They watched the sunrise together. She wanted to go to a flea market on the water's edge. He wanted to go to the park (so naturally, they went to the flea market).
They weaved in and out of faded sweaters, used books, handmade jewelry, and chairs with cracked paint. They lingered at a table littered with baseball cards, vintage magazines, and other knickknacks. She pulled something from the clutter and fell in love with it.
“Like what?”
“The girl—I wonder who she was and why they didn't let her finish.”
“Finish what?”
“The kiss.”
She held the flipbook to his eyes. It was called Le Premiere Danseuse, and he saw it all in a flutter of breath. A girl does a cartwheel then stands, raises her elbows, and covers her mouth.
“Maybe she’s not blowing a kiss,” he said. “Maybe she’s embarrassed, like she didn’t know she was being filmed.”
“No, she’s about to blow a kiss. You can tell by how she’s bent forward.”
The man turned to the woman behind the table. “How much for the flipbook?”
The saleswoman smacked her gum. “I think my boyfriend wants five dollars for it.”
“Can we get it?” his wife pleaded. She normally bought everything for herself, never asking permission (to his dismay, at times). Yet here she was--seeking approval for a five-dollar trinket. She was not asking him to buy the flipbook. She was asking him to want it. He nudged her. “Let’s keep looking and come back.”
She held a black accordion camera in her hands. "I wonder what this lens has seen."
Her husband agreed and told her he’d always heard old cameras take better pictures with film than the newer digital ones. He looked at the price tag. “That’s a little above my pay grade."
“For now,” she winked at him. He hated the pressure of those words.
The old man selling the cameras noticed them and chimed in. “You can't find cameras like this anymore!"
“Let’s keep walking around,” the husband said. “We shouldn’t buy the first thing we see.” As they walked off, he prayed the black accordion camera would be gone when they came back.
A group of college students stood in front of the shelf, listening to the old man’s pitch about film cameras. The husband practically pushed his way through them. In the row of cameras, one spot was vacant: the black accordion. The old man noticed him staring at the empty space. “These cameras go fast,” he said. “People wait in a line to buy them.”
His wife was sad. We should have bought it when we had the chance--my husband, the cheapskate! He could read her mind, but she didn't say these things. She noticed he felt bad. “I’m glad we didn't buy it. It was a little expensive.”
“Yeah.”
But it was his fault, and he knew it. He hated how he'd wished the camera was gone. He hated the voice that told him his wife was emotional, and he should be rational--the one that made marriage a teeter-totter instead of a swing set. It was a lie, and yet he still listened. The camera was gone. Someone was going to the film store to buy special film for it right at that moment.
They found a box of old records. Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, and so forth. She started thumbing through them--there were dozens inside. He took two steps away. She didn't look up. Two more steps. Still, no.
He dashed to the table of knickknacks. There, under the Batman comic book where he'd left her, with her arms outstretched, laid Le Premiere Danseuse. He quickly grabbed five dollars from his pocket and pushed it into the gum-smacker’s hands. He looked over at his wife, who was flipping through the last remaining albums. There was no time to get back. He took two strides to a hat stand and put on a black fedora, just as she looked up and began searching for him.
“Do you like this hat? I look pretty good, eh?” he said. She rolled her eyes and laughed.
They left the flea market--her with a subway token jingling round her neck and him with flipbook burning a hole in his pocket. Only one other thing had burned like that before.
You sure she’s the one?
No, Dad.
Then why are you marrying her?
Because I want to be with her forever.
Even if she’s not the one?
Even if she’s not the one.
Even if you've been sleeping on the couch for a month, and you’re sitting in a restaurant alone, and another woman walks up, and there’s a connection you've never felt. And then the sky opens up and God comes down and tells you this new woman is wonderful. And your wife is waiting for you at home, cold and angry.
Yes, even if all that.
Then she’s the one.
They walked home under the moon. He held her hand, felt her shiver. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it, glancing once at the speckled city on the river.
“I think you were right about the girl,” he said.
“What girl?”
“The one from the flipbook.”
“You think she was blowing a kiss?” she asked. He could see her breath.
“Yes."
“Me too,” she said, almost relieved. “I liked the flea market. I like how it’s full of other people’s memories, like a scrapbook of the country. There are stories, and the only thing I know about them is that they happened.”
He laughed. “Quite profound!"
They walked in silence for a while. The skyscrapers across the river burned like candles.
“Today was a perfect day,” she said. "I just wish—"
Before she could finish, he reached into his pocket and slipped La Premiere Danseuse into the palm of her hand— a window of endless cartwheels and almost-blown kisses.
They weaved in and out of faded sweaters, used books, handmade jewelry, and chairs with cracked paint. They lingered at a table littered with baseball cards, vintage magazines, and other knickknacks. She pulled something from the clutter and fell in love with it.
It was a flipbook, no longer than the wrinkle in her palm. A fortune teller had read that wrinkle once, and had prophesied she would live to be ninety-two. If the average lifespan is eighty years, and women usually live five years more than men, I'll live eight years without you.
She set the flipbook in motion. The pictures were in black and white. A simple girl doing a simple cartwheel.
“I just love little things like this."
She set the flipbook in motion. The pictures were in black and white. A simple girl doing a simple cartwheel.
“I just love little things like this."
“Like what?”
“The girl—I wonder who she was and why they didn't let her finish.”
“Finish what?”
“The kiss.”
She held the flipbook to his eyes. It was called Le Premiere Danseuse, and he saw it all in a flutter of breath. A girl does a cartwheel then stands, raises her elbows, and covers her mouth.
“Maybe she’s not blowing a kiss,” he said. “Maybe she’s embarrassed, like she didn’t know she was being filmed.”
“No, she’s about to blow a kiss. You can tell by how she’s bent forward.”
The man turned to the woman behind the table. “How much for the flipbook?”
The saleswoman smacked her gum. “I think my boyfriend wants five dollars for it.”
“Can we get it?” his wife pleaded. She normally bought everything for herself, never asking permission (to his dismay, at times). Yet here she was--seeking approval for a five-dollar trinket. She was not asking him to buy the flipbook. She was asking him to want it. He nudged her. “Let’s keep looking and come back.”
***
He held her hand and they walked on, past a table with old photographs. Antique cameras sat on a rack above pictures, cameras that looked like accordions with price tags reading: "Still works. Film available at Such-and-Such Store. $175." She held a black accordion camera in her hands. "I wonder what this lens has seen."
Her husband agreed and told her he’d always heard old cameras take better pictures with film than the newer digital ones. He looked at the price tag. “That’s a little above my pay grade."
“For now,” she winked at him. He hated the pressure of those words.
The old man selling the cameras noticed them and chimed in. “You can't find cameras like this anymore!"
“Let’s keep walking around,” the husband said. “We shouldn’t buy the first thing we see.” As they walked off, he prayed the black accordion camera would be gone when they came back.
***
They moved to handmade jewelry. There were necklaces made of old subway tokens dangling from brass chains.
“How much for the token necklace?” he asked a tattooed woman. She told him it was $25.
“That’s pricey for a fifty-cent token,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty.”
“Sorry. Wholesale prices.”
His wife looked at him. “This would be a great keepsake to remember our trip!” She tried it on and the woman gave her a dusty mirror. The necklace hung perfectly, just above the freckle on her chest.
He thought about the necklace. It was functional, unlike the flipbook, and could be used daily, unlike the camera. So he bought it, and she flashed a smile that made him want to buy every antique camera in the world. He gripped her hand with excitement and said, “Let’s go back to the camera stand.”
“How much for the token necklace?” he asked a tattooed woman. She told him it was $25.
“That’s pricey for a fifty-cent token,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty.”
“Sorry. Wholesale prices.”
His wife looked at him. “This would be a great keepsake to remember our trip!” She tried it on and the woman gave her a dusty mirror. The necklace hung perfectly, just above the freckle on her chest.
He thought about the necklace. It was functional, unlike the flipbook, and could be used daily, unlike the camera. So he bought it, and she flashed a smile that made him want to buy every antique camera in the world. He gripped her hand with excitement and said, “Let’s go back to the camera stand.”
***
His wife was sad. We should have bought it when we had the chance--my husband, the cheapskate! He could read her mind, but she didn't say these things. She noticed he felt bad. “I’m glad we didn't buy it. It was a little expensive.”
“Yeah.”
But it was his fault, and he knew it. He hated how he'd wished the camera was gone. He hated the voice that told him his wife was emotional, and he should be rational--the one that made marriage a teeter-totter instead of a swing set. It was a lie, and yet he still listened. The camera was gone. Someone was going to the film store to buy special film for it right at that moment.
They found a box of old records. Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, and so forth. She started thumbing through them--there were dozens inside. He took two steps away. She didn't look up. Two more steps. Still, no.
He dashed to the table of knickknacks. There, under the Batman comic book where he'd left her, with her arms outstretched, laid Le Premiere Danseuse. He quickly grabbed five dollars from his pocket and pushed it into the gum-smacker’s hands. He looked over at his wife, who was flipping through the last remaining albums. There was no time to get back. He took two strides to a hat stand and put on a black fedora, just as she looked up and began searching for him.
“Do you like this hat? I look pretty good, eh?” he said. She rolled her eyes and laughed.
They left the flea market--her with a subway token jingling round her neck and him with flipbook burning a hole in his pocket. Only one other thing had burned like that before.
You sure she’s the one?
No, Dad.
Then why are you marrying her?
Because I want to be with her forever.
Even if she’s not the one?
Even if she’s not the one.
Even if you've been sleeping on the couch for a month, and you’re sitting in a restaurant alone, and another woman walks up, and there’s a connection you've never felt. And then the sky opens up and God comes down and tells you this new woman is wonderful. And your wife is waiting for you at home, cold and angry.
Yes, even if all that.
Then she’s the one.
***
They walked home under the moon. He held her hand, felt her shiver. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it, glancing once at the speckled city on the river.
“I think you were right about the girl,” he said.
“What girl?”
“The one from the flipbook.”
“You think she was blowing a kiss?” she asked. He could see her breath.
“Yes."
“Me too,” she said, almost relieved. “I liked the flea market. I like how it’s full of other people’s memories, like a scrapbook of the country. There are stories, and the only thing I know about them is that they happened.”
He laughed. “Quite profound!"
They walked in silence for a while. The skyscrapers across the river burned like candles.
“Today was a perfect day,” she said. "I just wish—"
Before she could finish, he reached into his pocket and slipped La Premiere Danseuse into the palm of her hand— a window of endless cartwheels and almost-blown kisses.
I loved this. Please keep writing and sharing with us!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful Broc. I enjoyed the read. You should consider submitting it somewhere.
ReplyDelete