Page 35

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

After I get home from the LARPing snafu, I run a hot bath to warm up and soak off the cemetery cooties.

While relaxed, I call Ollie to run Angeline’s favor by him.

I figured a call was better than a text because I could more precisely gauge the apprehension in his voice.

But measuring his vocal hesitation gets quickly replaced by measuring the look on his face as my phone pings with a request from him to turn our call into a FaceTime.

Before accepting the video chat, I quickly sit up in the bath, dry my fingers on a towel hanging nearby, and ensure enough bubbles are covering my chest so that he can’t take screen shots and set up an Only Fans account without my permission.

“Well look at you,” he says. “An afternoon soak. How very European of you.”

“Oh, please,” I say. “I had a few minutes to myself so figured I’d use my bathtub for something other than mixing up potions. Anyway, why are you FaceTiming me? Where are you?”

“The most magical place on earth,” he says, as he flips the camera outward.

That doesn’t look like Ambrosia, I think to myself.

“The Home Depot,” he announces. “Help me pick out some paint for my bedroom, will you?”

“What color is it now?”

“You have been in my room. Don’t you remember?”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit if you think I was paying attention to the color of your walls.”

Ollie smiles.

“It’s an off-white. Standard builder grade paint. Probably been there since the mid-90s.”

“Okay, well, what are my choices?” I ask.

Ollie holds up Swatch Number One.

“Mythical Mist,” he reads about the sage green color. “Or Gearshift.” The second swatch is a dark gray.

“I like Mythical Mist,” I comment, as Ollie turns the camera back so it’s just the two of us again.

“I like Gearshift,” he counters. “It feels more definitive. What the hell is Mythical Mist anyway? Is it blue? Is it green? I can’t really tell. Gearshift is what it is: it’s gray. Easily understood. Point blank. Tried and true. GRAY.”

“But Mythical Mist can be different things in different lights. It can be exactly what you didn’t think the room needed, when you need it most. Dreary day?

Boom. Pop of color. Sunny day? It helps keep everything light and bright.

It’s the land. It’s the sea. It’s the sky.

It’s Mythical Mist and it checks every box. ”

He stares at me as I wait to hear his thoughts.

“Mythical Mist it is,” he says, putting the Gearshift swatch back on the rack as I award myself a silent round of applause.

“Thanks for your help,” he continues on. “I’m going to get a can or two of this mixed up.”

“Wait,” I say, remembering I’m the one who called him. I go on to explain Angeline’s Reiki request.

“It’s kind of like a massage,” I say. “Except she doesn’t touch you at all.”

“So not like a massage at all,” Ollie sarcastically responds.“Look, you can tell Angeline I’m in for tomorrow morning. But if I do that for you, you’ve got to do something for me.”

Uh-oh.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Help me finish a puzzle. I’ve been working the last six months on this thousand-piece beast of the Amalfi Coast. I’m so close to being done. I just need some fresh eyes. Seriously, I’ll sleep better at night once this thing is complete.”

I know I wasn’t paying close attention to the color of his walls, but I’d like to think I’m familiar now with the entirety of his apartment and I do not recall there being three-quarters of a thousand-piece puzzle sitting out anywhere.

“Fine,” I agree anyway. “What time should I be at your place?”

“It’s not at my place. It’s at this bookstore-slash-brewery-slash-wine bar-slash-ice cream shop called Kibbitznest in Lincoln Park.”

“Kibbitz-wha?”

“Kibbitz. Yiddish for ‘ friendly chatter. ’”

Right. Of course.

“Anyway, the staff has blocked off a table in the backroom just for me and the Amalfi. But I can tell they want their space back, which is why I need to tag you in and get this thing done. Let’s meet there at 6pm?”

“I’ll see you for some friendly chatter then,” I say before setting the phone down on the ledge and sinking my head under water.

I arrive to Kibbitznest and am greeted with a sign on their front door that simply says: Be kind. Dig deep. Search for answers.

It’s no secret that Ollie and I come from two ends of the spectrum. But when I read their mission statement and know that he’s agreed to those terms the same way I have before turning the handle and stepping inside, I feel leveled with him within these walls. I already like this place.

I snake my way through various tables and stacks of books in an effort to make it toward the backroom where I know Ollie and the puzzle are waiting for me.

There’s soft jazz music playing in the background.

The place is dimly lit with strategically placed reading lamps throughout for a little extra oomph.

Almost every chair is filled, but the placestill manages to feel open and peaceful; not crowded and chaotic.

There are friends with pint glasses playing Scrabble at one table, a duo playing chess while licking ice cream cones at another, and people reading solo, sipping on wine.

The mood is so chill. I can’t believe I’ve never seen this place on social media.

Entranced by it all, I physically bump into Ollie who is at the bar ordering some wine.

“There you are,” he says, instantly placing a kiss on my lips as if he gets bonus points for speed to market. “Red or white?”

“Surprise me,” I say, knowing full well, he already has.

I leave him to order and turn the corner to the backroom.

There are two chairs and a table, on top ofwhich a puzzle is taking up most of the surface.

In the free space is the most beautifulcharcuterie board I’ve ever seen with billowing piles of prosciutto, sliced cheeses, and a colorful assortment of jams and spreads.

It’s on a wooden board engraved with the words THE HOTEL brOCKMEIER.

I don’t know how much he paid the banquet chef for this masterpiece, but I’m grateful. ..and I’m starving.

“Plot twist: I got a Brut,” Ollie says as he enters the room holding an uncorked bottle and two flutes. “This wine is called: Us . Felt fitting.”

“How did you decide on a bubbly?”

“We’re going to finish this puzzle. I think that alone calls for a celebration. Besides, the only other bottle they had on special tonight was a red called ‘Prisoner.’ I didn’t think that was a good omen. Cheers.”

We clink our glasses and for the umpteenth time, I soak in all that Ollie is.

Dark denim jeans, a light denim button down with pearl snaps.

His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show this puzzle that he means business—and to show me the peridot bracelet he bought months ago is still part of his every-day wear.

Between bites of cheese-covered crackers and sips of the crispest sparkling wine I’ve had in ages, we get to work on the puzzle. I place my first piece within 30 seconds, which apparently is a serious turn-on.

“That’s pretty hot,” he says.

“You know what would help move this along?” I ask, snapping another piece into place. “Googling an image of this puzzle box before thirty years of sun-washing compromised our only clue into a deeply faded oblivion.”

“I don’t disagree,” he says.

I grab my phone and realize there’s no service in the backroom. So I take a moment and attempt to connect to their Wi-Fi, looking for the book bar’s router name. Nothing comes up.

“Never mind. It appears that we are in a black hole,” I say, showing Ollie the No Service icon of death.

“Oh. That’s right…” Ollie slides a paper table tent my way. I read the text on it aloud.

“ In order to preserve the lost art of human interaction, we promote face-to-face communication by being an internet-free zone. We ask that your cellular devices be put away at all times. Exceptions can be made for ordering pizza and Ubers. Thank you for your understanding .”

At that, I toss my phone back into my purse where it’ll take a long overdue nap.

“Well, let’s lost-art it up, then. What’s your favorite quirk about yourself?” I ask.

“Oh god. This isn’t another Moonie-Miller-timed-pop-quiz, is it?”

“Nope, take all the time you need,” I say as I place two more pieces. “I’ll just be over here single-handedly finishing this puzzle.”

“I always pick up loose change off the ground. And if it’s a quarter, I say quietly to myself, ‘Big money!’”

Brut nearly comes out of my nose.

“Big money?”

“Think about it. Most people will leave a penny on the ground if they drop one, but not a quarter. A quarter is a rare find and—technically—the highest valued coin in standard American production. And when we first moved to America, I spent many-a-dayswatching Wheel of Fortune on TV. I’ll never forget contestants spinning the wheel, willing for it to land on ‘big money.’”

“Ah, so that’s where the slogan comes from. Well, for what it’s worth, that’s about the most nerdy-but-lovable thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What about you? Favorite quirk?”

Is this the part where I tell him about Exexveei?

After a long pause, I go with: “I peel the skin off hot dogs.”

“That’s not a quirk, that’s food preference,” he fires back. “Next?”

“I sign up for emails to save 10% on a purchase. Don’t make the purchase. Then get mad when they email me their newsletters.”

“Sounds like more of a toxic trait, but I’ll take it,” he says.

“A toxic trait is thinking puzzles are fun,” I correct him.

“Hey, now…be nice. They’re a welcomed break from reality. A test of patience and memory. It’s therapeutic. What relaxes you?”

“Hmph.”

A noise that’s a cross between Hmm and a laugh that’s not triggered by anything funny escapes my lips.

“What?” he asks.