“Everything’s breaking today,” Dave says, wearing an apologetic look. “Our credit card machine doesn’t want to connect with the Wi-Fi. Afraid it’s going to have to be cash.”
Sliding a few twenties out of my wallet, I hand them to Dave and ask for a receipt so I can be reimbursed from work.
I cradle the box in my arms and face Rooney, who’s fiddling with a pack of highlighters. “Well, bye.”
“May our paths cross again,” she says with a smile.
I bow with a slight bend in my knee, the box bumping against my stomach. The whole thing turns out looking more like a curtsy.
Rooney laughs.
Seriously, Jack? What was that? Go. Leave. Now.
Outside, the snow has gained in size but slowed in speed. Unlike my heart. Puffy flakes float down through the air. What an odd and interesting woman. Hugging my neck, Rooney’s scarf protects me against the cold.
A man stuffs a flyer into my available hand for Gray’s Papaya all the way uptown and for an electronics store too far downtown. I crumple the papers into my coat pocket and turn the corner toward a park. An arch I recognize from the movieThe Astronaut’s Wifelooms over a crowd of people distracted by what looks like an outdoor exhibit.
It’s a peculiar sight. All this in the middle of winter. Bright red tangles of thin rope are strung across the park, like organized chaos. Up close, the string is slightly glossy. Wax coating for protection against the elements.
I slide the box of pamphlets into my other arm and check my watch. I can’t linger but I can cross through the park.
The sound of ripping startles me. An older woman in a paint-splattered jacket tears paper out of a small sketchbook and hands it to a child.
“My last one. You’re lucky, kid. Write something on it, slip it between the strings,” she tells him. “Fate will do the rest.”
I unintentionally let out a cough at this. The woman saunters over to me.
“Something funny?” she asks, examining me. “Where did you get that scarf?”
I look down at the yarn mass wrapped around my neck and think of Rooney. I’ve never met anyone who smiled so much in such a short period of time.
“A helpful civilian,” I say.
“Right,” the woman says, eyeing me suspiciously.
I nod toward the installation. “Are you the artist?”
“I’m just a helpful civilian. The artist is RSG and she works anonymously.”
Exactly what someone who wants to remain anonymous would say.
“All I can tell you is that this,” she says, waving her hand toward the rest of the park, “is calledEntangled.”
“As in quantum entanglement?” I ask, now slightly intrigued. I scan the rest of the installation with this new piece of information in mind. In various sections are slips of white sketchbook paper tucked into the cord. “I can see that… RST?”
“RSG,” the woman repeats, elongating the “G.” “‘G’ as in gallbladder. Red String Girl.”
“Right. Well, I can see that RSG was trying to imply that the pieces of paper, or particles, maintain separation yet still remain connected across the various parts of the string. They’re influencing and being influenced by another when someone grabs one of thepapers,” I reason. “But when one paper is grabbed, it doesn’t have a twin that’s immediately affected. There’s the flaw.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s where fate comes in.”
“And that’s where you lose me,” I tell her. “What does the red have to do with quantum entanglement, or as you say, fate?”
Her expression is unchanged. “This must be your first RSG installation. Congrats. Your bubble’s been officially popped. More specifically, it’s about the Red Thread of Fate.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. Rooney must’ve just come from here and learned about this, too.
She looks me up and down. “You suit types never fail to amuse.”
