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See you in a few hours.
Lemony leans against the wall of the school, waiting as patiently as he can for his companions to be released from classes. The day had been unbearable, from O and the incessant chatter about his latest theatrical role to the droning of their practical skills teacher. As someone who had learned to type from quite a young age, Lemony found the exercise to be self-explanatory but perhaps a sad student or two needed to be taught (for the umpteenth time!) how to roll paper into their typewriters. Time crept hour by sluggish hour until the bell finally rang. Lemony had been first out of the building.
He hears the familiar voice before he sees them, “I know that it’s a classic but if I have to hear about how romantic Cyrano de Bergerac was one more time, I’m going to lose it.”
“It’s a little romantic, Bea. He helped someone else win over the love of his life.”
The two girls round the corner in time for Lemony to see the wicked glare Beatrice sends Ramona. “Don’t you start with me too, R. It’s bad enough hearing it from Mrs-“
“Lemony!” Ramona effectively cuts Beatrice off as she practically bounces forward to link her arm in Lemony’s.
“I sure hope you had a better day than we did, Snicket,” Beatrice greets, casual and cool as ever. She isn’t smiling but she doesn’t look nearly as annoyed as she had a moment ago.
“Cyrano and his nose tirade is preferable to the hour long lecture we got about the history of the telegram,” he says finally. At his side Ramona giggles. He wonders if she knows something. He wonders if Beatrice knows something.
Beatrice does smile then. “Well, I think that a long day is nothing a couple of cold root beers can’t fix. What do you two say?”
Ramona detaches herself from Lemony, a sly smile on her lips as she starts to back away. “Oh, shoot. I wish I could but Olivia and I have plans already. You two have fun though!” And with that she’s off like a rocket across the school yard, leaving Lemony alone with Beatrice and the fluttery feeling in his chest. He wishes he didn’t have to look at her this way. It was so much easier when she was just the punctual girl in first period.
See you in a few days.
“Snicket!” Lemony is suddenly brought back to reality and right into the angry face of his boss. “For the last time, I’m not paying you to sit around and day dream all the time. Get back to work or the next obituary you’ll be spell checking will be your own.” He watches as Eleanora storms back into the office.
She’s right, of course. Not for the first time Lemony had drifted off at his desk thinking about Beatrice on stage, dropping her hat pin as he was sure she would that very evening. It was a lonely job, not only that of an obituary spellchecker but of a volunteer. It was becoming more and more difficult to see any of his school friends between their jobs, families, and the various errands that seemed to be more and more dangerous as of late. When they were together there was a certain tension between even the best of friends. Lemony knew they couldn’t be too careful, but he couldn’t help but wish he could spend every waking moment with the dear actress who he hopes to be seeing that evening. They’d been apart for almost a week and yet it felt like a year.
Jacques liked to remind him often now that there were more important things than just a girl. “You have family, Lemony. Commitment. If you put yourself in danger just for a flirty actress-“ At which point Lemony would stop listening to the oncoming lecture about how these were strange times and they had to be on the lookout.
It was nice to see that at least Kit, who crudely imitated their older brother whenever he left the room, was on his side. She had her own flirtation to attend to, but for the life of him Lemony couldn’t understand what she was doing with Olaf. If it was anything more than a scheme he would owe Monty a repaired snake trap, and Lemony had scarcely the first idea about repairing mechanical devices.
Some hours later, Lemony sits at the counter of a diner with a root beer float in front of him. Beatrice would order her’s when she arrived, but until then Lemony just tries to calm the anxiety he feels with each passing moment that Beatrice still wasn’t on the stool beside him. Ten minutes after midnight he’s almost ready to go looking for her, half convinced that something terrible had happened to her on her way over, when finally she steps in through the door.
As soon as she reaches the counter Lemony wraps his arms around her and her kiss breaths life back into the exhausted writer. He banishes his worried to the far corners of his imagination because of course Beatrice had only run a little late leaving the theatre as she explained. No one would hurt a nobel woman for no reason.
See you in a few weeks.
It was exhausting. The endless days dragged on and on and on lately until Lemony could hardly remember what assignments he had upcoming deadlines for and which he had missed. The office was quiet, home was quiet, headquarters were quiet and he could hardly stand all the silence around him lately. The world didn’t make sense without Beatrice near by, not this new world where a number of associates seemed to be dropping off the map and a library far too close for comfort had been burnt down just a week ago.
He kept himself going with she will be home soon as his ongoing mantra. She would be home soon and they would get a float. She would be home soon and they could read together. She would be home soon and Lemony could get a night’s sleep that actually felt like sleep. She would be home soon.
I miss you.
With shaking hands, Lemony set down down the book on the table beside him. He had spent the last several hours pouring over the pages with a growing sense of horror as it finally sank in. Beatrice could not marry him. Would not.
I miss you.
All their plans had gone up in smoke so suddenly that he couldn’t make sense of it. Why?
I miss you.
His apartment is quiet, the birds are quiet, and after hours of raucous sobs Lemony himself is finally quiet. Unsure of what he is to do, he crosses the small room to the desk. When he starts on the typewriter, the key clicks are loud enough to make him flinch. He’s suddenly thankful for those lessons on how to refill the paper on his machine, unsure if he could remember how to do it himself when typos crop up in his reply.
I miss you.
He sits for hours.
I miss you.
It feels like days.
I miss you.
It feels like weeks.
I miss you.
Beatrice.
Beatrice?
I miss you.
Who knows when I will see you?