I did marvelously well the entire day. I sat alone on the bus until a man of moderate height and build took the seat beside me. When his T-shirt-clad shoulder brushed against my bare arm, my heart didn’t remind me how Edward’s shoulder used to brush against me, much the same way, at a bump in the road.
I stood in line at the deli and ordered turkey on sourdough, and I didn’t give a single thought to Edward’s pumpernickel.
On my way to the concert, I walked through the park and watched a couple holding hands and laughing, but their shared intimacy did not cause me to reminisce about holding hands or laughing with Edward.
I pushed my way through the crowd at the outdoor amphitheater, and as the crush of human bodies pushed along with me, I smelled the caused odors from a busy day--tobacco, grease, and sweat--mixed with the distinct fragrances of summer--barbecue, coconut oil, and rose, but I never once longed for the smell of Edward’s musk.
I sat quietly listening to the haunting sounds of a cello echo against the slope of amphitheater seats, but I never wondered if Edward would recognize the piece.
I watched the sun spread across the western sky and slip slowly beyond the horizon, and I wasn’t reminded that another day had come and gone and Edward wasn’t part of it.
I’d been alone before I’d met Edward. I could survive it again. When you grow up with a mother who insists you call her Esme, short for Esmerelda, and pretends to have gypsy blood but is really just a scam artist, you learn not to make attachments to people. You know you’ll be leaving soon.
Edward made being attached seem so normal. But I need to forget that.
Unfortunately, night has a way of jimmying the latch on the mind’s memory box.
I went to bed and snuggled under the cool sheets. I’d forgotten to close the window. Soft as you please and bright as the moon in a cloudless sky, memories of Edward, like implacable spirits, drifted inside and prickled my mind, my heart, and my soul.
* * *
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” He had to know it wasn’t. I’d been riding this bus, as had he, for weeks. But I liked him for asking.
“No, help yourself,” I said.
He perched cautiously on the corner of the seat, angled towards the aisle, twisted into an awkward position. He was trying to avoid touching me while balancing his cello case between his knees. His wallet was black eel skin, moderately thick, but smooth and easy to pick from his back pocket.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“Mmm, yes.” I didn’t look at him. I didn’t have to. I’d seen him many times--getting on the bus, eking down the aisle with his cumbersome case, or sitting in a seat in front of me. He was hard to miss--he and his cello.
And that first time, after he sat beside me, I sat staring in the window, making a game out of naming the intersections along the bus route--Third Street crosses Allison Ave., Church Street crosses Galloway--and I saw his reflection. He looked the same as he’d looked every day before--tousled, sandy hair and a tweed jacket. I liked the familiarity. He protected his cello case from passersby like most parents would guard a child. When everyone was seated, and the bus jostled into drive, he spoke.
“My name is Edward,” he said.
“Not Ed or Eddie?”
“No, just Edward.”
I looked at him then. “I like just Edward,” I said. The window reflection didn’t do justice to his smile or his green eyes. “I’m Kate.”
“Not Katherine or Katie?”
“No, just Kate.”
“I like just Kate.” And he smiled again.
We rode the rest of the way without words. No “Where do you work, Kate?” or “How old are you, Kate?” No “Have you lived here all your life, Edward?” or “Do you like riding the bus as much as I do, Edward?” Not that first side-by-side ride.
I returned to staring out the window. Memorizing the street names tricked you into believing you knew them all your life. Edward sat facing forward, absently caressing his cello case. At every dip in the road or turn of the wheel, his bulky shoulder bounced against mine.
I looked forward to Detroit Street, where winter had been particularly harsh to the pavement.
* * *
I thought of switching on a lamp to read, but couldn’t. The summer air was heavy, pressing against my arms and draining them of strength. Esme’s quilt felt more like chains than threadbare cotton. Why had I let Edward leave so easily? Why hadn’t I gone to Europe with him?
A gauzy cloud coasted over the moon. I closed my eyes and tried not to let its shifting image kindle another memory. My stomach grumbled.
* * *
The sidewalk tables were packed with people itching to get their first taste of warm weather. Edward’s cello case came in handy as a seat saver, but you could never make a fast getaway with it. Well, maybe Edward could. He lugged it around like an extra limb. There were worn spots in the leather--on the grip, at the base of the neck-- and his name was scrawled in fourth-grade penmanship just below the handle. I ran a finger over the block letters and thought about Edward as a small boy. I wondered what sorts of things his mother made him do. Clean his room. Call her Mama. Practice the cello, certainly. I’d wager he never had to pretend to be lost, so a nice, well-tailored, well-groomed, ring-less-left-hand gentleman would help him find his mother or his ‘older sister,’ depending on the age of the gentleman. Cello practicing was better.
I spotted Edward as he emerged from the deli. When I waved, the bracelets lining my wrist jingled like sleigh bells. Edward shimmied through the crowd, balancing a tray with sandwiches and drinks. The sun glinted in the blond streaks of his hair like gold in a riverbed.
“How do you always manage to find a seat at the edge of the crowd?” he asked.
“Just lucky I guess,” was my easy answer.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Edward lifted his face toward the sky and briefly closed his eyes, before taking his seat.
“Yeah, the pickpockets should be out in droves.”
“What an odd thing to say, Kate.”
“Is it?”
“Sort of, yes.”
“I don’t know what made me think it. Maybe you should check your wallet.”
Edward patted his back left pocket. “Safe and sound as always,” he said.
“Shove it down further, just so the edge doesn’t show.”
“My hands are full, maybe *you* should do it for me.” Edward smirked as he grabbed his sandwich.
I reached around to his back pocket and slid my fingers along his rump, pretending to have difficulty finding the wallet.
“Uh, Kate?”
“Hmm?”
“If you keep that up, I’ll give the damn wallet to anyone who asks, just so there’s more room for your hand.”
I laughed. “What a gentleman you are, Edward,” and then I shoved his wallet down as far as it would go.
He took a bite of his sandwich.
“Thank you, ma’am! Can I have a kiss now?” Edward didn’t usually talk with food in his mouth but now his words were muffled.
“But your mouth is full of sandwich!”
“I know.” His eyes sparked with mischief, and his lips were glossy from mayonnaise.
“I don’t like pumpernickel.” I said.
