More Than Words(13)

Nina was surprised he’d brought up his ex-wife. But maybe he felt safe talking about her with Nina in the same way she felt safe talking about her dad with him. She wondered if she could ask more, ask why they’d gotten divorced. The rumor was that one night they went out for dinner and a helicopter ride around Manhattan to celebrate their third anniversary, and the next morning, she told him that she wanted out, that she hadn’t been happy for a long time. In looking at him now, Nina couldn’t figure out what about Rafael could make a woman unhappy.

“It is kind of nice,” she said. Though it meant they were next to one another instead of across a table. More of a chance for their elbows or thighs to accidentally touch.

“I’m sorry you won’t be able to make it to the Lancers’ event,” he said as their food arrived. “How’s your dad doing?”

Nina shrugged. “He’s mostly okay,” she said. “But I keep noticing things. Small things. And I know there are going to be more and more of them. That it’ll snowball until . . .” Her throat felt full. She wouldn’t cry in front of him again. Especially not in the middle of a diner.

Rafael had picked up his sandwich, but put it back on his plate, uneaten.

“Do you read poetry?” he asked her.

Nina swallowed the lump in her throat. “Not much,” she said. “But a little. When I was a kid, I memorized Lewis Carroll’s ‘Jabberwocky,’ for my dad.”

“He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought—” Rafael quoted.

“So rested he by the Tumtum tree and stood awhile in thought,” Nina finished.

Rafael laughed. “You’re full of surprises,” he said.

You too, Nina wanted to say. But instead she just smiled. “Why did you bring up poetry?”

“Well,” Rafael answered, stretching out the word. “I took a couple of poetry classes in college, and I’ve come to think of life like poetry. It’s my own theory, but it makes me feel better about things.”

“What do you mean?” Nina asked, hoping that whatever he was about to say would be comforting.

“I think of people like poems,” he said. “Maybe someone’s a haiku, or a villanelle, or a cinquain, a sonnet—our length and form are predestined, but our content isn’t. And each form has its own challenges, its own difficulties, and its own beauty. Your father’s poem is coming to an end, but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful or worthwhile or important.”

Nina felt her eyes brim with tears and blinked hard. Instead of letting them out, she picked up her grilled cheese and took a bite, focusing on its flavor, how it felt on her tongue.

“Did you pick poems for people at the office?” Nina asked, after she’d swallowed, her tears gone.

“Hm, not really,” Rafael said, taking a bite of his own sandwich. “But I think Jane is probably a limerick. A bit of rigidity, but also funny and irreverent and predictably unpredictable.”

Nina laughed. “What about Mac?”

“Lineated prose poem,” Rafael said. “Intense and compact, but freer than most poetry. Kind of outside the box.”

“I like this,” she said, though she might have come up with something else for Mac, something that captured his arrogance and impatience. “Does it work for everyone?”

“If you think long enough, you could probably make a case for everyone being some kind of poem,” he said.

“Even me?” she asked, the words slipping out before she realized that they could be dangerous.

“Even you,” he answered, looking directly at her, his dark eyes sparkling. This man is dangerously charming, Nina warned herself. “I think you’re a sestina.”

“I’m afraid to ask why,” she said, continuing the conversation against her better judgment.

He laughed. “It’s nothing bad. Sestinas are complex and intricate. You are, too. Or at least that’s how you come across.”

She took another bite and chewed slowly. “What about you?” she asked.

“I think it’s hard to poetry-analyze yourself,” Rafael said, “but I might be a ghazal. I like the idea of the couplets being emotionally autonomous. Not everything I feel in one part of my life permeates all of it.”

“So you’re a poem that compartmentalizes?” Nina asked. The description actually felt true to her.

Rafael laughed. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

Nina realized then she wanted to know what his other compartments were like.





13



July Fourth weekend, which was also Nina’s birthday weekend, arrived before she knew it. Overriding Mac’s objections, Jane gave the okay for Nina to take the long weekend off. “Rafael said it was fine,” she told Nina as she left headquarters with her weekend bag. “He said to tell you he hopes you enjoy your birthday with your father. Oh, and he told me to give you this.” Jane handed Nina a book of poetry: The Incredible Sestina Anthology.

Nina took it and smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “And tell him thanks, too. I really appreciate the gift. And the time off. I hate asking for special treatment, but—”

“Stop it,” Jane said. “Go. Take a swim in the ocean for me. Read your poetry. I didn’t know you were into poetry.”