I snap myself out of it. I want that photograph. When I look at it, I can almost imagine the rosewater scent Daisy wore. Grief is a seduction. Grief cheats and lies but leaves you begging for things like a piece of copper. But oh, that photo. When it is tilted just so, the tiptoe of light across it makes us disappear.
Which is a half-truth, now. One of us is indeed gone.
I exhale, my backside still pressed against the cold brick building. Guess I’ll head toward Bleecker and see if the bakers have thrown out this morning’s bread yet.
I turn and run into a vest lined with smart tortoiseshell buttons. They march skyward to a slim red tie, starched collar, strong stubbled jaw, jaunty flat straw hat.
“Oh! Pardon me.”
That coffee voice. His olive skin is tanned, his hair and features dark.
And then my eyes lock onto his. His eyes, bottle green, with a sheen of silver. He smiles, his face lifting on one side, then the other. Cocky.
It’s him.
The young man steps back, smiling, and it’s warm, like a fresh cinnamon roll. I don’t trust it for a second. Too sticky-sweet. He removes his expensive hat in one graceful measure. “Stella Bohdan?”
I flinch. Not that name. It is my grain of rice. It is the one thing that could tip the scale.
But this gentleman must somehow catch my hesitation. He dips his head until my eyes are forced to meet his. “Wait. Ah… no! It reallyisRose, isn’t it? Very clever, using your real name as your stage name! Hiding in plain sight.”
“No.” My heart is in my throat. How could he possibly know that? “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“Rose! It’s lovely. ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’?”
“Are you… commenting on how I smell?”
“It’s Shakespeare.”
“I’m aware. But it’s still commentary on my scent.”
“It’s commentary on your name. On sweetness.”
“Ah. Well. If you’re equating me with sweetness, you have a lot to learn, sir.”
The gentleman cocks a grin. “So… bitter, then. Understood.”
Who is this guy? Infuriating! My cheeks flush with frustration.
He continues: “?‘Something wicked this way comes?’ ‘To be or not to be?’ That old guy had all sorts of humdingers.”
I clench my jaw, impatient to move along. “Yes. Hamlet. Always asking the wrong questions.”
His eyes shine. “What do you mean?”
I huff. “To be or not to be. That’s not accurate at all, now, is it? No one simplyceases to be. They just… exist differently.”
The gentleman pauses. I feel the shadows thicken around him, his aura prickling. “It’s real for you, isn’t it? You actually hear them.”
I breathe to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. And it’s a gift. It might presently seem like a curse, because you don’t know how to control it. But it is a gift, Rose.”
“Donotcall me Rose. It’s Stella to you.” I’ve never once invited someone to call me that name, but it feels safer with him somehow. People often ask me if the voices are real, but I rarely encounter people whotellme they are. I study this fellow. He has thick, wavy hair and I wonder about lacing my fingers in it. This thought surprises me, and I shake it off. I continue to evaluate him with a more objective eye. He still sports his expensive watch chain. Expensive things can pay bills.
I finally confess I know him: “You were in that last reading.”
“I was.”
