Paullina Simons - A Song in the Daylight

Larissa wasn’t trying to be coy. She wasn’t trying to be much of anything. She actually was shopping for her family. She had just finished lunch in Panera down the street. She liked Panera. Why did she have to explain herself?

“How’s your ankle?”

“Good,” she replied. “Cast came off.”

“I see that. Feeling better?”

“Meh.” She stood awkwardly next to the fabric softener. The aisle smelled faintly of fake lavender. Best to go get some food now.

Larissa got some softener just in case, since she was standing right next to it. Got big containers, two of them, so she wouldn’t have to come back to aisle 12 anytime soon, and also to show him that she had a family that needed giant amounts of fabric softener because she was a good mother and softened their laundered clothes. He rolled his cart down the aisle beside her. He was wearing his torn jeans, brown boots, brown leather. His hair didn’t look brushed. He looked underfed in that skinny young guy way when they can’t keep the weight on no matter what they do.

“You ride in this weather?” she asked him. “That’s crazy.”

“Yeah. It is pretty crazy. I’m not used to it.” He pointed to his splotched face. “I get windburn.”

Her mother taught her to be polite so Larissa said she couldn’t tell. But where was he from that he wasn’t used to it? One winter in Jersey and you pretty much knew what to expect. She didn’t ask.

When she turned to aisle 13, to the frozen section and the bread, he turned, too. She didn’t need any frozen food. She bought some anyway. Frozen hash browns, frozen broccoli, ice cream. And some frozen pizza since that’s what they were having for dinner tonight. They got in line, he right behind her. Outside in the stinging sunshine, he asked where she was parked and they both saw she was parked close to his bike.

“You’re like me,” he said. “You don’t want to forget where you left your transportation.” His fingerless gloves clutched the paper bag full of sushi.

“Can’t imagine you’d forget where you parked that ,” Larissa said, pointing. “I don’t know much about motorcycles.” Risk-averse and proud of it. “But it looks nice.”

He looked amused. “Well, you’re right. It is a nice bike. It’s a Ducati Sportclassic.”

Her face didn’t change; she couldn’t even fake being impressed. “You bought it new?”

“Nah, it’s way expensive. It was my old man’s. I got it when he died.”

“Oh.” She studied him closer. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, but,” he said, “look at the bike.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled, slightly ironically, but maybe not. Slightly ruefully, but maybe not.

He helped her again, the heavy detergent, the fabric softeners, the 12-pack of Diet Coke. “Someone drinks a lot of soda in your house,” he remarked. “All that carbon dioxide is terrible for your metabolism, you know.”

“What?”

“Oh, yeah. It slows down your Krebs cycle to a crawl. It interferes with the enzyme that receives the oxygen molecule. Terrible if you’re trying to lose weight. What, you didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know,” she said slowly, frowning at him. “How do you know?”

“Ninth grade bio.” Instead of frowning, he smiled. “Not that you should care about losing weight,” he said. “See ya. Keep warm.”

“Yeah, you too.” She wanted to ask him his name, but didn’t dare. Ninth grade bio!

Bo called as soon as Larissa got home. “My life is being slowly destroyed,” she said. “Today she told me she was going blind. Blind! I said, Mother, have you tried your glasses? They’re right on the nightstand. Oh God. I’m leaving work early today to take her to the eye doctor. Can I come over first?”

“How can you not?” said Larissa. She liked Bo, who was stately and attractive and deliberate in her movements, but what she liked best about Bo was that she could hide herself in the fray of Bo’s graceful self-absorption.

“Do you refuse to give me an answer?” said Ezra incredulously, cornering her in the kitchen after another late January week passed. Her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies would burn if she didn’t take them out right now .

“Ezra, excuse me.” Oven mitts on, Larissa opened the oven door. Damn. Overdone by two minutes.

He sighed behind her. “I thought you were going to think about it.”

“I have thought about it.” She took out a clanging metal cookie rack.

“Well, think some more. Think until you give me the answer I want.”

Giggling, she started to scrape the cookies onto a cooling rack. “I can’t do it. I don’t have the time.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You have from eight till two each and every day to dedicate to the unfailing pursuit of theatrical excellence.”

“Only in your limited and one-dimensional world,” said Larissa, “do I have nothing to do from eight till two.”

“Lar,” said Jared, pouring drinks and always ready to instigate, “tell our friends how long it takes you to get out of the house.”

Larissa stayed quiet!

“How long?” said Ezra. “Thirty minutes?”

“Thirty?” said Jared, raising his eyebrows. “Tell him, Lar.”

After veal shank and rice with corn, and everyone full and relaxed at the table, Larissa told them.

Did this seem unreasonable?

“That’s without dawdling, making coffee, or doing a single thing for any of the kids,” Larissa finished.

“Is this a joke?”

“I don’t see what’s so funny.”

Ezra stammered. “Jared, you allow this?”

“I don’t allow it, that’s just how long it takes.” Jared gazed at Larissa.

“But it takes me fifteen minutes!”

“Ezra,” Larissa said calmly, “I’ve seen you spend longer in the bathroom when you have company.”

Ezra whirled to Maggie. “How long does it take me?”

“Fifteen minutes,” replied Maggie.

“I shave, five minutes, shower, five minutes, I put on my clothes, five more minutes. Done.”

“Yeah. So? What does your business have to do with my business?”

“You weren’t always like this. You weren’t like this in college!”

“In college, Ezra? We walked around in the same pair of jeans for weeks! We were theater hippies. We prided ourselves on not washing. Things have changed.”

“Clearly.”

They all tried that Saturday night to make Larissa more efficient at getting beautiful so she could become a drama director for Pingry.

“Why do you have to put lotion on?”

“You want me to have scaly skin, Ezra? Like a snake?”

“I don’t care either way, but you won’t be scaly.”

“I will be. My husband likes touching soft skin.”

All inebriated eyes turned from wine to the husband.

“I do like the soft skin,” admitted the sheepish, grinning husband, his shaggy gray-brown hair falling over his forehead, his hand reaching out to scrub Larissa’s cheek.

“Why can’t you let your hair dry naturally?” suggested Ezra. “You’ll cut thirty minutes right there.”