Clair de Lune (Sample)
Clair de Lune
The rain has stopped, and its dreary rhythm, that comfortable chaos of white noise, eases away and leaves Frankie quietly alone in her apartment.
She is staring at the call box, waiting for that beautifully awful buzz that announces an arrival. It has been weeks since she has heard that sound and expected a visitor other then someone dropping off take-out. She has been waiting on that buzz for the better part of ten minutes, sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at the box, trying to place her attention on something other than her crying, but she just can’t stop.
Stop thinking about it. Refocus.
It is a clean box, not really a box at all, but a rounded white rectangular object that rests on the wall by her door. The box represents a level of sterility that you might expect to see in a hospital or a government building, and there is no question that it does not fit the décor of the rest of Frankie’s apartment. Her apartment suggests a more colorful person, though Frankie feels as though it expresses a level of color that she does not match, or doesn’t allow herself to match.
She breaks down again, and she turns away from the box as if it were watching her and she didn’t want it to see her crying. Then she turns back to it, slowly, almost as if she were waiting for it to comfort her somehow.
Come on. Come on.
She stands up to go to the bathroom, to check her eyes, her make-up.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
She stops in her tracks, turns, and immediately pushes herself toward the box, making obvious attempts to straighten her voice out. She practices, “Yes?” Again. “Yes?” Does she sound like she has been crying?
Buzz!
“Yes?”
“It’s Johnny,” a voice says, stained with crackling static.
“Come on up,” she says with a forced air of normalcy, although she thought she could hear that nasally weeping sound coming from her throat. She hits the button on the box to buzz him in. She cracks the door open and runs to the bathroom. Her eyes are red, and clearly show that she has been crying. She is too old to hide the emotional signs of crying that she could more easily hide in her twenties. She runs some water into the cups of her hands and rushes it over her face and eyes.
Make-up be damned, she thinks. It’s more important that he not think you’re an emotional wreck. She looks at her reflection in the mirror, even if you are.
There is a sheepish knock at the door, “Hello? Frankie?”
“Come on in. I’ll be out in a minute,” she yells from the bathroom. She hears the creaking sound of the door opening.
I wonder what he thinks of the apartment. I should have been out there to gauge his reaction.
When she walks out of the bathroom and into the living room, Johnny is standing by the door. He is wet, dripping wet.
“God, Johnny. You’re soaked.”
“Yea, I guess I am. Sorry. I think I’m raining on your floor.”
“Let me get you a towel.” Frankie heads for the bathroom, where she grabs two large towels, sneaks another peek into the mirror—Horrible! How could you possibly look any worse? — and rushes the towels out to Johnny.
“Don’t you own an umbrella?”
“Sure I do, but it wasn’t raining when I left, but when I came up from the subway it was pouring.”
“That past pretty quick, though. Why didn’t you wait?”
“I didn’t want to be late,” he says and smiles at her. His wet hair is slicked back from the rain and he looks nice, even wet his dark suit sits perfectly on his thin frame. He cleans up better than she expected.
“You can have a seat,” Frankie says as she moves by him into her kitchen area.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to get your furniture wet.”
“Don’t worry about it. Would you like something to drink, some wine, or—wine?”
“No, thanks. I don’t drink.”
He doesn’t drink. Oh God. Is he religious? Will he be put off if I drink? “Would you mind if I have a drink?”
“No, please do.”
What did he mean by that, ‘Please do’? Does he want to get me drunk?
She pours herself a glass of white wine, her third since after the phone call. Why did he have to call tonight of all nights? Stop. Just Stop. I’m not going to think about it now. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I wonder if she’s a drinker or just being courteous. Maybe she doesn’t drink often. Maybe it’s just a behavior of occasion. Maybe she is nervous. God, I hope she isn’t a big drinker. Drinkers are always hiding from something. Were her eyes puffy when I came it? Was she crying? What is she hiding from?
Johnny felt good before he came up, confident. Now, all of a sudden, he feels fidgety. His foot is tapping the floor softly with that evidence of nervousness that he always tries to conceal through movement.
As Frankie moves from her kitchen to the living room, Johnny is sitting on the arm of the couch, as if he were waiting for her. He smiles again. It is a great smile, a unique smile. He has one crooked tooth that you can’t help but notice but there is no question that it adds character. He would be too normal looking without that tooth. His face is just starting to age. You can see a couple smile lines, maybe some crow’s feet developing, but he’s got a strong head of dark hair, and outside of a few acne scars, nothing really to complain about.
“You look beautiful, Frankie.”
“Thanks,” she says, and she smiles for the first time, a big smile, as if his smile’s bigness was contagious, and for a moment she has forgotten her sadness. She is happy standing there starting her date with Johnny.
Johnny, however, is worried. He is certain now that she has been crying. He can hear it in her voice.
Why has she been crying? Does she not want to do this? He thought he sensed a mutual attraction at work. He was sure of it. Maybe he misjudged her attention as attraction. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that he has been a poor judge of character.
Frankie really does look beautiful, though. She is wearing a cute, black dress, and it fits her figure perfectly. She is curvy—some might say overweight, but only slightly. Johnny prefers to think of her as curvy, and he wouldn’t take her any other way. However, he notices that she has been walking around in her stocking feet and there are no shoes in sight. He hates to rush her, but he thought he remembered telling her that he had made reservations.
“Do you have the time?” He holds up his arm, exposing his wrist, “Sorry, I never wear a watch.”
“Yea, there’s a clock on the wall behind you.”
Johnny turns, and then quickly stands up. “Wow. We really should go if we’re going to make our reservation.”
Frankie just stands there, leaning up against the wall of the entry way in between her kitchen and living room. She is clearly unhurried, the wine glass comfortably dangling from her hand.
“Johnny, I’m sorry, but do you think we might just stay in. I know you made plans and everything, and I was ready to go, but something came up earlier and I am just not feeling much like facing the city tonight.”
“What did you have in mind?” This is not going well. She has no idea how lucky I was to get that reservation. God, I was really looking forward to this, too.
“I don’t know really. I hadn’t planned to stay in.” She kind of exposes her body with her hands to show him that she had dressed for an evening out. “Obviously I was prepared to go out. I know it seems like I’m being dramatic…”
“No, it’s fine. Not a big deal. We’ll stay in.” Johnny is in defense mode now. He is clearly upset about this unexpected change, but is trying hard to smile through the discomfort.
Come on, Johnny. Calm down. This isn’t a big deal. So you’ll stay in. That’s a good thing. Right? “I meant, what did you have in mind for dinner?” Johnny asks.
“Oh,” Frankie now moves into the kitchen, Johnny casually follows her. It is a small kitchen—typical of other apartments Johnny has seen on the Upper East Side. Space is tight, but as she navigates through, looking into the cabinets, he can see from the contents and the natural ordering of things that she‘s not much of a cook, but she is neat at least. It is a clean kitchen. She squeezes by him to get to the fridge and he catches a whiff of her perfume as she moves by him. It is not overpowering, but it is unfailingly feminine and it suits her perfectly.
“You’re perfume is nice. It suits you. I like it.” She turns to look at him, half-thinking he is being sarcastic. He is serious, and his face is so real to her.
How can he seem that real on a first date? She can hardly help but show her joy at his goodness, his seeming purity. He seems like a genuinely good guy.
Don’t get your hopes up, Frankie.
“Thanks,” she says.
She has exposed the entrails of her fridge. It is not a pretty sight and the smell from inside quickly obliterates any traces of grace that had been floating in the air from her perfume.
She turns away from the fridge, “What do you think about take-out? It’s not fine dining, but it’s better than anything I have at the moment.”
“Take-out sounds great.” Johnny says, relieved she is not going to try and wrestle some old atrocity from the mouth of that fridge.
“Chinese alright?”
“Sounds fine.”
“Gourmet Wok, alright?”
“Sure, anywhere’s fine. You probably know this corner of the East Side better than I would. So, whatever you think.”
“They’re fast, and their Szechwan dumplings are great.”
“Frankie?”
“Yes,” she looks up at Johnny, he is staring at her and his face is serious. She is holding the phone, “What?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He waits a beat, but it is clear he is in mid-thought, “Cause I want to do this. I want to be here. With you. Tonight.”
“Yea, why do you…?”
“You were crying earlier… Before I got here.”
Wow! He is forward.
She pauses, openly startled, “I was, but it had nothing to do with you.”
“I hope you can tell me about it. Some time. You know, when you’re ready.” He has a way of talking that starts and stops. “I’d like for you to feel like…,” You get the feeling that he speaks his thoughts quick and in shorts bursts, like a pulse of words, “Well, you can tell me. No matter what it is.”
Frankie dials the number, but she feels a cry climbing up her throat again and she knows she can’t stifle it. “Johnny. Shit! Shit! Shit! Why did you have to bring it up? Shit!” She is crying. She leans her head down into the phone.
God, he is going to think I’m a basket case. I think I’m a basket case. I am a basket case.
“Just tell me about it, Frankie. It will make you feel better.” He stands up from the couch and walks over to her. “I promise. Really.”
“I can’t. Not now,” she says, and tries to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands, Johnny hands her a handkerchief. She laughs.
“What?”
“You carry a hankie.”
“I do.”
“I haven’t seen one of these since my grandfather died.” She wipes her eyes with Johnny’s hankie and smiles appreciatively at him. He places the hankie back in his pocket.
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“What do you want?”
“What?”
“Chinese? What do you want?”
“Oh, get me the General Tso’s.” He goes to sit back on the couch as Frankie calls the restaurant, “and grab some of those dumplings, too,” he says. Frankie nods, and he notices that there is a sudden breeze in the casualness of their exchange, which is almost startling when you consider her emotional outburst. Still, though, there is an ease in the air that comes with comfort. And how is it that he came to be comfortable with her in the course of the last several minutes? Perhaps, it is her vulnerability, or perhaps it is something larger, more out of reach from understanding. He watches her talk on the phone and all his earlier inclinations about her at the office, all his silent attraction is only magnified by watching her now, steadying herself on one foot, the heel of her left foot resting above the right foot’s ankle, like a knowing dancer. She tilts her head into the phone and turns slightly away from his stare.
You will be the death of me. I swear to god, he thinks.
Why is he staring at me? I’ll bet my eyes are all puffy again. Oh God. I always look so much older after I cry. Why did he have to say anything? Now, he’s made everything so awkward.
“OK, thanks,” she says, and hangs up the phone. She walks back toward the couch, “They say 30 minutes but it will probably be here in 15.” She sits down close to Johnny, but not too close.
“That was weird,” she says.
“What?”
“Déjà vu,” Oh god, why did I say that? There’s another reason for him to think your crazy.
“Me, too.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No I’m not.”
She gets up and walks back toward the kitchen. Johnny follows.
“I swear I just had it too. Right when you sat down. I had that dizzy feeling in my head like someone had edited a scene from a dream I’d had and placed it over top that moment where you sat down beside me. Right then. I had it too.”
“Really?”
“I’ve never shared a déjà vu with someone.”
“I don’t even know if I’ve heard of anyone sharing a déjà vu with someone.”
“It’s fate,” he says.
“Oh, come on. It was interesting. I’ll give you that, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Why not?”
“Because fate seems like something you can say with the benefit of hindsight, like, ‘Remember that time when we both had that déjà vu and now that we’ve been married for ten years it seems that it was fated.’”
“Why wait to say it? Why does fate need to be confirmed through future experience?”
“I don’t know. It just seems like a corny way to place something that just happened in a more grandiose light. I’m not even sure it was that big of a deal.”
“That seems awfully cynical to me.”
“Well, it seems cynical to me that you would try to make a single moment that could have been a small, sweet, shared experience and have to make it into something bigger then it is.” You’re being too aggressive. Why are you being so aggressive?
Johnny sits down on the arm of the couch again. Frankie is in the kitchen, still in Johnny’s view. She is gathering up some napkins and some silverware. “You know, I‘ve always had this theory, just a personal theory, mind you, that all of my déjà vu’s or big coincidences are a message that I am on the right path. And we just had, both of us, a déjà vu and a coincidence. It’s synchronicity.”
“What?”
“It’s a term, a Carl Jung term, meaning something like an important coincidence.”
“Message from whom?”
“What?”
“You said it was a message that you were on the right path, a message from whom?” Please don’t say God. Please don’t say God.
“That I’m not so sure about, I guess.”
“Let’s just drop it. It was a nice moment. I don’t see any reason to apply some deeper meaning to it.”
“Fair enough.” Johnny walks over to the window and looks out. Her apartment does not have the greatest view of the city. “This is a nice apartment. Great location.”
“Yea, it’s pretty great. My only complaint is that there’s no escape from the city.” As she says this a siren is heard. “Right on cue.”
“The moon is beautiful tonight, Frankie, big and cloudy white. You should come see this.” Frankie comes into the living room from the kitchen and stands next to Johnny. He is leaning into the window, looking up.
“Where? I can’t see it.”
“You have to get closer.” She leans in, and they are close enough to feel the other’s warmth, and again he smells her perfume. He closes his eyes for a minute, just to soak in the moment and then he looks over and sees her neck, and elegantly longish neck, her hair lying softly around it. He has an inclination to wipe the hair away with deliberate fingers, but thinks better of the impulse.
Later. Later. God, she is a wonder, though.
“You know, I’ve lived in this building for 12 years, and I swear I’ve never seen the moon.”
“Maybe, I brought it with me.”
She stops, and looks over at Johnny. They are so close that the thought of a kiss is inherent in their closeness. Johnny confirms that it is too early for it and so he turns back to the moon.
“I’ve been hiding it, saving it for you.”
“I’m amazed that you let yourself say things like that.”
“I’m amazed that sometimes I believe the things I say.” As he eases away from the window he looks at her leaning into the glass, looking out at his moon, “The moonlight suits you. You really do look beautiful tonight. I am happy to be here with you. Really. It’s nice. Me. You. And the moon.”
She turns to look at him. Is he for real? Who says that? “No one would ever doubt that you were a poet.”
Comments