and shrug it off as something else to tuck away and recall at a much later date when someone is asking me what I’m looking for. Maybe if I start looking for first and only kisses I’ll be less disappointed with dating.
My phone buzzes again for attention; I’ve almost forgotten that it’s there. Kimberly’s telling me something about this guy she’s emailing, and even though I don’t feel like responding at the moment I smile at the contact and, as it turns out, the excuse. Owen looks at me and asks if I have to go, then apologizes again. I tell him I probably should and hold up my phone slightly as if the person on the other end had anything remotely resembling an emergency and gather my belongings. He stands up with me and offers a half hug which I take awkwardly and then leave without turning back.
