We somehow find the same space in the rich earth. There are so many plots, so many squares of chocolate colored dirt, and still, our hands bump. Not even a graze, but a nearly complete overlap. As I am apt to revert to anxiety, I instantly think of the subway and my incessant need to avoid strangers’ hands on the filthy pole meant to steady standing riders.
Gross, I think.
Sorry, I say, hastily pulling my hand away as if having touched something lava hot.
I glance down at my fingers and trace the bits of dirt and plant matter clinging to them. Her fingers look long and lean by comparison, which isn’t hard, I suppose, given the childlike nature of most of my extremities. Short and stubby everything.
She looks over at me and unselfconsciously runs her similarly filthy fingers down her long ponytail.
Ugh, she says, I keep doing that. Touching every part of me with dirt, I mean.
I laugh and pat my hands on my thighs, as if in solidarity. Look, I think, I’m also dirty.
Tiny gold hoops adorn her small ears, which seem to fit perfectly with the delicate features of her face.
Thin, pink lips formed into a half smile, brown eyes ringed with dark lashes, and high regal cheekbones. There’s something vaguely exotic about her appearance, but not in that way that’s off-putting.
The hair she’s just festooned with Home Depot supplied soil is auburn and looks to be native. Undyed, that is. Pure. That’s more than I can say, suddenly consumed with thoughts of my expensive highlights and pricier lowlights.
Your hair is beautiful, I say, feeling the warmth of embarrassment heating my already sun kissed cheeks.
Oh thanks, she replies. I like to use dirt and rocks for texture. Unpopular but cheap and highly effective.
I feel a smile stretch the lower half of my face.
She stands, and I follow, each of us making a barely perceptible groaning sound.
Sorry, she says, I couldn’t stay in that position for much longer. Another gift of mid-life, I suppose.
Yeah, I say, I get it.
My words are unimaginative and I’m consumed with the idea that I’m robotic and highly uninteresting.
She holds out the same earth-stained hand that was previously combing through her wavy hair- Leslie, she says. My name, I mean. My name is Leslie.
I am charmed, which happens so rarely. I’ve grown accustomed to my social awkwardness. It’s usually more comfortable for me to remain mostly silent at these events. I only engage when prompted and mostly, I volunteer for hard labor and smile.
Leah, I say, and reach to clasp her warm and solid hand in mine. I now notice the thin metal framed glasses perched on the end of her nose and the well-worn flannel that sits on her slender frame.
I never know what to wear to these things, I say, not knowing what else to say. It’s true, mostly, but also, I’m not sure why I said it.
I know, she says. I took this from my husband’s closet this morning. I think I told him to throw it out last year and now I’m glad he ignored me and kept it.
We both laugh.
Praise, I say, a lilt in my voice. A lightness.
Indeed, she responds.
Who are you here with? I ask, surprised at my own interest.
Gensler, she shares. I’m an architect. She laughs then, or barks out a laugh, really. I guess that’s a given if I’m with Gensler.
Well, I say, trying to think of something clever and allowing every silly retort to die on my tongue.
Bad ass, I finally respond.
She laughs and I notice that her incisors are both just slightly misaligned and this almost invisible mar, this imperfection, makes her more likable for reasons I can’t exactly articulate. All of it, actually. The dirt wedged under her unmanicured fingers, the dated olive Timex wrapped around her right wrist. Her On Cloud sneakers that are mildly trendy but also, show evidence of hard and persistent use.
And you? she asks.
Me? I respond. Oh. And before she can say anything I realize my silly error. My space-out.
She laughs. Sorry, she says, it’s just that I do that all the time. I don’t know if it’s hormones or stress. I am listening, really listening, but my retention is for shit.
Yeah, I say, same. I work for Anchor, a lender. I work for a lender.
I say this with a small shrug, as if apologizing.
She reads this in exactly the way I would wish her to.
Yeah, she says, I get it. It’s all pretty gross, but also, pretty amazing, right? Like all of it.
I know that there are words missing in this exchange. There are bits and pieces that would need to be filled in for a passerby and yet, it feels like we understand each other entirely. And I want to acknowledge this but also understand the absolute weirdness of that sentiment. How rarely we make friends later in life where there’s some newness and a certain genuineness. It feels impossible, really, and also, I think I’m being ridiculous.
No one tells you that this point in life is lonely. And I don’t think it’s because I didn’t do the things. The ‘find a husband and then have children and maybe get a dog and buy a house’ things. I think it’s just because at this point in life, you are starting to finally figure out who you are and giving less of a shit what people think, and quickly, you realize that most people you’ve collected over the years don’t fit. Most of my people don’t fit right now.
Leslie smiles at me in a way that makes me feel like she’s read my mind. We should get lunch, she says, suddenly.
Oh yeah, I say. I think they’re serving it by the courtyard.
Oh, yes, she replies, and laughs. I meant like another day. Today we should get lunch, but then also, we should get lunch another day. Another day where it’s not shitty food like heroes and bagged chips. Like a grown-up lunch where we can talk about grown-up things and then, expense it like grown-ups and then, swiftly put another date in our already busy calendars.
And by grown up things, you mean all the shitty stuff, I ask, right?
She laughs and I can tell it’s authentic. Yes, she says. That’s exactly what I mean.
x
L.
