"If there's a friggen zombie pandemic, Evan, I give you my permission to release me from your command."
From behind, Evan kisses me softly on the neck. "I do not accept your kind gesture."
"Well, I would like to accept your ride. Where the hell is your car?"
“We are walking,” Evan replies.
"Jamie." I turn away, as he ushers the keys into his pocket. "Where's Chu? Can you all drop me off at home?"
"You live two blocks up the street," Jamie replies, laughing as if my statement is the most preposterous thing.
Tight lipped, I point to my ankles. And then I make the explosion gesture with my hands near my bowling ball of a belly.
"What's going on?" Evan asks.
"Inside joke," Jamie barely gets the words out for laughing.
After clearing his throat, my best friend adds, "Look, let's head toward your home. If my chauffeur arrives before we make it, I'll give you a ride and Evan can walk the rest of the way all on his lonesome. That work?"
"Perfect. I hope Evan has to walk —"
"It's not far, and if I walk, you walk," Evan cuts in.
We begin the long stretch, of two blocks. Jamie chatters about his pending trip, and I’m content holding Evan’s hand as I pretend to listen. Really, my mind is on the hordes of people inside of some of the galleries on both sides of the street. I’m wondering if they’re having an event, and they all have to squeeze in the respective artsy rooms at dusk.
A few yards away, vibrant chalk on the asphalt in the middle of the street captivates my attention.
There once was a boy ...
He lost a love so great ...
I huff. "Blah, that sucks."
"Huh?" Jamie says, Evan arches and eyebrow.
I point to the ground. "Someone painted on the street: There once was a boy, he lost a love so great—Evan, you sensor some of my poetic music so I'm just gonna stop looking down!" I know I just caught an attitude but I blame it on the hormones and these friggen ankles.
“Oh, look,” Jamie cuts in, “it says, and then he met a tart."
"A tart?" The scrawled font is beautiful, but the words are… my mouth twists. A tart... Evan called me a friggen tart when we first met. He was too polite to call me a bitch, at least that's how I took it.
"She knew not what love was," a man says from off in the distance. As he speaks, a couple steps into the street. The woman has on a flowing dress, yellow, the same color I wore when Evan came into my life. The man is big and strong. They're spirit dancers: holding, clinging, pushing and pulling. There's a tug and a war. All caused by the tart. The woman. Me.
A crowd is meandering from the various art venues, and even Nook.
"The both of us are not apt when it comes to art. So, I asked a few artists on the block and they asked a few more who apparently asked a few more. Everyone is here to see just how much I love you, Reese," Evan says. He drops to one knee.
“Ohhh…” I moan, speechless beyond repair while Evan digs into his pocket.
The Flour Shoppe box in my hand slips from my palm, fingers and tips. The ribbon unravels and a half-dozen cannoli fall out. My grandfather’s cannoli. I hadn’t made the dessert in eight months, I hadn’t set eyes on him in just as long. We were to meet him this evening for dinner.
My eyes blur and I can't even make out Evan’s face. Or the sea of smiling people.
"I haven't had a single cannoli since my granddaughter last made them, and she drops ‘em," Sal says. My grandfather is behind me! He’s here!
I can hardly breathe, rubbing the back of my hand over my eyes.
There's an antique ring in Evan’s hand.
"Is this... is this my grandmother’s ring?"
"I gave my blessing, doll," Sal says.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Something compels me to hurdle myself at Evan.
My arms fly around his shoulders. I hold tight to my Superman.
The End.
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48
LeAnna Aria Jones
Raw fear licks the nape of my neck. With each breath, I drown in the past. An Ice Cream truck’s melody, laughter, the Oldies, family reunion music, funneled through my ears. I hesitated, watching my younger sister clasp the hand of a stranger whose smile outshined the Texas sun. They were going for chocolate sundaes and coming right back . . .
I warn myself to touch something, return to reality. My clammy palms press against the cold, veiny-marble countertop. ReAnna and her abductor disappear; rich opulence returns.
“Aria, don’t let the past screw with your head,” I tell myself. Massive slate-gray walls and custom everything surround me. The kitchen sliding glass door, frames a breathtaking view of Miami Beach by day, is
