The Writing of Cloud Buchholz

Chewing on pen caps. He was thin. Most girls thought him pretty. They didn’t tell him though. Wouldn’t even flirt with him. That’s why he took the job in the basement. He was good at archiving and finding things. The time he spent alone was a kind of diet. It kept him thin. It smelled though. In the basement. Disinfectant and dust. He didn’t mind the dust. He tried putting his feet up and leaning back. People did it in the movies after they bet on the right horse or solved the case. He didn’t like it much. His legs were too long. And his feet hung over the edge. It wasn’t bad though. Not entirely. He would try it for another minute because he had an open mind. And he liked the movies.

He read the paper in the mornings with a glass of orange juice and a single slice of toast. Buttered and jellied. The editor must have been sick. Of the paper. There were more mistakes than usual. He felt comfortable with his red pen. The cap was well chewed. He liked the pressure of it on the newsprint. Of course he was very careful when circling errors never to touch the font. He pulled the paper from his top right drawer. 32 mistakes.

He had been offered the job. As editor. Of the New Hamilton Daily last year. He politely declined on account of the owner’s daughter who had refused his offer of marriage the previous summer. He was fun for walks and picnics and their conversations always left her thinking but their romance always stopped just short of kissing. She told him so on more than one occasion. That she couldn’t bring herself to kiss him. His lips looked so delicate she feared she might break them if she pressed too hard. She was engaged the following Saturday. He had forgotten the name of the man. The wedding was in three weeks. He thought. He might go.

He put the paper back in the drawer. Closed and locked it. There was no point in locking it. But he liked turning the key. And keeping it in his pocket. His legs were a little sore behind the ankles. Because of the desk. He rubbed them and tried to stretch. Like an old war wound he thought. About his father and the shrapnel in his right leg that made him limp. Every year around November. He bought a new cane. He had at least forty. They were all wooden. Some had metal handles. His favorite. Was in the shape of a horse’s head. Silver. With hollowed out eyes where marbles use to be. He put his fingers in the sockets and rubbed for luck. His uncle had the cane now since his father. Was in a wheelchair.

He turned off the lights and locked the door with another key. He had three. Each on a different key ring. In case someone needed to borrow one. He rubbed the dust from the name plaque to the left of the door. Lemon Anderson. The name had no real significance. His mother liked lemons. She said that was all she wanted to eat during the pregnancy and that if an unborn life craved them so badly his name might as well match his inclination. It was hard to believe he ever loved lemons. He couldn’t remember eating one or asking to eat one, but she assured him that when her lips puckered sour her belly stopped kicking. He couldn’t really argue. His time as a fetus was hazy at best. In any case, he didn’t care much for them now.

It was cold out. And dark. He didn’t have far to walk. A few blocks and three flights of stairs. It was an apartment he shared. With a goldfish and a very nice throw rug. His mother had sent him the rug three Christmas’ past. It was big. He had to slide one side under itself so it would fit. In the living room. He thought about cutting it but decided it would be better to find a bigger apartment. That’s why he was leaving work so late. A few extra hours everyday and tutoring on the weekends. It would be worth it.

He told himself. The evenings were getting colder. And rain would come soon. He blew hot air into his hands glad to be inside.

There was a message on the phone. He set his jacket down. Closed the door. Locked it twice. Took the fish food from the cabinet next to the tank. Tapped it three times into his left hand. Sprinkled it on the surface of the water. Watched the fish bob and nibble. The fish didn’t have a name. Lemon had a name picked out for the fish, but he never said it out loud. A missionary had stopped at his door one day with a bible and a very nice tie. The missionary said there was a man named Jesus who loved the world and died for it, he said that people had something called a soul and that every soul longed for God and that God created every soul and that’s why we all longed so badly for him and that sometimes people confused that longing with other things like drugs and sexual intercourse and television he said that only people had souls and that’s what made them different from animals he said that’s why people get to go to heaven but dogs and cats and little field mice never have the chance.

The next day the missionary returned. Instead of a bible he had a little plastic bag filled with water and a goldfish. He gave the bag to Lemon and said it was God’s Will that he take care of it. He said Lemon should watch the fish everyday to see how it eats and lives and dies he said to watch close because that was how life was without a soul and people were different, people had souls.

The missionary didn’t come back a third day. Lemon had a name picked out for the goldfish. He never said it out loud. Since it didn’t have a soul. He didn’t want to offend God.

Lemon took a bag of multigrain honey wheat bread from the top of the refrigerator. Opened it. Pulled from it one slice of multigrain honey wheat bread. Closed it. Placed the bag back on top of the refrigerator. He took a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard and a knife from the right drawer. Placed them both on the counter. He opened the jar and dabbed the knife in three times. He spread the peanut butter on the bread starting at the top left corner, working his way down to the bottom right corner. He closed the jar and returned it to the cupboard. He rinsed the knife in the sink and put it in the dishwasher. He took, with his left hand, the one slice of multigrain honey wheat bread with peanut butter and sat on the couch.

It was difficult to chew. The peanut butter. Stuck to the top of his mouth. His mother had told him it was because he ate too fast. And there was no reason a boy with a proper education should need to eat so fast there should be a class in school, she said, that taught boys to eat slow, she said, the country would have fewer problems if people had only learned to eat slow as children, instead of learning when their teeth fell out. He didn’t like the idea of his teeth falling out. The only reason he ate so fast was on account of his teeth. There were seeds and little wheat kernels on the crust of the multigrain honey wheat bread. They got lodged in between his teeth. His gums hurt if he bit too hard. His first bite of a sandwich made him cry.

He finished chewing the last bite of the multigrain honey wheat bread with peanut butter. He stood up. Walked to the kitchen. Shook his hands clean in the sink. Then he checked the answering machine. It was the voice of his aunt. “Hey sweetie” she said, “I talked to your dad. He’s been trying to get a hold of you. He said he wanted to talk. I gave him your number. I hope you don’t mind. If you need anything give me a call. I’ll be home this afternoon.”

It was the first time she had called him. “sweetie.” He kept saying the word in his head. sweetie. Sweetie. SWeetie. swEEtie. sweeTie. sweetIE. It became harder to say. And breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He was sitting down again he realized. On the couch. The word. He couldn’t understand. The word. And in his hand he still held the telephone. And the word. He thought about throwing the telephone into the wall. He laid down on the couch and fell asleep.

She looked good in the wedding. Dress. Lemon thought. She looked happy. He could see the bare skin of her shoulders. Her ankles. Her shins. He remembered fitting his whole hand around her ankle his ring finger and thumb touching in winter weather sitting on the floor in front of the couch her sitting behind him with her legs over his shoulders he would wrap his fingers around her ankle and move up her calf until his fingertips couldn’t touch. He would return to her ankle. And do it again.

He fell asleep once on the floor between her legs she told him he fell asleep with one hand around her leg and the other on the dog he looked happy she said he was smiling.

For the wedding he found a tie. It was his brother’s tie and blue. His brother had left it a year ago Thanksgiving after she spilled a glass of wine on it. It was a nice tie. Lemon liked the red splotches. It looked like something a psychologist would show a patient. It was his only tie.

This was the first wedding he had ever attended. He was sitting in the third row next to her older brother, Gabe. He was smiling. Every few minutes he would remind Lemon that he was happy. For his sister. His whispers smelled like sweet onions. He ate them in the mornings before jogging. It kept him quiet the rest of the day. Usually. The two met on Sunday mornings to watch tadpoles in Dry Creek.

Twenty-eight summers earlier they captured tadpoles in glass cups stolen from Lemon’s mother. Barefoot. Socks rolled up in the pockets. Shoelaces tied and thrown over the shoulder. Scooping and wading with ankles from one shore to the other. Lemon first met Epiphany then. She was climbing a pear tree in her blue Sunday dress and black shiny hard-bottomed shoes. He didn’t notice. At first. He didn’t notice that she was naked. Under her dress. He was chasing a tadpole. The largest he had seen that day. Then he was under the tree. Looking up he saw the white insides of her legs. The little slit. He never. He wanted to. With her. He thought. About her. How he wanted to. Love her. He thought he loved her.

She was wearing a white dress for the wedding and shiny white hard-bottomed shoes. She looked nice. He thought. He thought she looked nice. And

The preacher said, “You may kiss the bride.” The groom took her at the small of the back. Pulled her close. With his tongue. Opened her mouth and kissed her. Then, by the hand, led her up the aisle to the lobby.

It was a plate of fruit and thinly cut sandwiches for the reception. Lemon held his paper plate with both hands. His name card was near the head table with Gabe. He set his plate down with the fruit facing his chair. He placed the napkin to the right. The plastic fork on top of it. He nodded at each guest sitting at the table. He walked back to the fruit buffet. He took a plastic cup. Took the ladle from the punch bowl. He set the–

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

He turned. Epiphany. Her hair pulled up. Diamond earrings. White dress. Smiling with lipstick.

“Your dad, I heard he was in a wheel chair now. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s a bed. He’s in a bed now.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it. I didn’t think you would, but you did, and I’m glad you’re here. You know I’ve missed you. All of the sudden we just stopped talking and I missed you. Come on let’s dance for old time’s sake.”

She moved her hands to his waist and up his back leaning her head into his neck. Her eyes were closed. Her right earring was buried in his neck. It hurt a little. He put down the ladle. He put his hands on her shoulders. His tennis shoes were rubbing the sides of her white hard-bottomed shoes.

“It was a nice wedding.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“You looked nice.”

“I thought of you, I mean, before the wedding, I thought of you.”

His elbows were right angles extending from her shoulders.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

She was swaying with her hips his hands felt heavy down the sides of her chest her ribs his hands slow moving, reading her body like braille and the inside curve of her shiny hard-bottomed shoes and her thighs he thought about her thighs and the white insides of her legs.

She squeezed her breasts into him, her hands against his back. The pressure. And release. Then nothing. Her arms sliding out from under his. Her look. Awake.

“It was good to see you.” She said stepping back. Turning. And walking away. He stood watching her, waiting for the song to end.

He turned. Took the plastic cup from the left side of the table. Took the ladle from the punch bowl. Set the plastic cup on the right side of the table. Poured the contents of the ladle into the cup. Put the ladle in the punch bowl. Picked up the plastic cup. Walked to his seat.

He set the cup down next to the top right corner of the plate. Pulled out his chair. Sat down. Slid in the chair. He nodded at each guest sitting at the table.

The files were stacked in alphabetical order starting with M. He ran a white rag across the box top. Shook the rag over the garbage can. Slid the cardboard box top off. He liked sliding the cardboard box top off. He set the top on the floor. The paper aged manila. He ran his right index finger across the ruffled pages.

He had a list of 250 names. Each name had a high risk of identity fraud. The secretary to the Treasury of the City Council had asked him personally to review the names. The secretary, she said New Hamilton had been forced to temporarily close two retirement homes, she said, on account of people stealing the identities of the deceased. It was an epidemic, she said, people stealing other people’s names. There was no place for it in a town like New Hamilton. She said, they caught two, a husband and wife who had made it across state lines, she said, the police stopped them and threw the book at them. The city couldn’t be sure though, she said, if they had caught them all. She gave him 250 names worth looking at. And she wanted an annotated list by the end of the week.

He had to check the billing address, date of birth, social security number, and verify with the closest of kin. He had the city coroner’s phone number. Memorized. And three funeral homes on speed dial.

“Hello” he would say, “My name is Lemon Anderson. I’m working for the city. I’d like to verify that so-and-so is a resident and currently alive.” He would say it again with the telephone pressed to his ear and mouth. Then he would call.

He thought about his father’s brother who had been married once before and kept the ashes of his wife in a jar behind a box in the closet. She had died 20 years earlier during childbirth. He never told his daughter. That he had her mother’s ashes in a jar behind a box in the closet. He said when she was old enough he would give it to her.

Lemon set the list on the desk. He remembered once, when he was young, about five, there was a girl that lived in the house behind his. She was three years older than him. They were friends. She invited him over. She invited him over and they were playing and she said, "I have to go to the bathroom, come with me." He said "ok." They got to the bathroom. She said "Let's both pee in the toilet." He said "ok." She pulled down her pants. He pulled down his. She spread her legs, arched her back, and started peeing in the toilet. He started peeing in the toilet.

Her mom walked in. Stunned. The two of them naked from the waste down. Sharing a toilet. Furious. Grabbing him by the arm, hard. It hurt. She told him to pull his pants up. He was half way up with the zipper. She was twice his size, dragging him. By the arm. It hurt. She pushed him out the door onto the porch. She told him to go home and not come back. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. She stood there until he left. Sometimes he thought about the girl that lived in the house behind his. Sometimes he didn’t.

He took the key from his pocket. Unlocked the desk drawer. Pulled from the drawer a brown paper bag. He set the brown paper bag on the desk. He closed the desk drawer and locked it. He opened the brown paper bag. He took from it an apple. He closed the brown paper bag. He took the apple. He stood up. It was nice outside. He thought. He would go for a walk. He turned the lights off and locked the door with another key. He rubbed the dust from the name plaque to the left of the door.

There was a small park with a fountain near City Hall. He sat on a bench by the fountain and watched people get in and out of buses. There was an old man that sat on the rim of the fountain. The old man didn’t move. He kept his eyes fixed on a chip in the sidewalk. Women in business suits and skirts walked by. “You got a nice pair of legs.” He would say. “You got nice pair of legs. And you got a nice pair of legs. And you got a nice pair of legs. And you got a nice pair of legs.” He never turned his head to watch them. The women didn’t seem to mind.

Lemon took a last bite into the apple. He threw the core in the garbage. He stood up and walked the path around the park.

He took the key from his pocket. Unlocked the door. Turned on the lights. He sat down at the desk.

“Hello” he would say, “My name is Lemon Anderson. I’m working for the city. I’d like to verify that so-and-so is a resident and currently alive.” He would say it again with the telephone pressed to his ear and mouth. Then he would call.

The chairs were uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. They had gotten new chairs. Someone had ordered them from a catalogue. He was sure they had ordered them from a catalogue. They were very uncomfortable chairs. He crossed his legs and leaned to the right. He leaned to the left and uncrossed his legs. And. There were plants in each corner. Fake potted plants. He was sure they had ordered them from the same catalogue.

“Please Lemon.”

“I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“This has nothing to do with her. I’m the one asking you.”

“I’m sorry Gabe.”

“I know you still want to be the editor.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not. And I don’t want to come back.”

“Please, at least consider it.”

“I have.”

“Well take a little longer then.”

“I don’t need to.”

“He’d pay you more. I’d see to it, that he pays you more. And you could hire who you wanted. And you’d have the final say about what gets printed. You’d have the New Hamilton Daily all to yourself. Really you would. And did you see the wall by the door? I told them not to put a name plaque up until it was yours.”

“You’re doing a good job.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“The stories are good enough. And you’re still making a profit.”

“It’s not about–” Gabe looked at his wrist. The opposite wall. Shuffled through the drawers of his desk. “Do you have a clock? What time is it?”

“12:14.”

“Christ.” Gabe took a handful of papers and left the room. “Well, come on,” he said half way down the hall. Lemon followed.

They were driving.

“He’ll like it. I’ll be late and he’ll like it. He’ll have just the thing to say. You know. Of course you know. It’s lunch we’re going to by the way. Epi will be there and her husband. I hope you don’t mind. I would have said something earlier but I forgot. Plus you probably wouldn’t have gone otherwise, right? It’s probably better that I didn’t tell you. It shouldn’t be too bad. We’ll be eating most of the time anyway so you won’t need to talk, that is, if you don’t want to talk. You can if you want. I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m just saying you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t think Epi will mind. Not that she has a right to. I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say. They just got back from the honeymoon. Two days early. You think that means trouble in paradise? I can only hope so. The bastard didn’t even make me an usher at the wedding. I’m the bride’s only brother and I had nothing to do with the wedding. How’s that for a warm family welcome. He’s a prick anyway. And stupid. You know. Of course you know. I’m sure you feel the same way. You probably can’t stand him. It shouldn’t be too bad though. We’ll be eating most of the time anyway.”

“We’ve never met.”

“You and Alex? Really? I can’t believe, well, I guess you did leave early. You missed his big speech. His best man didn’t have a single sentence prepared for the toast. You would have liked it. He got up, the best man I mean, and started stuttering and rambling. I mean really rambling. And as he’s giving his toast, he keeps taking little sips out of his glass and so when he gets to the end of his speech there’s not a single drop left. No, I know. It gets worse. What do you think he did? You’ll like this. He just tilts his head back with the cup just like it was full and takes a drink of nothing. And the best part, you’d like this, after he sits down, the guests finally figure out the toast is over and realize they missed the cue to raise their glasses. It was something alright. The best part of the wedding in my opinion. You’ll get to meet him today, Alex, I mean. Don’t worry though. You won’t have to talk. We’ll be eating most of the time.”

“I really shouldn’t. I didn’t think this was, I, I thought this”

“I already told you not to worry. No one cares if you come along. If anything they’ll be glad to catch up. Epi won’t mind. She’ll be glad to see you. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. And we can still talk about the paper. Even better, we can talk to my dad directly and work out a deal for you to come back and be editor.”

“I thought you only needed a little help.”

“I do. I need you to be the editor.”

“That’s–”

“We’re here.”

The car stopped. They got out. Walked to a country club overlooking a golf course. Six other cars were in the parking lot. They entered. Gabe walked past the hostess to a table in the far right corner where his father was waiting with Epi and Alex. Epi was looking at the table. Her hands were on her lap. Mr. Winesburg was combing his mustache with his fingertips. Alex had his elbows on the table and was staring at Mr. Winesburg.

“It’s not an argument. It’s a statement, Alex.”

“That’s a fine statement.”

“It’s the truth. You just haven’t lived long enough to realize it.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d like to keep an open mind Mr. Winesburg.”

“Of course, I expect you would. Here, just look at today’s paper.” He unruffled the paper and flipped it open. “A mother, 61, shoots her own son, 42, in the chest as he bangs violently at the door. The police say self-defense. Or here. Brothers die after jumping off bridge. One, 19, jumps from a bridge into a Borland County reservoir and the other, 21, jumps in after him. Borland County Coroner said authorities found the boys’ bodies seven hours later. He said the boys were there with their father and friends at Ashby National Forest for three days of fishing.”

Alex shook his head and leaned back. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“They should have asked the mother if she wanted to keep the gun, the .38. And the father, they should have asked him if his sons owned their own fishing poles.” Lemon was standing next to the table.

Mr. Winesburg smiled. “Good to see you Lemon. Go on, take a seat and order something.”

Lemon took a chair from another table and set it at the corner between Mr. Winesburg and Gabe. He sat down. He slid in the chair. He looked at the surface of the table. Epi looked up. “No more of this kind of talk at the table. We’ll be eating soon and I’d like to keep my appetite.”

“Of course, darling. We wouldn’t want to put you out.” Alex was looking at Lemon as he said it, handing him a menu. Epi looked at the surface of the table.

Gabe leaned over, “What did I tell you, trouble in paradise.”

“So I hear you’re looking to be editor.” Alex said. “That’s good. Someone can finally put Gabe out of his misery.”

“I’m perfectly content, thanks for asking. And, if you’re at all interested, the paper happens to be making a nice profit.” Gabe nodded at Lemon.

“Hopefully, we’ll be making more than a profit once Lemon comes back.”

“No, Mr. Winesburg. I’m not coming back.”

“I thought you had this all sorted Gabriel.”

“Not exactly. We’re still in negotiations.”

“No, we’re not in negotiations. I’m not the editor.”

“But,” Epi said, “I thought you always wanted to be an editor? Didn’t you tell me you wanted to be an editor?”

“Of course he’s going to be the editor, darling. How could he not?”

“I have a job right now. And it’s a good job. People are–”

“You’re a storage clerk. That’s hardly a job.” Mr. Winesburg looked at Lemon then to Gabriel. “Alright then, the subject is closed. It’s obvious the boy’s got his mind made up. When he reconsiders he knows where to find me.” He turned to Epiphany. “So, how was the honeymoon?”

“It was very sunny. I’ve got some photos.” Epi opened her purse and pulled out a small envelope. “We did all sorts of things. Scuba diving was the most fun I think. Alex would disagree, but I liked it the most.”

“It was boring. We saw five fish, all of them about the size of a tadpole.”

“The reef was beautiful. And enormous. I wanted to see some sea turtles, but it wasn’t the right season I guess. That’s what the guide said anyway.”

“The guide was an idiot. Some kid who spent a summer watching the Discovery Channel. If we had gone out a little further we might have seen something really interesting, like a shark or a sting ray or something with teeth. Now that would have been exciting, right Lemon.”

Lemon looked up from the table and nodded.

“See I knew it. When I looked at you, I could tell you were the kind of person who liked to take risks. I could tell. I’ve got a great sense for these kinds of things.”

Epiphany looked at Lemon.

“So,” Gabe said, “what about those photos?”

Epiphany opened the envelope and handed him the photos. He took half of them and handed them to Mr. Winesburg.

“We were trying to get as many photos as we could of us together. The timer was a little tricky.”

“I got it working.”

“There’s a few blurry pictures.”

“That’s a nice sunset.” Gabe showed her the picture.

“It was incredible. That was on the third day. We spent the night sitting on the beach. The hotel was just right there, practically on the shore. We laid in a hammock and watched the waves crash. We were out there until almost midnight.”

Gabe gave Lemon a half wink. “So why’d you come home early?”

“Well,” Alex said, “It was, well, you see, we traded in our tickets for an earlier flight, so, we, could save money. We explored everything we wanted to explore so we just, we just decided it was time to come home.”

“You should put a slideshow together,” Mr. Winesburg said, “for the anniversary party your mother and I are having in a few weeks. Everyone would like that. I know your mother would.”

“That’s a great idea Dad.”

“And Lemon, if you’re interested,” Mr. Winesburg said, “You should come. I’ll be sure to send you a formal invitation.”

Lemon looked up from the table and nodded.

“Good.” Mr. Winesburg said, “we’ll see you there.”

Lemon slid out his chair. Stood up. Slid in his chair. Walked to the bathroom. He went to the faucet. Turned on the faucet. Set it to hot. Got soap from the dispenser. Rubbed his hands together. Between his fingers. His palms. The wrists. Around the wrists and the back of the hands. He moved his hands under the water and rubbed his hands together. Between his fingers. His palms. The wrists. Around the wrists and the back of the hands. He pulled three paper towels from the rack. Dried his hands. Used a paper towel to open the door. Walked to the table. Slid out his chair. Sat down. Slid in his chair.

“You just missed the waitress,” Gabe said, “I hope you don’t mind that we ordered for you.” Lemon looked up from the table and shook his head.

He took fish food from the cabinet next to the tank. Tapped it three times into his left hand. Sprinkled it on the surface of the water. Watched the fish bob and nibble. He pulled a chair from the table. Sat down and watched. The goldfish would take a bite. Swallow. Take another. Spit it out. Chew a smaller piece. Take another. Spit it out into a smaller piece. Take another. Lemon liked watching the goldfish. He liked counting the flakes that floated to the bottom.

He won a goldfish once. When he was little. At a carnival. By throwing a dime into a glass soda bottle. He couldn’t remember what happened to the goldfish. He couldn’t remember bringing it home. He thought he remembered his dad eating it. With his mouth open. The goldfish pinched between his finger and thumb. Dropping it so the tail flapped against his lips. And how he swallowed without chewing. Then emptied the plastic bag of water in the grass.

Lemon didn’t like to think about it. The story didn’t make sense. People didn’t eat goldfish, especially the kind won at carnivals.

Lemon stood up. Pushed the chair back under the table. Walked to the closet. Pulled out a shoebox. Walked to the couch. Sat down. Opened the shoebox. Took out a pair of running shoes. He loosened the laces. First the right. Then the–

A knock-knock at the door. He loosened the laces of the left shoe. Another knock-knock at the door. He set the shoes back in the shoebox. He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it.

“Natalie?”

“Hey Lemon. I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by and give you this.” She opened her purse. Pulled out lipstick. Sunglasses. Three pens. A calculator. Set them on the table. Unzipped another pocket. “It’s here don’t worry.” She took out a wallet. Cell phone. Chap stick. Finally an envelope. She gave it to him. “It’s an invitation to my mom and dad’s anniversary party. They’re really going all out this year. I was surprised you wanted to go. I just kind of figured after everything, well, you know. I just, I thought we had seen the last of you.” She scrunched her eyes and put her left hand on her forehead. “Oh, wait, wait. That came out wrong. I just, I thought, after my sister, you know, with Alex and the wedding and everything, I thought you weren’t going to have anything to do with us, that’s, that’s what I meant.”

Lemon walked to the couch. Sat down. Opened the shoebox. Took out the running shoes. Put on the right shoe. Then the left. He adjusted the laces and tied them with a double knot.

“You know,” Natalie said, “I always liked reading your articles. I never got a chance to tell you that. The paper’s just not the same without you.” Lemon stood up. Natalie got wide eyed. “Now, now I’m not saying you should go back. That’s not what I’m saying at all. When I was in college dad would send me the paper every week. He always had your articles circled in red. And they were always worth reading. I just, I heard you weren’t writing anymore, that’s all and, and”

Lemon was standing next to her. “It’s nine o’clock.” He started stretching the hamstring of his right leg. “I go jogging at nine o’clock.”

“Oh, I should probably go then,” She walked to the table and started putting things back in her purse. She stopped. Took a deep breath. Stepped out of her high heels. Turned to face Lemon. “Do you have another pair of running shoes?”

He pointed to the closet. “The pink shoebox. They’re Epi’s. They should fit.”

“Alright,” she said, “let me just change out of this skirt.”

“Bottom left drawer in the bedroom.”

Natalie walked to the bedroom and closed the door. She slid down her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. Threw both on the bed. She opened the bottom left dresser drawer. It was full of Epi’s clothes. She opened the drawer above it and the one above that. Half of the dresser was full of her clothes. Natalie slid the top drawers shut. She took a pair of track shorts and a white tank top from the bottom drawer. She slid the track shorts up. She pulled the tank top down over her head. It was a little tight around her chest. She checked herself out in the mirror. Adjusted the back of her shorts.

“It’s 9:07. We’re late now.”

She smiled. “I’m almost done.” She took time to fix her hair. She noticed a reflection of the two nightstands in the mirror. The one to the right of the bed had a pair of reading glasses. Lemon’s reading glasses. To the left there was a book. Natalie turned and walked to the left nightstand. It must have been her sister’s. She picked up the book. There was a thin layer of dust on the cover and a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. She set the book down and wiped the dust from her fingers on the track shorts.

Lemon knocked at the door. “Hurry up.”

She opened the door. “What? Do you need to be some where?”

“No, I have” Her thighs walked into view. Her pink running shorts. With her hands on her hips. Her coy grin. He pointed at his wristwatch.

“We’d better get going then.” She said, waiting for him to turn. She pushed him down the hall and out the door. He locked the door. They walked down the stairs and stretched their calves and thighs in the parking lot.

“I’m not slowing down for–”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine.” She was stretching her side.

“From here, around the park and back is three miles.”

“Is that all?” She grinned and looked back at him. “You see this,” she stuck her butt out and pointed to the text written across the back of her short track shorts. “You’re going to be reading this all night.” She continued to stretch. “Oh wait.” She scrunched her eyes and put her left hand on her forehead. “Wait, wait, that’s not. I didn’t mean.” She sighed and looked at him. “I’m going to run faster than you.”

He started running.

“Hey,” she yelled, “That was a false start. Cheater.” She ran after him, taking long full strides, breathing easy, her hands light and relaxed. She was in a sprint beside him. “Sneaky moves,” she took a breath “not keep you,” another breath “in lead,” another breath “cheater.”

“Faster,” he took a breath “thanks to you,” he took a breath “now late.”

She scowled at him. “For what?”

“Back,” he took a breath, “9:40,” another breath, “go faster.” He doubled his stride. And his speed. He was breathing harder. She doubled her stride and kept pace. He looked at his watch every few minutes. He was sweating. She was sweating. Both out of breath. Breathing hard. And harder. She wiped sweat from her right eye then flicked it at him. He didn’t seem to notice. He was running.

They were reaching the other side of the park. She could see the apartment. He was looking at his watch. And running. A little faster. She was breathing hard. Through her mouth. Out of breath. Breathing. And pushing her arms up. And down. Her legs up. And down. The final stretch of asphalt. The parking lot.

She was running. He was running. So close. To the street. And the parking lot. Almost. And. They slowed. To a walk. His arms on his head. Her right hand pinching her side. Walking through the parking lot to the stairs. Sweat covering his chest and back. Sweat covering her chest and back.

Up the stairs. Her one step ahead of him. To the third story. “Ha.” She said, turning to face him with her hands on her hips. “I told you I’d win. Now,” she said, “I demand a hot shower and something cold to drink.”

He walked to his apartment. Unlocked the door. Opened it. She followed him in. He took a glass from the cupboard. Filled it with crushed ice and cold water. Gave it to her. She drank it all and set the cup on the counter. He took another glass from the cupboard. Filled it with crushed ice and cold water.

She walked to the bathroom. Closed the door. Slid off the track shorts. The tank top. Unbuckled her bra. Tossed it on the floor. Slid down her panties. Turned on the shower. Set it to moderately hot. Forced her shoes off without loosening the laces. Stepped into the bathtub.

There were two bottles of shampoo in the front left corner. One was a quarter full and had a picture of lilacs on the front. It looked like Epi’s brand. Natalie poured some in her hand and rubbed it on her hair. She scrubbed and rinsed. Took soap. Lathered and scrubbed. Her legs. Her arms. Her body and neck. Her feet. Between her toes. She rinsed. Turned off the shower. Squeezed the water from her hair. Took a towel from the rack next to the shower. Wrapped it around her chest and tucked it in. She rubbed the steam from the mirror. Took a long deep breath. She looked at the sink. The counter. There were two toothbrushes. She picked one up. The pink one. It had ‘Epi’ written on it. She put the toothbrush back. She opened the bathroom door, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door.

She opened the second dresser drawer on the right. Found a clean pair of panties, green striped. A white XL t-shirt. She put them on. Then fixed her hair in the mirror.

She opened the bedroom door, walked to the living room, and sat on the couch next to Lemon.

“That felt good. Were you going to take one?” Her cheeks were still red. And her chest.

“I have to wait for the hot water.”

“Oh.” She smiled, “sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” He loosened the laces of his right shoe. Then his left. He took the shoes off. Put them in the shoebox. He stood up. Walked to the closet. Put the shoebox on the floor under his winter jackets. Walked to the bathroom. Picked up the track shorts. The tank top. The bra. Her panties. The running shoes. He walked to the bedroom. Put the shoes in the pink shoebox. He shut the second dresser drawer on the right. He walked out of the bedroom to the hall closet. Set the pink shoebox on top of the other shoebox. He closed the closet door. Walked to the next door on the right. Opened it. Put Natalie’s clothes in the washing machine. Put in detergent. Set it to wash. He walked to the couch. He sat down next to Natalie.

“You know I could have done all that.” She said, searching the seat cushions for the TV remote. She pulled up the left couch cushion. “There’s a show Epi and I used to watch that comes on in a few minutes. I was going to,” she put the left couch cushion back and rifled through the magazines on the table next to the couch. “If I could just find the remote.”

Lemon stood up. Walked to the television. Took the remote from the top of the television. Walked back to the couch. Sat down. He handed Natalie the remote.

“Oh. That’s a strange place to keep it.” She turned the TV on. “I remember this was Epi’s favorite show. She had to watch it every week and she couldn’t miss an episode. She was such a little kid. She practically threw a fit if she missed it. I don’t know if she watches it anymore. She probably has a,” Natalie looked over at Lemon. She scrunched her eyes and put her left hand on her forehead. “Geeze, what am I thinking. You know Epi is, she’s not, and I’m, well, I’m not going to talk about her. I’m sure the last thing you want is to talk about her. It was probably a rerun anyway, the show I mean, it was probably a rerun.” She turned the TV off and set the remote on the coffee table.

She stretched her arms up and back. “You know, I could fall asleep I’m so tired. I haven’t run like that for awhile.” She yawned, then remembered to cover her mouth. “You don’t mind if I crash here tonight, do you?”

He stood up. Walked to the closet. Took out a pillow and a blanket. Walked back. Set them on the coffee table. And sat down on the couch next to Natalie. “You can have the couch or the bed.”

“Oh, no, no. The couch is fine. More than enough room for me.” She took the pillow from the coffee table. Put it against the left armrest of the couch. Laid back and stretched her legs out on Lemon’s lap. “You may not remember,” she said, “This would have been awhile ago. You were talking with my dad. It was at our house. It was about an article you wrote. He said it didn’t matter how true it was or how important it was, he wouldn’t publish it, not in his paper, not ever. He was yelling kind of loud and the whole family could hear him. Then, and I’ll never forget what you said,” she tried to keep a serious face “you said, but I’ve never written a single word of truth in my entire life.” She burst into laughter. “You said it so calmly. I thought my dad was going to have a heart attack. I don’t think anyone has ever, with him, I mean, that was the first and only time I’ve ever seen him speechless. And no matter what he may say, that was the moment I wanted to be a journalist.” She wiped the water from the sides of her eyes. “I think you’re the only person who could ever get away with something like that.” She smiled at him.

“Your articles haven’t been in the paper?”

“What? Oh, my articles, well, dad wanted me to do some training first. Just to get a sense of what it takes to write for the paper. He said by the end of the year I’d get a chance at having my own column. He said it wasn’t a guarantee. But all I need is a chance.” She yawned again and crossed her legs. “My articles are good. Maybe not as good as yours, but they’re good. They’re worth reading.” She turned onto her left side and laid her head into the pillow, under her arm. Her eyes closed. She was breathing softly.

He reached for the blanket on the coffee table. Her legs were still on his lap. He opened the blanket and laid it over her feet and legs, pulled it up over her chest, carefully, he reached for the light, turned it off and tried to go to sleep, leaning his head back, between the couch and the wall, then to the right, slow, not to wake her. He didn’t want to wake her. She looked comfortable he thought. About the first sentence he learned. And how the teacher wrote it on the chalkboard.

Weliveinabluehousewithwindows.

She asked him to write it properly. She gave him a piece of paper. And a pencil. She told him to write it properly. He didn’t really. He wasn’t. She told him. He. He counted the letters.

Wel ive ina blu eho use wit hwi ndo ws.

She said it was wrong. He wrote it again.

Weliv einab lueho usewi thwin dows.

She said it was wrong. He wrote it again.

We li ve in ab lu eh ou se wi th wi nd ow s.

She said it was wrong. He wrote it again.

Weli vein ablu ehou sewi thwi ndow s.

She said it was wrong. He wrote it again.

Welive inablu ehouse withwi ndows.

She said it was wrong. He wrote it again.

Welivei nablueh ousewit hwindow s.

She took the piece of paper. She said he didn’t have to write it anymore.

... ... ...

To continue reading this book, purchase it from Amazon, B&N, Apple, or Smashwords for the low price of $4.99.