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At first, it wasn’t anything more than a simple observation. Something which caught in the periphery of his vision as he sped by, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Maybe more like a little blip on his radar which disappeared in less than a moment. Just like so many other things as he sped by.
But this time was different.
Made him pause, nevertheless. Made him stop and look. If only for a moment.
It was something out of the ordinary but only just—it bordered on absurdity, maybe even flirted with it.
Just what was she looking at so intensely? What was so important as to have all her attention? He wanted to know what it was for himself and was sorely disappointed to see nothing but the flowers, the greenery. He dismissed it the first time, but the second, the third….the tenth time…
Every week there she’d be, sitting on that park bench by the old redwood. A quarter past three exactly. Greeting the trees and flowers and, hell, even the shrubs. What the hell is there to say to a shrub?
“Ah. Hello amanita muscaria, I see the rain’s treated you well.” Not just greeting them, but she knew their full names as well. As though they were family or something.
He starts pausing more, after that, at least where she was around. Not just when she spoke to the damn plants, but other times. Trips to the library, takeout pickups, lectures in her classes. Each moment was more boring than the last; the minutes stretching out impossibly long.
Peter isn’t even sure why he was paying so much attention to her in the first place, but he also isn’t sure why she was paying so much attention to these long-winded, unremarkable activities. Enjoying them, even. Looking forward to them. And not just her responsibilities, but her little hobbies as well.
He notices that she took her time in everything she did. There was a right and wrong way and then there was her way. She had set rules for herself in her own little routine. A routine he soon committed to memory, following it to the letter (and her) almost every day.
Wednesday nights she did laundry in the laundromat down the street from her apartment. She’d take the machine two down from the entrance, the one without a funky smell to it or a rattling door. First she’d sort out the colors from the whites (he always itched to do it for her since she took so long). She’d sit and watch the colors spin during their cycle for a bit, before glancing back at the book in her lap. Her books were always something he couldn’t read through without getting a headache. How can she read that stuff anyway? There’s no pictures! She’d circle or underline things in a blue ballpoint pen, occasionally scrawling things in the margins that he couldn’t even begin to decipher (it reminds him of the codes he and his sister would come up with as kids to keep their mom from intruding on their big secrets).
Friday mornings start early at a café two blocks from her apartment (which she shared with a roommate who’s often out at anti-war protests). She grades papers on the same table where she usually spills coffee (some cream, no sugar). The waitress knows to keep her mug topped up (How long have they known each other? Are they friends?). Her breakfast is always lacking, and it is only through the pushing of said waitress that she’s forced to eat a bagel or a danish, or any other baked treat being offered that morning. The morning sun leaves a halo of gold around her hair through the window.
Sunday afternoons are her alone time. Takeout from Bucco’s up the street (eggplant lasagna, ugh) while watching re-runs of Addams Family and Bewitched. She always knows how the episode goes because she says the lines alongside the actors (How many times has she seen this? Doesn’t she get sick of it?). She talks aloud to the potted plants in the living room ‘What happened to the other Darren?’ (What did happen to the other Darren?) and ‘I could get a Morticia’. When the shows are over, she works on her crochet project in silence while the clock ticks by. No music, no humming, no background noise. What a freak.
He likes freaks.
Then he wondered: what would happen if one little thing in her routine was out of place? She always seemed so set in her ways as though she were one of those birds inside a cuckoo clock—singing on the hour and not a moment before or after. Why, something as simple and as small as a grain of sand could mess it all up, couldn’t it?
He picks the redwood tree, the one she talks to almost daily (he’s exaggerating). She gives it more attention than she does to the rest of the people in her life (he’s counted the number of words she’s had with others versus the tree and the tree always wins).
He doesn’t destroy it, he just livens it up a little. Glues little googly eyes to the trunk and carves a smile. His way of saying hi. Besides, isn't that what she wanted? She’s always talking to it anyway. Now there’s a face smiling back at her! Like a Goldfish snack. Hmm, he should go get some…
It’s difficult for him to be patient about anything considering what he can do. And yet, he finds himself waiting in the perfect vantage point, nearly holding his breath as he waits for her to approach (nearly fifteen seconds until a quarter past three). She’s thankfully on time. Ever reliable.
She stops. Pauses. Blinks. The air seems to still.
Oh she’s pissed. And she’s loud.
“Those fucking contemporary art students are fucking with my shit again!” Pigeons scatter in alarm. Other students turn to glance at her before returning to their business.
Delightful! And yet–Why did she think it was anyone other than himself? It was such a personal message! Even if they’ve never formally met, even if she’s not aware of his existence, surely, she can’t just assign blame to an insignificant rando. It’s not often he likes to take credit for his work, and yet…
He does it again.
There are googly eyes and a smiley on her usual washing machine. The bottom of her coffee cup. Her television remote. Her mailbox. Her pens. Her usual seat in her lecture halls.
Her reactions slowly begin to wane. Initially, he’d get a frown, an angry squint, furrowed brows or even a delightful roll of the eyes but now she merely exhales. Her eyes glaze over it as though it were a meaningless detail, just another part of her day. Like it wasn’t something special shared between the two of them. No fun. No fun at all. This isn’t how you play.
Clearly, the solution was to let her know who she was playing with.
“—And now there’s this asshole art student who’s been permanently gluing googly eyes over everything.”
“They’re just adding a little whimsy to your life.”
Her head whips up to where he was sitting in the tree. Was being the operative word.
“Who said that?” Her voice snaps.
“Hi.”
She turns, finding herself nose-to-nose with a weirdo. He’s leaning in after making sure their thighs touched just ever so slightly (not enough for it to be weird, but just enough for her to notice) on that old wooden park bench. The same one he’s watched her sit on every Tuesday afternoon for weeks. An eternity.
“Uh–”
“Were you talking to the tree?”
It only now occurs to him that she might be like him–Weird. Able to talk to plant life. Is that why she’s able to carry on a conversation by herself? She’s actually talking to them? Real conversations? What do trees have to talk about? Oh, I grew a new leaf today. A bird nested in my branches. Some kid tripped over my roots. Total snooze fest.
“...Yes?”
“Like Poison Ivy?”
“...I’m not an environmental terrorist.”
That was his next question.
“Why?”
“Why am I not an environmental terrorist?”
“Why are you talking to the tree?”
“I, um–” She blinks and he decides to switch sides, moving to her right. She looks just as nice from the right side! “Wh–”
“Who are you?” He interjects, forever impatient. Always jumping to the next, new thing.
Ouch, she’ll get whiplash like that. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” His voice upturns ever so slightly towards the end. Not all together mocking per se, but as though he were holding in a laugh.
He watches her stop, her mouth still slightly ajar. Confusion is a pretty common emotion he’s learned to spot. Even learned how to play it to his advantage. “What do the trees say?”
She rubs her eyes, muttering. When she opens them again, he’s switched back. His ankle crossed over his knee with his arm outstretched behind her, practically lounging as though he had never moved a muscle.
“What?”
Sometimes he talks too fast for people to process. He slows down and asks her again. “What do the trees say?”
A blink, then a second and then a third… “Is this a joke?”
His mouth twitches, delighted that they were finally getting somewhere.
“Did you throw your voice, just then?” She points up at the tree. “Ventriloquist? Are you a fucking theatre kid?”
Ah. Nevermind. Back to square one.
“Do you always want to fight arts students?”
She gets up to leave, grabbing her canvas bag clumsily.
“Where are you going? Can I come too?” He follows before he even finishes asking, his steps matching hers. “Where did you come from?”
“—You can’t just ask people that.” He notices how her voice rises.
“Why not?”
She opens her mouth and then immediately closes it. Her eyes decide to drift away almost reflexively at her watch.
“What’s your name?” He pulls at her bag which she didn’t even manage to close all the way. Her wallet is in his hands and he’s looking at her driver’s license. “Nice photo. Pretty name.”
“Is that my—?” It’s almost like he can see every word she’s going to say before it happens. “............Can I have my wallet back?”
“Answer my questions first.” His lips are upturned into a big smile.
“I don’t have time for this! I’m late.” She tries to jump for her ID, but she’s too slow. He pulls it out of reach.
“Late? I’ll walk you to class!” He’s excited!!
“What–What the hell are you do—” He places a careful, gentle hand on the back of her neck. A strong whoosh, colors streaking past her. Sound muffling to silence. Her stomach and head are barely catching up to her body. Following through with a strong whump. Like she had been slapped with a fish.
“—ing?” She wobbles on her feet even as he holds her steady. Her hand goes to clutch her head, the sudden bout of motion sickness throwing her for a loop.
“You’ll be okay!” He quickly reassures her. “Everyone gets like that at first.”
“At…first?” She looks almost green. Cool. Looks nice with all the orangeish camel color she wears, like a big tangerine. Mmm. Fruit. Does she like fruit? He should get some.
She shakes her head abruptly, a lot like a dog shaking off excess water after an unwanted bath. He watches her stumble into the classroom, hands slightly touching the walls to keep herself steady. She looks like the type who would be dizzy after a carousel ride. He should take her to one!
He pockets her wallet just to keep it safe. You never know what kind of people are out there!
The class ends after 45 eternities. He took laps around the campus in between sessions of sitting and watching her grade papers as the professor lectured the undergrads. How can she sit there for the entire class without once getting up? Fidgeting? Tearing her own hair out? Must be something in the plant conversations keeping her strong. That’s at least the most promising theory he’s thought of after scrawling his name on the ceiling (...and under the lectern and various desks).
“Hi.” Her head rams up into the underside of her desk as she tries to retrieve a fallen essay. Heh. “Your class was long. Are you free, later? We can get dinner.”
She peeks at him, squinting hard, looking around for signs of any other life in the room. “...How did you know where my classroom was?”
“I’ll let you pick the place.” He doesn’t have the time to waste on silly questions like that. “Anywhere you want. Name it.”
On Tuesdays, after her shift, she eats at a diner around the corner from her apartment and always orders the same thing, barring an 86 from the menu. But if she had the choice, the chance to eat anywhere else in the world, she would take it, right?
“...The Rainbow Room in New York.” Aha! Easy. It’s literally next door! What, 200 miles? He asks for directions at the state line (the closer he gets to the city, the faster people talk. He likes New York). He finds the restaurant, and goes behind the station of the maître d' to look at their reservation book, crossing out and replacing some guy’s name with his. Is thirty minutes alright? Better ask.
He comes back wearing an I <3 NY shirt, as if to prove his whereabouts for the past few moments. Maybe he should have brought her one too. “Are you ready?”
Rapid blinking. She looks offended! How funny. “I’m not dressed.” Heavy eyebags, wrinkled clothing, a stain on her blouse (he could have caught it in time, but it was funnier if he didn’t). What’s wrong with it?
“Well you’re dressed aren’t you?” He asks.
She’s looking around again like someone is going to pop out and declare she’s being recorded. A fun show about pranking people. He’d watch that.
He’s in her line of sight again. Look at him! She flinches. “I need time to get dressed.”
Time. “How much time?” He’s never found other people to be very accurate with their time anyway—a few minutes was never really a few minutes. Maybe she doesn’t like eating at a different time. She’s always on time for everything, so maybe…
“Not enough for this.”
This. He likes that. Something they’re both involved in. She’s acknowledged it. She’ll accept it. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” He nods, and leaves to return to New York: gotta update that reservation!
He is wearing his cleanest t-shirt when he knocks on the door to her apartment, but otherwise, he is dressed the same. Suits are stuffy and he always has to have his goggles. Her roommate answers, looking confused and asking him if he was lost. He bypasses her and walks in faster than her brain can process.
“Are you ready?”
She’s dressed in an apron and black work shoes, looking at him like she’s seen a ghost. She immediately raises her hand and points. “Tell me you can see him!”
Her roommate is confused, but her expression isn’t as interesting to look at. “Yes?”
But of course she can see him! How silly.
“Oh thank fucking god.” She rubs her temples. “I thought I was going insane again.”
“Again?” He perks up.
“I didn’t actually mean you should go make reservations! Oh my god, did you make reservations?” She looks in the middle of having a meltdown, mind trying to wrap around the situation. “That trip takes three hours in a car–”
Her roommate squints at him. “How old are you anyways?”
“I’m thirty.” He is not.
“I’m going to be late for my shift,” She holds up a finger. “I can’t go to dinner. I have a whole office building to clean.”
He’s disappointed, to say the least. He wanted to show her how fast he is! How this afternoon at the tree was nothing! He can go so much faster (and that if she goes with him, it’ll be really cool).
“You’ll take forever.” He pops a cookie from the kitchen counter five meters away into his mouth (he ignores the roommate’s distressed call of ‘My cookies!’). “I’ll do it.”
“But will you do it well–” He’s already gone.
She’s locking the door of her apartment behind her when he returns, already done with the task. “Ready?”
Her roommate’s call of holy shit is ignored. “How did you get in?”
“I walked in.” What a silly question!
He’s upset that they didn’t go to the Rainbow Room, though the diner she typically eats in has more familiar food. He goes into the kitchen for a large plate of fries and a milkshake they can share, setting it on the table before she even settles in the booth. “Burger?”
She takes a moment to answer. He’s hanging on her every word, thumbs twitching. “Let me order it.”
But that will take so long! Not to mention that the waitress hasn’t even noticed them yet. During his observations of her, the waitress takes at least two minutes to come over to her table, and he’s already itching in his seat to move around.
“Fine.” She can order hers, he is going to help himself.
He’s never noticed how slowly she eats. Ok, nix that. He has noticed. But oddly it doesn’t seem as annoying when he gets to watch her this close. It’s soothing. He gets to notice more things too. Like the way she saves her fries for last, or wipes the straw on her drink before sipping it for the first time.
“Do you always eat this slowly?”
She clears her throat. “Do you always watch people eat?”
He snorts. Yes. “No.” Just her.
“Have you ever sat still for longer than two seconds?”
“Yes.” He’s suddenly defensive. Not wanting to sit still and not being able to are two completely different things.
“Mm.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin. Her lip twitches the same way it does when she talks to some of the undergrads. It bothers him. He should tie her shoelaces together. “Do you ever get indigestion from eating so fast?”
His plate is empty. Has been for a while (forty seconds). He’s already peckish again. When he responds, he has a slurpee in his hands from the 7-Eleven across the street. “Nah.” He pauses. “Did you want one?” He gets her a cherry one, it looks good with her vest.
“Did you pay for that?”
He lies through his teeth. She seems to accept it, if only to not have to think about it.
He stays quiet as she continues eating. Bouncing in his seat, tapping his foot. Fidgeting with the silverware, the napkins, his goggles. He could have left to do something, a million and half other things, and come back without having missed anything important but… He doesn’t want to. He could watch her all night, if she’d let him (and even if she wouldn’t).
Finally, FINALLY, she sets down her fork and knife. Folds her napkin to the side. Clears her throat and sets her hands on the table. “What the hell is your problem?”
He’s delighted. “What do you mean?” He leans in, hands holding his cheeks.
“You know, the whole…” She mimes a running man gesture in a stiff, almost robotic way. “...thing.”
“What thing?” He’s next to her now. Their arms are touching ever so slightly. He loves playing this game. He’s so good at it.
Her flinch this time is less pronounced. “That thing. Just now. The speed thing. Your…running trick.”
“My trick?” He repeats, amusement heavy in his tone. “You make me sound like a magician.” He dips her fries into their milkshake, which he had gone back in the kitchen to refill.
“You’re more like a clown.”
Ouch, she’s funny. He likes that. He really likes that. He thinks about getting a cream pie from the bakery half a city over. She likes tricks, right? He could be a clown, for her. “Well a clown can’t do a running thing, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She purses her lips. Clicks her tongue. “You know what, you’re right.” She throws her hands up. “I don’t know why I thought you could do something so amazing like that. Run so fast that I can’t even see you leave. It’s ridiculous. Obviously, you could never be special enough to do something like that. The sun can’t even go that fast.”
“Now wait a minute.” He doesn’t like this. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She’s supposed to be in awe of him. Clapping at his tricks. Laughing at his jokes. Playing with him.
“No no, I understand now.” She waves him away, and he moves to sit on her other side, the wind from his speed fluffing up her hair. She doesn’t seem to mind much other than fixing her glasses. “You’re just some kid.”
Some kid.
He leaves and returns with the neon sign from the bar next door, it clatters on the table to the shock of other diners.
“You could have had that under the table.”
Despite himself, his lips twitch. They both know what she’s saying is complete bull. He wants to prove her wrong anyways.
The neon sign is replaced with a street sign from thirty blocks away. The one in front of the office she cleans.
Her eyes do widen a little to his satisfaction but for the most part, she stays cool. Too cool. “Had that hidden in the seat.”
He ups the ante.
A moderately sized swordfish is plopped onto the table, still alive, fresh from the harbor. A waitress screams as it flops off the table and onto the tiled floor.
She sits up. “Put that back!”
He grins. “Where did I get it from?”
She doesn’t bite. “A kiddie pool outside.”
He actually pouts. Cracks his knuckles. If that’s how it’s going to be, then–
The next item takes a little bit longer to snag, but when he does, it clatters on the table: large and imposing. A glass case?
“Did you take this from a museum?”
He looks smug. Arms crossed. Sitting across from her with his feet up on the table.
She leans over the table to peer closer at the glass case before taking off her glasses to clean them thoroughly, and shakily putting them back on. “—The fuck!” She’s shaking, looking around the room again, afraid that someone will see. It’s cute to see her so panicked. “Did you fucking steal the Declaration of Independence?” Her harsh whisper cuts through the air.
“Why are you whispering?” It’s not the first time he’s stolen it either.
“How did you steal the goddamn Declaration of Independence?”
“What, like it’s hard?”
“I’m going to jail.” Her hands drag down her face. “I’m going to fucking jail before I finish my dissertation.”
“I’d bust us out,” he promises her.
“Put it back!” She points a finger at him. “You put it back right now!”
Heh. “Say I’m fast.”
“Okay, okay.” A deep exhale. “You win, you are so fast—just, just put that back before someone notices it’s gone.”
They won’t. They didn’t notice last time either. “Sure thing.” He gives her a cocky mock salute. And a wink because he can’t help himself.
She’s still hiding behind her hands when he gets back. He pokes her arm. Her fingers separate to allow her eyes to look at him. “...Are you going to pay for any of this?”
“Sure.” He swiped a wallet from a chump sitting up at the counter upon returning.
“Oh my god.” Her fingers close up again. “A Looney Toon asked me to dinner.”
“Just don’t drop an anvil on me, okay?” He’d outrun it but still.
It brings out a chuckle and a snort in her. “You know—” She pushes up her glasses in a way he’s seen her do a thousand times, but having it directed at him leaves him tickled. “Roadrunners don’t actually run that fast. That’s just something made up by the cartoon.”
“Meep meep.” He sticks out his tongue.
It makes her laugh louder.
He wants to hear it again.