The Right Shade of Green

featuring: zucchini

                Arlene hates when I’m indecisive.  You know, if you cared enough about something, you’d make up your mind.  She has a point, but the it’s not just apathy that gets in the way of decision-making.  If you care too much, it’s just as hard. I care about Arlene a lot.  I care about the way she sees herself, I care about what she wants out of life, I care about whether or not she has the things she needs.  My first mistake was thinking it would be obvious. 

                Right now she needs some zucchini to make dinner.  The green things that look sort of like miniature baseball bats--don’t worry, you’ll know when you see them.  If she hadn’t said that, I still would have thought it would be obvious.  I’ve seen zucchini before.  Not from the root, or however it is that they grow.  But I’ve seen them whole, before they’re sliced or turned into fake spaghetti noodles.  I’m telling you this because I still think it should have been obvious.  I wasn’t going into the market with no idea of what I was looking for, or what I wanted. 

                Sometimes it’s just one little thing that throws you off.  One time I almost didn’t recognize Arlene’s voice over the phone because she had a cold.  I was mostly sure that it was her--she’d asked me to bring her some soup, and there’s a butternut squash one that’s her favorite from the café on the corner of my apartment building.  It all sounded like something she would ask for, and I didn’t have a problem with bringing it, but it was like there was a question mark drifting in the back of my mind: was it really her?  Until she opened the door and spoke, I just couldn't be sure.  She sounded pretty bad that day. 

                That same sense of disbelief lingered in my head as I walked through the market.  It felt foreign to me, even though I’d gone there at least twice a week for the past month and a half.  There was Lenny with his apples, Petra with her watermelon stand.  The Fulak clan manned their empire of assorted breads, butters, and jams.  It takes all of my willpower to keep from coming home with half a dozen goods from them, every time I come here.  I walk over to Marna, spying a bundle of those honey wheat yeast rolls I love so well. 

                “Have you been here all day?” 

                The lateness of the hour colors my awareness burnt orange.  Maybe it’s just the time that’s wrong and keeps throwing me off. 

                “Saturdays are busiest,” Marna says with a smile.  “Good thing we still have some of your favorites.  Would you like the raspberry jam today?”

                “I was thinking apple butter, actually,” I say.  “It’s perfect with the rolls.”

                “The honey wheat--your favorite, right?’

                I smile in spite of myself.  In the back of my mouth I taste the rich grain, the cinnamon and nutmeg of apple butter. 

                “Arlene is making veggie tacos for dinner.”

                Go get some zucchini from the market, would you?  The errand was simple.  Arlene was going to sauté the zucchini with some peppers to make veggie tacos.  It was one of our favorite summer meals, easy but full of flavor.  After spending the afternoon doing laundry, I was glad for the task. It would switch things up, let my mind take a break from the monotony.  Maybe I would even get an idea for something to do after dinner, like pick out a movie to watch or ask her out to the park. 

                “These rolls go best with soup--not really summer food, but always good for a morning snack.”

                “Maybe I won’t have tacos, just the veggies.”

                Marna nods.  Our conversations often go like this.  Sometimes I wonder if we speak the same language in a different way; if the words people say sometimes aren’t as important as the way people can understand what’s meant by those words.  Some things are just obvious.  Some things don’t have to be said, but are nice to hear anyway.  

                “Where is Zachary?” I ask after glancing around and not seeing him in his usual corner stall.

                “Lemonade is great summer fare,” Marna says.  “The groaning sickness, not so much.”

                “I should go see him.”

                Marna flaps one hand at me and rings up my purchase with the other.

                “Jurin has already been to see him, says he’s grumpy and well,” she says.  “Visit him tomorrow if you wish, so he has company while he says his prayers.”

                I give a half nod, wondering if there is anything else I need to do tomorrow.  Knowing Marna, she would send her husband to Arlene and I’s rented shoebox either way.  Jurin would talk my ear off all the way down the lane to Zachary’s and most of the way back, but it wouldn’t be a bad thing.  Jurin often offers scolding and wisdom in equal measures, always with a gentle delivery.  I pay Marna and promise to remember Zachary in my prayers.  

                When I get home, the kitchen is a mess.  Arlene slips an arm around me and squeezes, taking the bag with her other hand.  I kiss the white streaks in her hair, but don’t hug her back.  When she moves away, she leaves flour and dough bits from my shoulders to my knees.  She’s started two pies: one apple, one raspberry.  She has to make two, because I won’t eat more than a bite of pie at a time if it’s something other than apple.  There’s no sign of the meal she’d planned to make. 

                “Where’s the zuchinni, Alek?”

                My gaze lingers at the window for a moment longer.  I can’t tell the hour, only that it’s past afternoon and not yet full evening.  The sky is bleeding.  I always thought Earth groaned only in the grip of winter, but there is a restlessness in summer sunsets.  Maybe even a sort of rage. 

                “Let’s make soup, and not eat any of it,” I say, meeting her gaze.  “We’ll take it to Zachary tomorrow, when Jurin comes to accompany us over there.”

                She raises an eyebrow, but puts the rolls aside in the bread basket.  She goes back to fitting the crust into the pie tins.

                “So what are we eating tonight?” she asks.

                I shake my head.  I haven’t made up my mind yet.  I might not eat anything.  I might have a slice of raspberry pie. 

                “We should save the rolls for tomorrow,” I say.  “To share with Zachary, after we’ve said our prayers.”

                She nods, meaning she’d already assumed I’d wanted to do that.  You forget how well I know you, but you don’t let me know you well enough.  She has never once said that out loud.  She has unsaid it a hundred thousand times.  I walk over to her, cup her face in my hands when she glances my way.  She’s unreadable.  Somehow I know her anyway. 

                “You’re frowning at me,” Arlene says.

                I remove my hands and hug her tightly.  Some things would be nice to hear, but can’t be said by any number of words.  She leans into my chest and sighs as she hugs me back.  My last mistake has yet to be made.  

Author's Note

second story for my short story a week project. it's a rough draft, so any feedback is welcome!

Reviews

[roarke]

ah, a hint of Salinger here. Groceries and rolls, eh? You have a deft hand at defining the surrounding characters, main or otherwise. Nice touches. Heh, rough draft he says.