Jane is already ahead of me. Standing on the curb next to the parking meter and fishing through her bag.
“You know, I can-”
“Got it!” She smiles. I hear the sound of a quarter clinking it’s way down the tiny machine.
“I could have done that.”
“Well, you only need one. Meters turn off at six.”
“What happens at six?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do they turn off?”
She does that thing again, the crinkled brow, tilted head, as if she can’t figure out why I asked what I asked. I catch her looking at me. Sometimes I think it’s with interest, sexual or romantic. I’ve definitely spotted the occasional linger on my torso, only when she thinks I don’t notice, of course.
But sometimes, like now, I think she’s studying me. Like a book she doesn’t fully understand.
“Nothing happens at six,” she says again, this time with a smile. “The town just makes evening parking free to encourage visitors to Main Street.”
“Hmm,” I nod. “Downtown L.A. should try that.”
It’s warm out. She shifts her weight on both feet and grins at me. Every time I make her laugh the blood shoots straight into my jeans. The meter is between us, and I want to rip it out of the ground so I can reach her, unimpeded.
“Is the town always so quiet around this time?” I look around. Couples, a few families with young kids. An older man with his dog. A young woman with a white box, some kind of cake probably, balanced on one hand as she texts with another. Two teenagers lick ice cream cones, walking close enough to bump shoulders. They smile self-consciously at one another. She touches her hair. He pushes his free hand into his pocket.
First date, I think to myself. Probably met in algebra class. Parents told them to be home by eight.
“Quiet?” Jane follows my gaze. “This is pretty busy. People got off work and are heading out for dinner.”
My face must show my surprise because she laughs and shakes her head.
“Well,” she smiles, “it’s only Wednesday.”
The stores are still open. Individuals and small groups go in and out, stepping up over thresholds and pressing against glass doors. Small bells chime and the sound of friendly shopkeepers drifts from either side of the street as we walk. A man in an apron carries a chalkboard outside, propping open the door with it and stands. He catches my eye and waves.
“Love your movies, man.”
“Thank you.” I nod.
We walk past. I feel my stride increasing but can’t help myself.
“Slow down, David.” Jane speaks beside me and I glance towards her.
“Sorry.”
“He’s not going to follow you.”
“Well, he-” I look back, over my shoulder. The man is gone, back inside. The chalkboard remains, advertising tonight’s special: ostrich steak with a cherry glaze and goat cheese crumble.
“Huh,” I look back again. Then in front of us. The teenagers have passed, but a young woman with two small shopping bags is walking straight towards us. She looks up, recognition flashes across her face, and she smiles.
And walks past.
No staring.
No screaming.
Not even a phone.
“Huh,” I say again.
“You’ve been downtown before, right?” Jane asks from next to me.
“Yeah. Twice.”
“Well, what happened then? Did you get mugged?”
“What?” I laugh at her.
“You seem really surprised that no one is accosting you. Every time someone walks by and doesn’t scream like a Beatles’ fan you say, ‘huh.’”
I shake my head. She’s right of course. And she’s laughing at me and my neuroticism.
“It’s just…unusual.”
“Well,” she stops and peers into a shop window. A local jewelry store. Gemstones and white gold displayed around a bouquet of summer flowers. The designs are smaller than what you’d see in L.A., but prettier too. Something a woman would wear because she likes it, not because it photographs well.
“You’re less handsome in person.”
“Excuse me?”
Jane turns from the window display and grins. “That’s why no one’s asking for an autograph. You’re just better on film.”
I laugh again. She’s funny, my little professor. Clever and quiet and bookish, but not afraid or intimidated or easily impressed.
It’s been a long time since someone made fun of me in that gentle, teasing way. Not to get something, not to ’neg’ me and hope I’ll be intrigued. But just to play, like friends. Like those two teenagers probably, joking about appearances to help calm their nerves.
“That’s definitely true, but…” I look across the street at a father with a baby strapped to his chest, “maybe this town is just cool.”
At that moment, my phone buzzes again. I scoop it out of my pocket and glance down. The same unknown number. The same message.
Don’t hurt my friend.
I glance at Jane. She’s peering into the window of a tiny shop at something small and cute and so painstakingly hand-made I wonder how anyone makes any money in this town.
Who is this?
Three little dots appear, my mystery warning seems to be thinking.
A friend of Jane’s.
I glance up. Jane continues to look through the windows.
Did she give you my number?
. . .
Of course not. Do you know her at all?
My eyebrows shoot up. My anonymous texter is a little rude.
I’m trying to get to know her, but it’s hard with you harassing me.
. . .
Fair enough.
And then nothing.
I wait, glancing between Jane and my phone. No more three dots. No more messages. I put my phone away.
Jane looks up. She smiles and we continue down the street. We pass a chocolate shop, the smell wafting over the sidewalk and we both inhale deeply. The window is lined with perfect shapes, wild flowers tucked between the rows of truffles, and small boxes and painted bows piled in each corner.
“I told you, ” Jane says, waving at someone inside a store.
We continue past a toy store displaying stuffed animals the size of small cars.
