When We Collided(3)
He tips his coffee back, emptying it. “Where’d you learn about that?”
“From my friend.” Can I still call Ruby my friend? Her image invades my brain, her hot-pink lipstick and fringed black hair, and I’m sickened with missing her, with missing her whole family. “Last spring, her mom did this huge mixed-media show juxtaposing the Japanese aesthetics she grew up with and the Western aesthetics she studied in college.”
Before he can add anything, I sigh, gesturing to the sweeping cherry-branch dress. “I’m trying to translate some of the concepts into couture, but I’m not sure I can mesh them with my personal aesthetics. I like inventive, bold fashion, so I have a feeling that once I finally get to Japan, I’ll be more about the street style. Have you been?”
“I haven’t, no. But I . . .” He hesitates, pulling cash out of his wallet. “I have always wanted to see Kinkaku-ji.”
“The Golden Pavilion?”
He nods. “My mother spoke of it with awe.”
“Why haven’t you ever gone, if you want to?”
“Oh, you know. Life.” With this, he tugs a worn baseball cap onto his head. He leaves our booth without another word.
I’m not far behind him, because my morning routine has one more stop before work.
Verona Cove sits above sea level, so if you walk westward on any street in town, you’ll eventually hit the bluffs. Some of them drop off right above the ocean, and others taper downhill toward the shore. I think I imagined the California coast with surfers running headlong into the waves and with pops of colorful umbrellas. But it’s quieter, just the whoosh of water and call of birds. I stand on the cliff with mist rising from the ocean almost straight below me, and, even after a week of this, it stuns me. The natural world makes the finest architects and designers and artists look like silly amateurs. I’m so lucky to stand witness to panoramic blue skies and white-tipped waves and the craggy earth beneath my feet.
I anticipated the few birds that scamper near me, which is why I pocketed some crumbs of waffle from my breakfast. They peck at the torn pieces on the ground while I dig into my purse for the thing I came here to discard. I have two neon-orange bottles in my purse, so I’ve got to make sure I find the right one.
The pills are smooth to the touch. I push my finger against one pill to slide it out. Once it’s in my hand, I wind up because I’ve learned that you’ve really got to put some force behind the meager weight of a tiny pill. I fling my arm forward, hand opening for the release.
The pill soars over the cliff, and I imagine the tiniest plink as it hits the ocean’s surface. Maybe a fish will spot it, and his round mouth will break above water to ingest it, and if he’s been having some rough emotional ups and downs, he’ll feel better! You’re welcome, little guy.
Turning my back to the Pacific, I start toward the pottery shop. I can’t imagine a better summer job. I don’t have to wear a uniform, and I get to watch people create art, which is almost voyeuristic—a glimpse at the bare soul. Magic, I tell you. Magic.
I lucked into the job, really. On my second day in Verona Cove, I sat on the bench outside the shop hoping to entertain myself for a while once it opened. By the time the owner showed up—an hour after the posted opening time—I’d run my pencil down sketching dresses. The owner, Whitney, has the warmest energy and the best curls I’ve ever seen—thousands of them, tightly wound. I couldn’t stop staring at her hair and thinking that God himself must have created it with a curling iron the size of a number two pencil. Her apologies flurried between explanations—that she got into this groove with her own pottery the night before, that she overslept again.
We sat for the next hour, me painting a bowl for my mom and Whitney organizing the glaze paints into rainbow formation. She kept apologizing, but I told her not to worry about it, that sleep and I are only casual acquaintances. She joked that maybe I should work in the shop some mornings so she could sleep in. Actually, I said. I’ve been meaning to get a job. That’s when she stopped laughing and asked if I was serious, even though she could only pay me minimum wage. And, well, you can probably guess what my answer was because here I am, digging for the shop keys in my bag.
When I turn onto High Street, I see that the bench outside Fired Up is occupied. Sitting there are a little girl with pink sneakers and a guy about my age with dark hair. Even from a distance, I can tell his hair is not a styling choice but the result of a perpetually overdue haircut—kind of rumpled, with the start of curls. It’s really great hair; if I had hair like that, I would never cut it or dye it or change a single thing.
They’re talking as I approach, the little girl swinging her legs. The guy is seventeen or eighteen—too young to be her dad—but he almost looks like he could be someone’s dad. I can see dark circles under his eyes, so maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s his slouchy khakis and navy T-shirt with a pocket over his heart. This is not a cool outfit or an uncool outfit, just practical. Everything about him says he’s too busy to even realize he’s that cute.
“Good morning!” I say. They both stare like I’m a cartoon character come to life.
“Hey.” The guy stands abruptly, and the little girl follows his lead.
“You here to paint?”
“Yep,” he says. The girl bobs her head.
“Well, come on in.” I motion to them with one hand while still rooting around for the keys with the other, and I give my most charming smile to spur them from their muteness. I’m not much for silence; it simply doesn’t suit me. I’d rather carry on a conversation with myself than crawl the trenches of awkward nothingness. Since I’m not sure what else to say, my mind wrenches back to this morning’s activities and my breakfast companion.