He + She

by Michelle Warren

  The doorman greets me with a wave, and a manager meets me inside. “Checking in today, miss?” No one pays any attention to the way I look. It’s a relief because though I wasn’t self-conscious when I started this journey, I have been ever since we landed.

  “Yes,” I say with a nod.

  I follow the manager to the counter, where he asks, “May I have the name on the reservation?”

  “I don’t have a reservation.”

  “No problem, we do have a few rooms left. How many nights will you be staying with us, and how many in your party?”

  I shuffle my feet uncomfortably for a moment. “Just me.” I pause at the realization that I’m alone, traveling for the first time and without Bren. I feel myself going to that dark place, just thinking about it. We dreamed about coming to San Francisco—it was one of the top travel destinations on our list—and now that I’m finally here, it’s under the worst circumstances.

  The man clears his throat, and I erase the picture of Bren’s handsome face from my head and respond, trying to take control of my emotions. “I’d like a king bed, non smoking, with a view, for three nights, please.”

  “We have just the room.”

  “Perfect.” I place my credit card and ID on the counter.

  “Great.” He takes the card and continues checking me in. “There’s a pool on the roof, and we serve complimentary cookies in the lobby at five every evening. We also have complimentary bicycles.” He gestures to a pair of beach cruisers sitting by the front door. “Your room is 616.” He hands me the room key card.

  “May we help you with your luggage?” he asks.

  I accept the hotel key and my credit card, then step backward. “No thanks, I left all my baggage behind.” He gives me a curious look, but I leave before he can question this and quickly jump into the elevator.

  On the sixth floor, my room is large. The top half of the room’s walls are wallpapered with pages from famous novels. The lower half is painted a muted apple green. Immediately I walk to the windows and open the blinds, checking my view of the Chinatown Gate. I turn to the bed with a brightly lacquered yellow headboard, and collapse on the mattress.

  At home in Baltimore, it would be after dinnertime. And if things had played out the way they were supposed to today, I’d be married by now, eating Chesapeake stuffed chicken at my glittering reception at the Belvedere Hotel, drinking bubbling champagne and break-dancing with the one I love to bad wedding reception music that glorifies chickens.

  But here it’s barely one o’clock, and all I can focus on is the emptiness in my soul. Depression, anger, regret, guilt—any combination of words you choose to describe my life adds up to the endless tragedy that is now my reality. My stomach rumbles, and I cross my arms over my chest and turn on my side, squeezing my body into a fetal position, crying quiet tears into my pillow.

  There are so many things running through my head, a jumbled mess that pushes me farther away from reality. Feeling the shakes rise up through my body like a wave ready to consume me, I quickly reach for my purse, unzip it, and dump the contents on the bed in front of my face. I don’t focus on the mess I’ve just created; it’s impossible with the clear rust-colored pill bottle rolling in my direction. It’s my necessary bottle of evil. I hate that I am chained to it, but everything inside it will save me. It contains a cocktail of pills to cure my anxiety, insomnia, and other things that led me here. I swipe up the bottle and sit up, unscrew the top like a junkie, and race to the bathroom for a glass of water. By the time I get there, I’m a jittery mess, aching for the release the pills bring.

  Somehow the white pills can make all the pain go away, which is an impressive feat considering the size of my problems compared to the size of the pill. Barely able to stand, I swallow one, shut my eyes, and step away from the sink until my back hits the wall. When I open them again, the bathroom mirror reflects my image—a fragmented, stressed-out mess of a girl in a shredded wedding dress who can’t get her crap together. She’s hit rock bottom, and all she desperately wants to do is climb out of this hole and be happy again.

  I make my way back to the bed, crawl under the covers, and cry until the drug kicks in. When it does, I fall asleep for the first time in days.

  • • •

  I awake a few hours later, feeling better than expected. Popping the white pill doesn’t make the bad go away, it just makes me not care about what’s happened. In theory, it’s a great thing until you want to feel again, which I do, and not just the pain. I love the medications for what they do, but hate them for what they steal from me. I know I should be taking them regularly, but I don’t want to anymore. More than anything, I want to free myself from them and everything they represent.

  Looking to my nightstand, I find a plate of chocolates. Were they here before? Does it matter? Hunger pangs hit me again, and I lift the plate and settle it on my stomach. ENJOY THESE COMPLIMENTARY SWEETS. SIGNED, THE BRITON. I read the card sitting next to them and then throw it aside.

  I take a bite of the first piece of chocolate. When my stomach twists painfully, I realize I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten. It hasn’t mattered until now. I’ll give myself ten minutes to lie here and relax, because the next thing I have to do on this adventure is to find a way out of this funk and some new clothes.

  When I leave my hotel, I don’t head straight for the department stores. Instead, I cross the street, walking through the Chinatown Gate. It’s more enticing and mysterious, and when I enter the neighborhood, I’m visually overloaded by the pagoda architecture, the foreign signage, and the festive red lanterns that weave overhead from one side of the road to the other.

  I zigzag in and out of several shops, buying useless imported goodies: a pair of satin embroidered slippers, beaded bracelets, a change purse, and a large pack of Twizzlers. Any other time, I wouldn’t have allowed myself these things because I was doing the right thing, being responsible and saving for my future.

  Fuck the future. The only thing these two years have taught me is to live in the moment. You can’t plan for the future. You can’t plan anything with life conspiring against you every day. You can only live one minute at a time.

  One shop sells what I deem as real clothing, and I try on two pairs of jeans, several T-shirts boasting their love or loss of their heart in San Francisco, along with several other necessities. I try each item on, then hand the mangled wedding dress to the Chinese shop owner from around the makeshift dressing room curtain, and ask her to trash it. I never want to see that thing again.

  She complies without comment, then meets me at the cash register. There, I can’t resist a pack of women’s days-of-the-week underpants and some mini-size travel toiletries. Everything I buy fits into a backpack that I pull from another display.

  Once I’ve paid, I leave the shop and wander across the city. After a long stroll, I make it to the beach to see the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s what I’ve walked all this way for, maybe even what I’ve traveled all this way for. Who knows why I ended up in San Fran, of all places, but I’m here for some reason. Maybe I’ll find what I need to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and mind, and move on.

  It’s late in the day, and I seat myself on a jagged concrete block to eat a round of sourdough bread I picked up in a cute bakery along the way. With the sun blazing golden in the distance, turning the bridge into a caramel-colored silhouette, the water lapping over the rocks, and seagulls gliding with the breeze that rustles my hair, I feel hope. Real hope. I just have to remember that everything that’s gone so wrong is inside the stagnant bubble I currently live in. Outside, beyond the clear iridescent orb, the rest of the world makes sense. People are happy, laughing, and in love. I can hope that one day I will have those things, too. As long as I just focus on each moment and what really matters, I know that life can be beautiful again.

  Chapter 5

  He

  After my interview, which I may or may not have blown, I make my way to a nearby park in Little
Italy. I felt confident meeting the partners and presenting my portfolio, but when they asked why I wanted to move cross-country to San Francisco, I froze, remembering everything I’m running from. I managed to push past my blunder and speak passionately about the work, but I’m sure they saw the resentment of leaving home in my eyes. Sometimes my past feels like it’s stamped on my face for everyone to see.

  Though I’m wearing a suit, I collapse on a dirty bench in a park near a large white chapel. The weather is perfect, the sky’s a clear blue, and several people lay out, soaking up the sunshine, despite the fact that it’s eleven thirty on a workday. All I can think about is that I don’t want to go home to Baltimore. I need to find a way to stay, but with no job, the cost of living in San Francisco is prohibitive unless I join the hippie commune at Haight and Ashbury and dedicate my life to street singing and smoking recreationally.

  Thinking the possibility might be a doable option, I pull at my tie, loosening it from my neck. That’s when the cars waiting at a red light on the nearby street blow their horns. My eyes find the reason and I’m really sorry when they do. At least twenty completely naked dudes riding bicycles circle the park. First they parade their nudity on main roads, weaving around cars, around the square, and then they circle the paths inside the park for an unfortunate closer view. Only in this city of hippies would people clap and wave them on like heroes.

  Though I’m trying hard to ignore them, I find myself focused on only one person, all the way in the back of the group, the only girl brave enough to ride with them: the train-wreck bride, wearing only her bra and lime-green panties. I’d recognize her wild dark hair anywhere.

  On her approach I stare, shocked that I’ve seen her again. Our eyes meet and I smile. It’s a simple gesture, but this time it wins me something unexpected. She slows her bike, steers in my direction, and rolls to a stop when she reaches me.

  “Hi,” she says, greeting me like we know each other.

  “Hi.” I pause to watch her struggle with her bike, which is much too large for her. “Every time I see you, you’re wearing something unexpected.”

  “How many times have you seen me?” The girl dismounts her bike and rests it on its side. She’s completely comfortable with her near nudity, and she has reason to be. Every milky curve on her body is perfection.

  “Three times.”

  “Three times!” She leans away to dig into her backpack, and I see her panties have WEDNESDAY printed on the ass. This girl makes me smile, which is a welcome change from all the drama I’ve been dealing with.

  “Yes, but I think I like this outfit better,” I admit as I shamelessly ogle her while she’s not looking. That’s when I notice the long scar on the inside of her leg, winding its way from her knee and up her thigh.

  She turns and seems to notice, then shrugs quickly into a tank top.

  “But I think you have on the wrong panties.” I point to her perfectly curved ass.

  She looks over her shoulder and lifts her butt, looking for proof. “The lame package of undies I bought had two Hump Days and no Mondays. Go figure.” She shimmies into a pair of cutoff jeans, buttons them, and sits beside me with her legs bent beneath her. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “We haven’t. I’m—”

  “Wait. Don’t tell me your name.” She cuts me off by pressing a finger over my lips. “Tell me the name you always wished was yours.”

  My eyes widen at this, and I watch her slowly remove her finger from my mouth, as if she moved it away too quickly, my real name might accidentally slip out. She’s definitely insanely insane, and I pause for moment, considering if I really want this conversation to move forward. Who asks for a fake name? I twist uncomfortably, letting my gaze roam around the park, hoping someone might come to rescue me—the naked bike riders? No, I think I’m on my own on this one. So I do what I’m best at, I deflect. “Well, tell me the name you always wanted for yourself.”

  “That’s easy. Shea. At least, that’s what I pick this week. Next week, it could be different.” She resettles, bringing a knee to her chest. “So, what about you?” She tilts her head.

  “Well . . .” I look up and think hard of how to answer, because she’s taking this seriously. Though I’m far out of my comfort zone, I answer for no other reason than I’m curious to see where this will go. “I was always fond of the name Hewitt. Spelled h-e-w-i-t-t.”

  “Like the computer?” She laughs.

  “Yeah, I guess so. But what’s your real name?”

  “Just call me Shea, and I’ll call you Hew. You look like a Hew.”

  “What brings you to San Francisco, Shea?” The question falls out before I realize that this may be dangerous territory. Of course, I’m assuming she traveled here since I saw her on the plane, but I should consider she might actually live here.

  Shea drops her chin to her knee, seeming to consider her words carefully. “Let’s just say I’m here on a mission of personal development. You?” She takes a pack of Twizzlers out of her bag and offers one to me. I shake my head.

  “Sorta the same. I’m here for a job interview.” I gesture to my suit.

  “How’d it go?” She takes a bite of her candy.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. It could go either way.”

  “Let me guess what you do for a living.” She looks me over, analyzing every detail, as though the angle of my cheek or the pattern on my tie will give her the proper answer. “You’re wearing a suit, so you’re definitely a business kind of guy, but . . .” She pulls at my collar and her delicate fingers brush against my neck, causing an unexpected rush of heat to spread over my chest that makes me shift in my seat. “You have a tattoo peeking out from under your shirt, and your hair, well, it’s kinda . . .” Her words drift off.

  “Kinda what?”

  “No, no, it’s cute—big.” She laughs. “And all hipster, it’s just kinda . . .” She makes a wavy gesture with her Twizzler and says, “So you’re an artsy business guy, which means you’re an architect or something.”

  I stiffen, my brain momentarily freezing, unable to speak from absolute shock. This girl, someone I’ve never met before and who is this weird, guessed correctly. I wrangle my best poker face, which includes holding my breath behind a stiff mask.

  “Or something,” I manage to respond, and try to pull myself together. “That’s an interesting observation. But if you don’t want to know my real name, you probably don’t want to know if you’re right about my job.”

  Shea gives me a dazzling smile. “I’m pretty sure I’m right. I’m like one of those people at a carnival who can guess your birthday, weight, and height, but I also specialize in guessing jobs.”

  “So you’re a psychic fortune-telling carny?” I laugh.

  “For this week, maybe I am.” She stands. “You hungry? Wanna get lunch?”

  Chapter 6

  She

  Hew offers me an uncomfortable lopsided grin when I ask him to lunch. I can see the answer no in his dark eyes already. Can I blame him? After all, I know there’s a good chance he’s seen me in my Bridezilla dress, and now half-naked in my special days-of-the-week underpants, while bike riding through the city with a pack of raisin-wrinkled, seventy-plus-year-old hippie nudists.

  “I promise, I’m not crazy,” I add to make the outing more enticing.

  He gives me an appraising look. “Isn’t that what crazy people say to convince someone they aren’t?”

  “Of course, I mean, I’ve been told I am, but I’m no crazier than anyone else in this town.” I point across the park to the naked bike riders, who have settled on the grass to picnic with their bobs and jiggles laid out in the sun for all to see.

  “Are we joining them for lunch?” He tilts his head in their direction.

  “Only if you want to.” I laugh at his expression. The poor guy looks severely pained. “Actually, I’ve heard there’s a great Italian grocery up on Columbus Avenue.” I pick up my bike by the handlebars, waiting for an answer.

>   “But you don’t even know me.”

  “We’re all strangers until we meet. Right? Besides, you said you’ve seen me three times, and I know I’ve seen you at least once, though I don’t remember where. I think that’s destiny telling us we need to have lunch.” I say it matter-of-factly in hopes this train of thought makes sense.

  After a moment of long consideration, he finally says, “Well, when you say it like that, then how can I refuse destiny?”

  “Good call, ’cause she can be a real bitch. Trust me.”

  Hew joins my side as I push my bike across the park. He unknots his necktie, neatly rolls it up and slips it into his jacket, and then unbuttons the top of his shirt, allowing an inch more of his tattoo to show. It’s monochromatic and geometric, and I’m more than a little tempted to reach over and touch it the way people touch pregnant women’s bellies. But I don’t, for fear it would send him running in the other direction.

  As we walk, I’m fascinated by the way his dark hair bounces, yet somehow manages to remain perfectly styled. His profile is strong, masculine, and distinctive with a knot in the ridge of his nose, reminding me of a Roman bust. He could be Italian with his tanned complexion.

  “Do you always ask strange men to lunch?” He removes his jacket and folds it over his arm, then looks to me with his dark eyes full of expression.

  “Only the cute ones.” I look up and bat my lashes playfully.

  “So this is a pickup?” His lips form another lopsided grin, this one more confident.

  “No!” I say too quickly, and immediately feel the hot blush rising in my cheeks. He’s cute, hot even. There’s absolutely no argument there. “I’m mean, no.” I gnaw at my lip because it’s true, and hope I didn’t give him the wrong idea. “Is that okay? I’m sorry, the truth is that I’m alone and you seem to be alone. Are you alone because you gave me that vibe?”