A Gray Lie

   Veronica was late.

Again.

She knew it and rued the fact--yes, she had to admit that it was a fact that she was always late.

"It distinguishes me," she'd explained early on in the spirit of full disclosure and all that--wanted Mary Ellen to know before they went any farther.

"That's okay," Mary Ellen had said, then laughed, that beautiful contralto laugh that was the first thing Veronica noticed about her, the first attraction in a growing list. "We all have our little faults," Mary Ellen said.

Veronica looked at her watch. 7:23 and she was 10 minutes away. Well, actually 15, only 15 if she got all the lights, but she could do it, close enough for a 7:30 curtain....

She could call, but calling would delay her, make her late, well later, which would be worse. Mary Ellen had been very clear about the pleasures of reading the playwright's notes, the director's comments, taking in the set, the stage, the anticipation of what was to come. "That's what I love about live theater," she had said. "Anything can happen, the play is written, the cast have learned their lines, rehearsed, but the execution each time is always different--it's never the same play twice."

"I love that too," Veronica had responded, smiling broadly as if she too were a frequent theater goer. She wanted this to work, more than anything, but now she was late, a too familiar experience, but she knew what to do, ran a light, cocked her head--no sirens, almost there.

Mary Ellen had the tickets. "I'll meet you in the lobby," she had said.

Veronica was now 3 blocks from the theater. She avoided the clock, just drove, made two green lights in a row, and the entrance to the parking lot was in sight.

A minute later she was in the lot, circling the parked cars, up another level. Glanced at the clock, 7:33, but it was often wrong. She prayed that it was wrong and just then her prayers were answered, a space. She careened into the empty space, leapt our of the car and ran, just as another car sped past. Good. She could tell Mary Ellen that she wasn't the only person arriving late  the traffic was terrible, I hit every red light and the guy in front of me.... Maybe she could make a little joke about late arrivals being fashionable.

She ran, a good trick in 3 inch heels and a pencil skirt, but she ran and was in the lobby 2 minutes later, looking for Mary Ellen, in the crowded? lobby, which confused her. Was it the wrong day? the wrong theater?

"Oh, shit," she said just as somebody tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hello, Beauty." It was Mary Ellen, smiling her lovely smile, not mad, happy to see her.

"I'm sorry," Veronica began, and began the first lie, "but the traffic...."

Mary Ellen smiled, gave her a quick, forgiving hug, whispered, "Come on. Let's find our seats."

"I'm so sorry," Veronica tried again, but Mary Ellen was showing an usher their tickets, then pulling Veronica down an aisle. When Veronica had the nerve to look at the stage, she was surprised to see that the stage, designed as a high-end bar, was empty, no actors, no action, nothing.

"Take a breath," Mary Ellen whispered. "Relax. We're fine."

"But it's nearly 8:00.

"I know," Mary Ellen whispered. "Curtain is at 8:00." She squeezed Veronica's hand, "I lied," she said and laughed. "Probably won't work again, but aren't you happy to be here? I'm glad you're here."

"Probably not," Veronica admitted, and, after a short interior struggle, managed to smile, and say, "Well, I'm glad it worked this time."

News of the Day

     "Do you have any thoughts about the Speckled Pigeon?"

    She glanced up from the paper, the Sunday paper, the only paper edition they still received, the heavy-with-ads-paper edition, a real newspaper with front-page headlines, a crossword, editorials. She loved the heft of the paper, even the whiff of ink on paper. She knew she could get more information than she wanted on one, complete with people's snarky comments or, occasionally, a wise observation about the news of the day. But she preferred her news unmediated by strangers and, on this one day of the week, on Sunday, the day of rest, right?....she wanted to read the paper, the real paper, the newspaper.

    The Speckled Pigeon has a very yellow eye." 

    She looked up then, hoping the irritation and incredulity at the random statement showed on her face, but was careful not to say anything that would create a real conversation.

    "Surrounded by orange feathers, almost a mask."

    She risked a "Hmmm," then ruffled the paper, turning the page, refolding it, quickly, in a hurry, as if anxious or impatient to continue the article she was reading.

    He took the hint, mumbled something like, "Well, okay," and turned back to his book, a bird book, no doubt. Called what? Pigeons of the World? She had no idea...but now she found herself thinking about birds, pigeons specifically, realizing against her will, that there were probably many varieties of pigeon and who the hell had time to categorize them down to the specificity of "Speckled Pigeon?" Was there an Unspeckled Pigeon? Smooth-faced Pigeon? Unblemished Pigeon? How many varieties of pigeon are there?

    Should she ask him?

    Well, no, because he'd say, I'll find out, type something in, both thumbs flying, and then she'd have to listen to the litany of information he found about the Unspeckled Pigeon and pigeons in general. She looked up quickly --a mistake--he saw her, brandished his phone, "Also called the African Rock Pigeon, lives south of the Sahara . . ."

    Well, okay. Enthusiasm was contagious, and she could read about the man with the orange hair anytime, but pigeons . . . "That's fascinating," she said. "Tell me more."

    

Room With a View

There were three of them, giggly girls, playing in her yard. Well, not technically her yard, but close enough, within her direct view, all of them dressed in too short shorts, short shorts with filmy tops and barefoot, not a shoe between them. What about nails, rusty nails, tetanus?And where were their parents? She frowned at the spectacle she was witnessing, was forced to witness.

    Because they were there, and she was inside, in the house, of course, waiting for the mail. The letter carrier would have to weave through the girls, but Mildred knew she (she! the letter carrier a woman delivering the mail!) could do it, given the way she skipped down the street with those US Mail bags hanging off her shoulder.

    Well, life is change, which is what she used to say to Albert when he sank into one of his grumble fits. "Life is change," she would trill, because she knew it irritated him. "A little irritation is good....keeps your whistle clean."

    That always made him laugh, and once he even launched into a monologue on the whistle as produced by the human body.

    Well, now she was irritated alone, alone, cranky, and vexed while the three spindly girls mucked around in her yard. She rapped on the window to get their attention, because....because....because they....then she stopped just as she realized there was no reasonable explanation in the phrase she was forming in her brain, which made her laugh.

~

    The three of them now were looking right at her, or so it seemed, until the youngest, or, at least the smallest, snapped off the stringiest daisy on the boulevard, a volunteer flower Mildred had meant to get rid of, and ran back to her friends, then up Mildred's walkway to her door, pressed the doorbell three times, bowed, dropped the flower and dashed back to the other girls who had swiveled as gracefully as ballerinas during her dash, and then the three of them ran off together, in perfect harmony.

    They were gone before Mildred could get the door open, and a foot on her porch, but the peal of their joy carried her through the rest of that long day.

Honeymoon

     He slept.

    Which apparently meant he snored.

    She didn't mind, not really, not when she was so awake and interested in the sounds and ticks, the smells of the night. Shadows opened her imagination to another world, the one just past, or the one to come. She wasn't sure and thought it didn't matter because she could enter at any time, stay as long as she wanted.

    Time didn't exist in her imagination and, for her, the future, her future, their future was a waft of tea and flowers. Not roses. Too fancy and obvious. Something less showy with more tang than sweet, but an invitation, a beckoning.

    The thrum of his sudden breath--some might call it a snort--threw open a window that she might slide through. The choices were many. She could take them all simultaneously--yes, you can do that--no questions asked, no permission needed now.

    Take every path, all the doors open, windows too, and the explosion could bear her up in a crescendo of light. Not really an explosion, more an implosion, an orchestra of sounds, with only an occasional snort from the snorer.

    She was fully awake now, smiling. Should she poke him, tell him to roll over, so she could sleep?

    No--no! It was too entertaining--his breathing poetry--and she would learn to sleep through it.

    Or not...

    Well, it was only one night.

    The first night.

    Oh.