Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

I close the book.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” I say.

“So,” he says cheerily, “have we met somewhere before?”

“I’m not sure if it was you,” I say. “But one time when I was downtown on my bike, my chain came off. I squatted down to put it back on and suddenly there was someone standing next to me offering to help me. I thanked him without looking up, then I did look up — and you know what?”

“What?”

“Turns out he was — how should I put it? — he was an exhibitionist.”

“Huh?” His jaw drops. “He. . his pants. .?”

“Yep.” I lift my face up toward the sun. It’s fun to make somebody uncomfortable right off the bat. “To put it in the most genteel way, he exposed himself.”

“And he looked like me?” he asks.

“No idea,” I say. The best part is that it’s all true — the bike chain, being downtown, everything. And all I can remember is the person had blond hair not entirely unlike this guy here. “I wasn’t really looking at his face.”

“What were you looking at?” he says flatly.

I shrug my shoulders. If I were in his place, I could think of a thousand funny retorts in the time he just sits there staring at me. But that’s all he does — sit there thinking about my words. Or maybe about something completely different.

“Well, it wasn’t me,” he finally says.

“Too bad,” I say. He looks at me blankly, not getting the joke.

How should he know what I’m thinking. How should he know that the fog I had managed to banish for a little while is back again, filling me from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. It’s probably about to waft out of my mouth. I shut my lips tight.

I’ll make a last desperate attempt to cast it off. I’ll go out with anyone who talks to me right now, and do anything — the dirtier the better. If I piss myself off, it’ll make me feel better.

That’s what I’m thinking as I look the guy over. He’s not unattractive. The best thing about him is his gleaming white T-shirt that’s clearly just been ironed. I’d love to know whether it smells good like fresh laundry. He could almost be nice if he wasn’t so slow on the uptake.

Still, nobody else has chatted me up, so I’ll take what I can get.

“What did you want anyway?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“What did you want from me? Did you want to ask me something?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Ask something, right. Do you want to come to the city fair tonight?” He says it quickly, looking past me. It’s not a very effective approach. I look right at him and he seems to get a bit uncomfortable as I hold his gaze.

“Why?” I ask. “Why did you want to ask that?”

“Just because,” he says, glancing at me briefly and then looking away again.

City fair, right, of course, I think. Rollercoasters, cotton candy, haunted house. What else. A merry-go-round where they spray you with water. Upside down, spun around like in a washing machine. Betting who will puke first.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty-four.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“What do you do when you are not at the city fair?”

“I’m a college student.”

“Engineering?”

“No, I dropped out of that. Computer science.”

“Here at the technical college?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Where there are a hundred and thirteen boys and two girls?”

“Five girls. So?”

I don’t answer. I think. He’s not exactly a thrill a minute. But this fog isn’t too much fun either.

I’ve got to get out of here. Maybe the city fair will be just the ticket.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Volker. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Really? Volker?” I ask, intrigued. It’s as if someone has found a secret password in my mind and revealed it to him.

“Yeah, why?”

“No way. Hardly anybody your age is named that,” I say, though now I’m having a hard time talking.

“Do you want to see my ID?”

“Yes,” I say.

“What, right now?”

“Yes.”

He reaches into his pants pocket and fishes around, unable to find it at first. Then he shows me his driver’s license. That tips the scales.

“We can meet up tonight,” I say. “But not at the fair. Let’s meet in North Park. Do you rollerblade?”

“A little,” he mumbles. He doesn’t look thrilled. “I’m not very good.”

“Perfect. Me, too. Eight o’clock at the main entrance? In rollerblades?”

“Okay,” he says, doubt written all over his face. He’s probably already regretting having chatted me up. Maybe he won’t even show up.

But if he does — well, then I’ll be out with a Volker tonight.

He does. From the first glance two things are clear. One, from the way he’s holding on to the metal fence it’s obvious he’s very shaky on skates. Two, he doesn’t appear to be exactly bursting with anticipation.

It changes a bit when I skate up to him and grab hold of him.

“Nice dress,” he says, nearly losing his balance in the process of saying it.

I don’t like dresses. I almost never wear them. But sometimes they’re very practical, I think, though I don’t say any of this, as he’d probably hop out of his rollerblades prematurely.

We take a spin around the park. He holds my hand as we do — not because it’s romantic but because otherwise he’d fall. It’s tough to skate that way, with our sweaty palms clamped together. And my arm gets stiff because I have to hold the guy upright.

We do all the things you’re supposed to do on a first date — if you are in the fifth grade. We don’t talk. We stop at an ice cream stand where, in line, he finally lets go of my hand and I shake out my arm. I don’t bother to conceal my relief.

We eat our ice cream on a bench and crumble up the ends of the cones and toss them to the pigeons. Then I drag him deep into the park where couples are scattered around the grass. His hand is even stickier now from the ice cream. I would love so much to be able to wash my hands.

He stumbles at one point and pulls me down with him. Then once we’ve both gotten up again and lumbered over to each other, he kisses me. Out of the blue. I barely manage to spit out my gum. Afterwards he seems very happy, and I am happy, too, because he ate mint ice cream and the flavor makes me think of something far away and pretty.

I figure he’s ready. So I pull him to a patch of lawn that’s still free, behind a lilac hedge in full bloom. As I let myself fall to the grass, he stays upright, looking around as if he’s lost his way in the dark woods.

“What’s up? I say. “Are you worried about ticks? Or mites?”

“N-n-no,” he answers. I hadn’t realized he stuttered a little. Maybe he hadn’t done it earlier.

It takes all my self-control not to laugh.

“Are you really twenty-four?” I ask.

“Just turned,” he says.

“Can you help me get these heavy things off?” I ask.

“What things?”

“The rollerblades.”

“I’ll try,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Man, it’s hot here.”

He kneels down and gives me another kiss. Then he starts working at the buckles of my inline skates. Finally he has my foot in his hand and asks, “What are you laughing at now?”

“It tickles,” I say.

He lets go of my foot and lies down next to me. He plucks a blade of grass and starts to run it along my arm, from my fingertips, past my elbow, up to my shoulder, and on to my collarbone. I wonder whether he thought that up himself or saw it in a movie. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face. It tickles.

Then he traces the same route with his pointer finger. Collarbone is once again the last stop.