Unsurprisingly, I’m out of practice. I’m just glad I had the sense to doodle on pieces of scrap paper before I tried to paint on the canvas. 

Ironically, these roses look more like peonies than my attempts at painting peonies almost ever do. A dozen gumballs and fairy wands with mis-folded petals sit birdlike on the end of immaculate stems.

No flowers, just stems…

That’s an idea.

Getting a clean canvas and a number two pencil, I sketch the outline of a bouquet made up of a dozen kinds of flowers I don’t know how to paint: roses, hyacinths and Pompon Dahlias

Then I double down on their stalks and leaves.

The stems look perfectly imperfect, with odd knots and asymmetrical foliage – scars where a leaf or flower bud was trimmed off.

But I leave the blossoms out of the picture. 

Is this the beginning or the end of something beautiful?

I’ll figure out how the story ends later.

Since I’m not sure what else to do, I decide to wash my laundry, clean the bathrooms, and mop the kitchen floor. 

Weirdly enough, I’m so bored that the tasks aren’t actually that onerous. 

Frank Sinatra croons from my cell phone, and I go into a sleep-walker like daze.

Maybe anything really IS better than nothing, sometimes.

It’s almost 5 P.M. when I text Kattar and ask him if he wants to go out for dinner.

He sends me back a thumbs up emoji, which feels weirdly glib –

But, I’m not going to read into it.

Let’s try to start this date out on the right foot.

I take a shower and detangle my curls carefully - which is out of character for me.

Since I combed it last night, it’s actually much easier to comb today than it usually is.

I guess consistency works like that. Who knew?

I grab that blase-couture black dress and one of my cardigans – or rather…yet another one of Kattar’s cardigans – and try to find a pair of heels in a complimentary color.

I don’t have the energy to go through all the rigamarole I went through yesterday, so ‘kind of pretty’ is what he’s going to have to be content with –

Then for some inexplicable reason, I change my mind.

I can try one more time. I’ve gotten dressed up for him like three times in all the time we’ve known each other. How lame would it be to give up that quickly?

Digging through my closet, I find a purple sundress I haven’t worn in literally forever and shake the (also literal) dust off of its skirt.

I wonder if I have a matching ribbon I can use to tie my hair up with…

I can do that much.

It’s not like he hasn’t put up with my nonsense wayyyyy more than twice. 

Staring into the bathroom mirror, I curl my stray hairs around my index finger, fix my bodice, put on a tiny amount of lip gloss, take a deep breath, and make myself a promise. 

He has dealt with my insanity for 15 years, I can deal with his, at least until the end of this one.

We’ll just keep taking it one day, one second, one moment at a time.

If it’s the hard work that makes any achievement worthwhile, then I guess ‘love the choice’ matters a whole lot more than ‘love the feeling.’

By the time I get to Kattar’s apartment, he’s up and dressed at least.

I guess that’s a good sign, though he still seems a little worn out and drained… 

He looks sweet, like a bouquet of flowers that have been out of the ground a little too long, and are just starting to droop.

If there was anything I could do to give you your vibrancy back, I would. But I don’t think I have any left either. 

We’re a couple of pretty antiques.

It’s hard to describe the expression that comes into his face when he sees me. Like a faintly illuminated light sky - one layer of gray disappears from his expression.

The faintest twinge of color rises in his cheeks, despite the overwhelming gloominess, and his eyes squint in a smile that’s so delicate and so pure I could cry.

I shouldn’t be able to feel this lovesick and unrequited while standing in front of the love of my life.

I hope you’ll always look at me just like –

“Are you ready to go?” I ask just so I won’t start crying.

It’s like his mind registers the question in slow motion. There’s a pause before he blinks twice and nods slowly, then stops mid-sentence, “Ye – um, no. Actually, I think I left my phone in the kitchen, could you grab it for me?”

“Your phone?” I furrow my eyebrows a little skeptically, and he nods without a trace of mischief in expression.

“Alright...” 

He sure seems to be forgetting that a lot lately.

But since I’m not wearing a sash, I can’t imagine what sort of mischief he could be scheming.

I head to the kitchen and look around for the item in question but his cell isn’t on any of the counters, so I give up, and just call it with my own phone. Immediately one of the drawers starts playing a Sleeping with Sirens song I’ve heard him play but don’t know by name.

“You keep your phone in a drawer?” I call toward the living room in mock-horror. “You lunatic!”

“Drawers are for keeping things organized,” he calls back, but I just roll my eyes and open the drawer to retrieve the cell.

Since ClearTalk lets you assign profile pictures to everyone on your contacts, I had no idea what picture he had saved next to my number. I’m honestly kind of surprised to see an outdated photo of me he took at Ocean City Beach 7 years ago. 

Out of all the photos we have from that trip, he WOULD choose the one where I got a brain freeze from my first non-virgin pina colada. 

I can almost FEEL the headache as I stare at my less than glamorous expression beneath the words “Alicia Altagracia Palmero.”

Also – 

“Why on earth did you save my full name with my phone number?” I scold as I hand his phone back, “We’re not coworkers.”

"What am I supposed to have you saved as?” He starts to laugh in mixed amusement and confusion, but his laughter is quickly cut short as a new question starts to form in his mind –

“Wait, what do you have me saved as in your phone?”

“That’s beside the point,” I hold my hand up quickly, waving off the question. “We’re not talking about anything else until you change my contact name to something more interesting.”

“What’s more interesting than you?” he grins, squinting playfully as he leans his phone case against his lips to hide his smile. My cheeks turn red, but I just close my eyes and shake my head.

“Just hurry up and change it.”

“Fine fine,” he types something quickly, then holds his phone out to show me that the new contact name says ‘Queridita.’ “Better?”

“No. That’s way too generic.” 

“Little flame?”

I roll my eyes at that.

“Catnip?”

“Definitely not,” I shudder. “That is the definition of cringe.”

“Well, you said ‘something interesting,’ not ‘something suave.’ I’mma leave it this way,” he smirks, and I roll my eyes again.

“It’s like you exist to be contrary.”

“Well, you know what they say. Opposites attract,” he tilts his head with that same coquettish smile and I’m about ready to ask what’s gotten into him when he props himself up a little straighter in his chair and strokes his chin like a detective.

“So, what do you have me saved as in your phone?”

“My goodness, I totally forgot what I came here for. Aren’t we supposed to be getting dinner? Do you want sushi?” I glance toward the door, pretending to evade the question, but he just frowns at me like a disapproving mother.

“Now who’s trying to change the subject?”

“I would never. And I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” I raise my eyebrows innocently, and he rolls his eyes.

“You know if you don’t tell me I’ll have to steal your phone,” he warns like that’s a threat he can back up, and I laugh out loud before realizing he’ll think I’m laughing for a very different reason than the real one.

Instantly his eyes flicker with frustration, maybe even irritation, as his frown becomes sincere.

“I might be a lot slower because of this chair, but you’ve never been fast. Period.”

“Maybe not, but I have the grip strength of a coconut crab. You couldn’t get your gameboy out of my hands when we were fourteen, and I’ve only gotten more obstinate with time.”

He relaxes at that, nodding his concession, as I pull my phone out of my sweater pocket and pull up Google maps.

“So there’s a Greek restaurant 20 minutes away and a Japanese restaurant 15 minutes away…”

I look up and he’s staring at me with his eyebrows raised in mock innocence.

“What?”

“What what?” He keeps his eyebrows raised, apparently confused by my suspicion.

“Yeah, whatever…,” I shake my head, looking back down at the phone. “I’m in the mood for –”

My phone starts ringing in my hand and I look up at him with unamusement.

“Look, you’re still not getting the phone out of my hand.”

“Don’t have to,” he laughs, and before I can step out of the way he picks me up and turns me around like a baby doll so he can look over my shoulder at the phone screen.

“Philandiga?” he furrows his eyebrows the instant he reads his contact name. “What on earth is a Philandiga?”

“Look at the picture, genius,” I roll my eyes, tossing my phone into his lap, and taking several steps back so he can’t try to pick me up again.

He glances at the contact photo and then looks back at me with mixed disgust and bafflement, “A spider? You have me saved in your phone as a spider?”

“It’s not exactly a spider,” I start to say but he just waves his hand.

“Invertebrate. Whatever. I don’t care. Why would you have me saved as a bug?”

“That’s a secret,” I smile slightly, but in two seconds he’s pulled his phone back out again and the preemptive embarrassment turns my face cherry red.

“What are you doing?”

“Googling it so I can know why you think I’m a little spider,” he shakes his head, eyebrows still raised in astonishment.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly -- but he ignores me, pushing his hair out of his face and reading aloud.

“Here we go. Philandiga. A kind of arachnid found in North America. Also known as a harvestman or a…d-daddy long legs?”

He looks up at me, mouth open, too stunned to speak as I smile a little shyly and kind of shrug, then immediately his smile becomes mischievous .

“Come here right quick,” he beckons with one finger, and I can’t help but laugh as I shake my head.

“Noooo. I am going to stay right here, and you stay over there like a good boy.”

“I’M the one who needs to be good?” He laughs-scoffs, mouth wide open in that puppet-like expression. “I’m not the one saving you in my phone as something unnecessarily flirtatious.”

“I saved you as an arachnid,” I raise my hands defensively. “That could have been for a whole slew of reasons that have nothing to do with ONE of its nicknames.”

He raises his eyebrows, mouth open in another silent laugh, but opts out of saying anything for a good 10 seconds, leaning back in his wheelchair and nodding patronizingly, resting his chin on his knuckles.

“Riiiight. So if we pretend that I believe that for one second, what else do I have in common with a spider?”

“They barely have eyes,” I grin, coming over now to take his face in my hands and kissing the squinted black rainbows between his eyebrows and cheeks. Part of me…99% of me, would keep going, but the well behaved portion starts to relinquish his face, however reluctantly. 

His hands fly up with surprising alacrity, delaying my attempt to pull away with an odd kind of frightened gentleness. 

“S-stay a bit,” he pleads softly, suddenly red-faced with anxious embarrassment, “Don’t be in such a hurry t…please.”

Why does that sound so familiar? 

The last time I asked him not to let me go, my world had just been devastated. Torn to shreds. I was hanging onto life by a single fraying thread –

I look down at the face of the man that I love and see the same kind of fear.

His voice is almost a whisper, excruciatingly quiet, but I know he has more strength than he’s willing to use. For one thing, his hands are big enough to swallow my forearms, but he only holds onto one of my sleeves to let me know I’m more than allowed to pull away if I want to.

I don’t. Hanging in the silence, I crouch down in front of his chair, and slip his fingers between mine.

“Could we pass on the restaurant tonight and just…cuddle and talk instead, please?” he whispers, burning red and then white.

I turn scarlet up to my ears, sure my embarrassment mirrors his own.

I’m such a woman…

Just assuming I knew what he was thinking -- what he would want.

Because men are simple…right?

“Of c –-” 

I start to agree, but the expression that washes over his face isn’t happy or relieved. If anything, it’s even more pained and fragile.

Then in an instant all of that is replaced with silent disappointment and mute misery as my phone starts to ring.