When Love Is Past

The form for love was laid out in front of her. Cheap stock paper that was a sickly pale white and the print rough enough to create a slight ridge over the type so she could almost run her fingertips across the page with her eyes closed and still make out the words. She prodded her chapped lips with the tip of her tongue and tried not to think about how slippery the pencil was in her hand. She felt beads of sweat running down her temple, squeezed her arms against her sides, elbow to rib, and when she pulled away felt the damp under her arms. She focused on the questions before her. Age. Ethnicity. Height. Weight. She wrote her best guess for some, her worst for others.

She looked up at the man seated in front of her. Suit clad, hair swept back and shining with some expensive moulding wax she could smell from where she sat. His eyes were on her, lifeless and dull.

“The process works best when honest.” He said, tilting his chin in the direction of the graphite lies she had applied to paper. She licked her lips again.

“Could I get a rubber then?”

The man sighed and reached into his jacket. For a second she thought she saw the flash of metal and heard the high note of jewellery twisting together, a series of heart shaped lockets sown into the lining, and then it was gone as he produced an eraser. It was a squat, square thing about as hard as a brick and just as malleable. The kind you got in a museum gift shop or in a goodie bag at a careers fair. In black, unremarkable letters it said E.Ross Consulting. She put the point to the page and almost immediately tore through it. A tuft of white sprouting like a sapling from the ruined hole. He sighed again.

“Perhaps one should simply cross it out”

When she was done, he snatched the paper out of her hand and without glancing at it folded it with a scalpel’s precision before placing it in his pocket.

“What happens next?”

“Pick a spot and start singing ‘Sweet Caroline’.”

“Out loud?”

“It’s how one typically does it, yes.”

“Am I matched with a Caroline?”

“That’s not the point.” He said rising from his chair stiffly. “I’d recommend somewhere rustic. Won’t do to have your chronologically challenged belle screaming at a cinema screen would it?”

“Do I have to worry about, I don’t know, paradoxes and all that?”

“It’s romance dear, of course you do.”

And with that he spun on his heel and marched for the door.

Where then, she thought. A museum? Or would that be inappropriate. ‘Hey, here’s your entire life and culture in a glass box. Wanna fool around in the toilets?’ What about mini golf? It’s basically croquet right? No, something rustic. Something simple.

The farmers market was in full swing by the time she arrived. Stalls swarming with crowds so tightly packed they almost vibrated as one, like a middle class beehive. A legion of artisanal cheeses, jams and overpriced fruit. She was wearing a button down flannel shirt, some black jeans and her least tattered shoes. It might cause a discussion about what jeans are but she was playing to her strengths. She found a quiet spot behind one of the stalls, the billowing tarpaulin crackling as she summoned Billy Joel into her throat.

Her heart was in her throat right next to the song as she worked her way though the lyrics, verse by verse, note by note. About halfway through, the eighteenth century woman appeared, suddenly there in a billow of fine lace and gold trim. Her dress billowed around her like an upturned bowl, a circumference of finery. Her hair was tall and tumbled into dark curls that framed a white powdered face. There was a tasteful beauty spot dotted under the right hand corner of her mouth and her lips shined red.

“My lady.” She said as she curtsied, deep and low.

“Uh, hi.” She said, bowing awkwardly at the waist.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, fair maiden.”

“Yeah it’s nice to meet you too.” She turned her head. “Want to get a pastry?”

They moved through the crowds, her marvelling at the apparel of each passer-by while drawing much fewer gazes than expected herself. As they walked they traded little stories of each other, the little bricks of conversation used when getting to know someone, that when placed together stacked into the shape of a person. She spoke of coming out to her parents. The denial at first and then the begrudging understanding. Her date spoke of the many debutant balls and the many suitors, not one of them swaying her gaze from her mother’s maid as she began to realise who she was and what she wanted. She told her of her first kiss at her school dance. The lady said she had never found the right time. They quickly fixed that.

The time quickly passed as she made her laugh. She loved admiring her hands, sleek and predatory like a cat’s paw. They sat on the curb after raiding the fudge stall. She had never tasted anything so sweet. She showed the lady her tattoos and she ran her fingers tips across the marvellous ink as lightly as a hummingbird feather. And then it came to a grinding halt when the lady said:

“Where are all the slaves? How do you get anything done?”

“We don’t have any.”

“What do they do then?”

“Sorry?”

“They must be governed or they’ll go mad!”

She wasn’t that surprised really.

“You know, I think I left the stove on. I’ve got to go, but I’ve had a great time!”

“Oh.” The lady said. “Shall we meet here again on the morrow?”

“Yeah.” She said as she started moving into the crowd. “I’ll text you.”