Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

“No problem.” I briefly looked back down at the couch, not quite certain if she intended for me to take a seat again.

With a slight smirk upon her glistening lips, Vanessa watched me, as though my momentary confusion amused her.

“Or you could come back at closing time,” she said, rescuing me.

“Sure,” I said, nodding now myself, wondering whether this was my signal to leave or if I was supposed to stay a little longer. After all, we’d hardly talked.

But she rescued me again.

“My niece and her boyfriend are having dinner at my place tonight, if you want to join us. I have a big piece of salmon in the refrigerator that I need to cook. I’d planned on cooking it last night,” she said, and her allusion to our impromptu date put a suggestive smile on her face.

“Sure,” I said again, still nodding.

Despite my earlier confidence, I felt myself growing flushed and ready to stammer, but Vanessa seemed to ease me gently out the door by placing me in charge of picking up some wine and warning me not to work too hard on my book today. Also, she advised me that Connie preferred something sweet, such as a white zinfandel or a blush.

“She’s old enough to drink?” I asked.

“If she’s old enough to have a boyfriend,” Vanessa replied, and this casual euphemism for her niece’s sexual maturity lingered in my mind as I headed back outside along the sidewalk. Although I had no precise destination, I avoided going anywhere near the social worker’s dreadful office. As long as I remained as unobserved as possible, the exact details of that afternoon didn’t matter. I ate lunch, which was two more potato pancakes and another cup of coffee, wandered briefly about the regal busts and sculptures of a Rodin exhibit, checked the timetables for my imminent departure, and, of course, purchased several bottles of wine. Meanwhile, dark clouds grew denser over the city, and big snowflakes, like the ashes of a burnt building, began to blow through the streets. As twilight gave way to evening, and the wind increased, swirling gusts of snow became visible from streetlight to streetlight. Higher up, however, above the tops of buildings, the sky was utter darkness, devoid of both snow and motion. I plunged forward, on route back to Crowley’s store. Only now did I wish for a little more time, thinking that perhaps a brief visit to a bar for just one quick drink would give me another boost of confidence. But I kept walking. Although I’d had several hours to contemplate my own motivation — let alone to prepare an explanation for where I’d spent the previous night and why I hadn’t changed clothes — I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that somewhere between the tilapia in a Thai restaurant and the salmon in her refrigerator, I’d decided to take a risk on Vanessa Somerset. Yet, in that interval, none of my actions appeared to be the result of careful contemplation or a full assessment of the possible consequences. In short, I was simply responding. Vanessa had asked me on a second date, and I obeyed without question, like a dog catching wind of a distant scent and trotting after it.

By the time I returned, the interior of Crowley’s music store was dark, and a metal gate obstructed its glass door. Vanessa’s side was also closed, for only the backroom was lighted. Hugging the brown bag full of wine bottles, I hurriedly entered, escaping the cold.

Connie’s boyfriend was sitting on the counter, while Connie faced him, standing between his open legs.

“You’re back,” she said happily.

“Hello,” I said, and imitating the manners of the young woman with the red cheeks, I briskly wiped my feet on the mat.

The boyfriend mutely greeted me with a nod.

“Hold on,” Connie instructed me. Then, as sprightly as a child, she sprung away from the counter and disappeared into the headshop.

Left alone with the boyfriend, I nodded back at him, flashed a brief smile, and absently began to look around.

Although I could hear Vanessa and Connie talking in the other room, I couldn’t completely discern their words above the music, the slow, aching procession of a single plaintive guitar.

I sensed that the boyfriend still had his eyes on me. When I ventured a glance at him, he finally spoke:

“So you’re the fourth wheel tonight.”

“I suppose.”

He scratched under his chin with one lazy finger. Even though he continued to look at me, he didn’t seem as if he had anything else to say.

I wiped my feet again before stepping forward between the motionless racks of shadowy clothes. I intended to poke my head into the backroom, not simply to say hello to Vanessa but also to rescue myself from the boyfriend’s discomfiting lassitude. But Connie reappeared in the archway. She now had a white knit ski-cap atop her head. She was proudly holding aloft a broad black bag that was the length of her entire body.

“What did you get me?” she asked, referring to the paper bag in my arms.

“White zinfandel and blush.”

“Two for me.” She turned toward her boyfriend and nodded her head, smiling, as though I’d just impressed her.

“What about me?” he asked.

“I got pinot grigio for your aunt, a chardonnay, and a riesling. The clerk said that’s sweet.”

Feigning disappointment, the boyfriend said, “Nothing for a man.”

Connie slapped his knee.

“There’ll be nothing for you,” she told him, and her tone seemed to imply a threat, as though she were coercing him to be respectful.

He apparently understood what was at stake because he sat up straight and grinned at her.

“You’d crack first,” he responded. “You’re worse than me.”

Laughing, she smacked his knee again and said, “Shut-up.”

Unmoved, he continued to look at her. “I know you,” he said. “You’ll crack before the cock crows.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Shaking her head and smiling, she approached me with the long dry-cleaning bag.

“I’ll trade you,” she said, and as she made the exchange with me, gathering the bag of wine into her arms, I noticed that she had a dry warm scent that reminded me of slow-smoldering pine cones.

Just then, Vanessa emerged from the backroom. She was dressed in the same coat and gloves from the day before.

Depositing the wine onto her boyfriend’s lap, Connie told Vanessa, “He’s being horrible.”

“What did he do?” Vanessa asked, looking at me.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“See,” the boyfriend said and grinned at me approvingly.

“Don’t take his side,” Connie said.

“I was—” I began to say, but Vanessa came toward me and in one quick motion, gave me a peck on the lips and grabbed the awkward dry-cleaning bag out of my hands.

“You came back,” she said, echoing Connie’s initial greeting to me.

“Sure,” I said, confused not only about the young lovers’ happy quarrel but also about the general amazement over my return.

In the process of bundling themselves up and getting prepared to close down the store, they conversed about various topics that had nothing to do with me. However, Vanessa did briefly suggest that Connie’s boyfriend could learn how to behave himself properly by my example.

In the car, the young couple shared the small backseat, sitting close together in order to make room for my dry-cleaning and the wine. Meanwhile, for the entirety of the ride, Connie’s head, rounded in the white knit hat, continually poked itself up between Vanessa and me, while the two of them talked about the shop. Vanessa expressed concern over a boxful of beige capris that were all brand new but defective: The buttons were too small for their holes. She thought it would be worth the effort to replace all the buttons, so she could get a better value.