Loving Words

Peter leaned back to balance on two legs of the chair, setting his worn brown boots on the wobbly breakfast table. His smugness was palpable.

“She’s the one. I know it,” he sighed. His blue eyes ticked along with the clip of his friend’s footsteps as he watched Bernard bustle about.

“Oh yeah? What’s so special about this one?” Bernard was more than used to Peter’s lovesick musings. He had his own relationship to tend to in any case. He humored Peter mainly out of pity.

Peter failed to notice Bernard’s motivations. “She’s the one from the park. I told you about her last week.” He interlaced his fingers behind his head, vision focusing back in time so he missed Bernard’s eye roll. “She had that blue notebook and the fine point pen. Handwritten, can you believe that? Does anyone even do that anymore?”

“Plenty of people still write by hand, Pete,” Bernard mumbled. He plucked a plate from the table just before Peter rocked it violently as he swept his feet back down to earth.

“You’ll see. This is it for me,” Peter insisted. He popped up and caught Bernard mid-scuttle. The latter couldn’t suppress his smirk at the determined exuberance rolling from his roommate. “I’m going to see her right now. Don’t be surprised if I’m gone for a while.” Peter backed away, arms spread as wide as his grin. “Maybe forever. Who knows?” He bumbled directly into the doorframe and exited rubbing his shoulder with a grimace. Bernard smacked his lips dryly.

“Uh huh,” he called after Peter. “I’ll see you at dinner. Bring home something good for once.”

Nothing could sink Peter’s buoyant heart as he sauntered along towards the park. She would be there on the same bench as always, with that soft blue notebook and her gliding pen. She did not disappoint him. Peter nestled in beside her to peer down at what she had written so far.

“Oh perfect!” he delighted. “I didn’t even tell you about that and you nailed it.” He looked up from the paper to her serious, studious face. “You’re simply amazing, did you know that?” His head lolled dreamily to the side as a breeze ruffled her black bangs. She tapped the pen against her lower lip.

“But what are you going to do when they tie you to the plane crash?” she whispered.

Peter batted at her concerns with a flop of his hand. “Don’t worry about that right now. By the time that happens, it will make complete sense. Can we talk about how lovely this passage here is?” Peter pointed to a spot on the previous page and the girl shifted away from him. She continued to scribble along and pay him no mind.

“I get it, I’m interrupting too much. Don’t let me be a bother.” He sprang up from the bench not miffed in the least. “I’ll meet you later.” Peter smiled at her, more content than he had ever been.

Bianca glanced around the park. She had been plugging away at this story for a few weeks now but lately something had changed. There was a spark to her fingers as they directed the pen and any time she wasn’t writing, she was thinking about writing. A song came on the radio and gave her a scene or an interaction or a conversation. This story leapt from her thoughts to the paper with such an unusual ease. Bianca couldn’t help wondering what was so different this time. Perhaps it was the new man in her life, not that she was giving him much attention. Not that he seemed to mind.

“Hey, B! Bianca!”

Bianca swiveled to see her friend Tara jogging towards her, pulling out her earbuds, ponytail swishing behind her. Excitement bubbled up in Bianca’s chest, frothed right up to the back of her throat before she gulped it back down. She wasn’t ready to mention Peter to Tara, to anyone. He was so different than any of the others. Bianca wondered if Peter was bothered by much of anything as he certainly came across as downright chipper. In any case, he was going to stay Bianca’s secret for now. She waved to Tara.

“Hi Tara. Having a good run?”

Tara snorted. “That’s an oxymoron. I’m jogging to the ice cream cart on the other side of the pond. If you come with me, I can walk,” she dangled. Bianca hesitated, fingers squeezing the notebook compulsively.

“Sure, yeah,” Bianca decided. She tucked the pen into the metal coiled spine of the spiral bound papers and nipped the binder under her arm. Tara contorted around to get a glimpse of the coveted object.

“Ooo, writing in your diary in the park. How very ninth grade of you.” Tara shouldered into blushing friend, laughing. “I know, I know. It’s the novel.” The pair fell into step and Tara peered inquisitively at Bianca. “Are you going to let me read it this time?”

Peter clapped across Bianca’s mind. She shook her bangs out of her eyes. “I don’t have much yet.” That excitement returned, the flutter of having faith in what she was doing for the first time. “But yes, I do think this one may be good enough to share.”

A loud whoop ricocheted off the stone restrooms by the pond. “Halleluiah girl, it’s about time.”

Bianca rolled her eyes, but her friend’s enthusiasm really did give her a boost. Writing was her little passion project. All through high school Bianca had dreamed of sitting in some cloistered space, pecking away on a typewriter, ignoring calls from a demanding literary agent while the world waited on bated breath for her next brilliant work. Then she got lifed. She got lifed pretty good. Bianca found out that agents didn’t just want certain books, they wanted certain authors. Bianca went to college because she didn’t know what else to do, got a degree she did not use, and joined the workforce.

The ice cream cart had a short line. While Tara hemmed and hawed over her flavor choices, Bianca allowed her attention to drift since she already knew she’d be getting mint chip- so long as the mint ice cream was green. White mint chip wasn’t as good. Everyone knew that. Chocolate would be preferable over white mint chip. She balked to hear a familiar voice seeping into her headspace.

“I know I said I would come back later and that I meant later than this,” Peter babbled. “But then I saw that you were just standing around in line with nothing to do so I thought, hey, why not say hi? Hi!”

Bianca stared straight ahead at Tara’s wobbling hair. “Not now, Pete, seriously.”

Peter surveyed the children pinging off one another in creamy anticipation, the satisfied customers lapping up and around their ice cream piles. In the bright sunshine not even Bianca’s dire tone could erase the fact that she had said his name. Out loud. Peter was nothing less than giddy.

“Gotcha, gotcha, no problem. Later, I will come by later,” he promised. Bianca listened for a moment to be certain he’d receded then stepped up to the cart with Tara. With cones in hand the pair meandered back from whence they came.

“So, what’s so special about this one that you’re willing to let me read it?” Tara picked up again. Bianca noticed her friend’s eyes dart from ice cream to notebook and back again. She shrugged.

“I don’t know. It’s not like it’s any less frustrating or any easier than other stuff I’ve written.” Peter again rose then fell from her mind. “This one just has a little more inspiration I think.”

Tara cocked an eyebrow. “Inspiration? Are you writing about people you know?” She batted her eyelashes. “Moi?”

“Oh yes, I just can’t get enough of you,” Bianca laughed. “It’s just a better idea than I’ve had. Better protagonist.”

They found themselves beside the bench they started at, sticky hands empty, and Tara crinkled her lip.

“I’d better try to jog home,” she groaned.

“Better to walk than risk a cramp from jogging after eating,” Bianca offered as a reprieve.

Tara narrowed her eyes and tapped the side of her head. “I like the way you think, lady. This is why we are friends.” She smiled a farewell as she positioned her earbuds once more. “I want to read your best seller before anyone else, okay?” They waved and Bianca sat back down on the bench to get back to her favorite hobby. It certainly beat thinking about work which was not exactly scintillating. Bianca worked at a warehouse that fabricated custom airplane seats. No Delta or Alaska there, nope, private jets needed custom seats for custom asses. Nine hours a day, five days a week, Bianca stood at a strange set of machines carving foam to match design patterns then interpreted the needs of the seat’s commissioner in order to create those custom adjustments for optimum comfort. It was not mind numbing enough to zone out, not interesting enough to bring up at a high school reunion. It was a quintessential j-o-b. Paid bills and allowed her some time to do what she really wanted to do which was write a novel. To be honest, she’d written three novels. What she wanted was to publish a novel which as it turned out was damn near impossible. Her consternation melted as she opened the blue notebook and the words wriggled with anticipation on the page. Maybe not so impossible with this little story.