Jewel Ann - Idle Bloom

“Love you too, Flower. Oh! And don’t touch John Harvard’s shoe, or any other part for that matter.”

“Yeah, yeah … I know what happens at night.”

Tourists love to have their picture taken next to the John Harvard statue. His left shoe is worn and shiny from so many people touching and rubbing it for good luck. Students walking by cringe and laugh because they know what happens at night: Students, often times drunk, piss all over it. Kai and Sean have done it … more than once, and my guess is Alex has too.

As I walk to campus via the shady tree-framed streets and cobblestone paths, I feel the shift happening in the direction it needs to go. School takes my mind off Oli, well … more like easing the pain of missing him. I’m certain for as long as I live Oli will always be on my mind.

I receive four texts from Oli today:

How’s it going, smarty pants?

What are you wearing? Hope it’s sexy. Feel free to lie to me if it’s not.

Maybe avoid the John Harvard statue.

I think we should have sex in the stacks when I get home.

Okay, so apparently another tradition or rite of passage besides defacing John Harvard is having sex in the stacks at Harvard’s Widener Library. Yeah, I don’t see Miss Perfect Attendance/Student Body President joining that elite group of students. But now I’m wondering if Oli is part of that group.

Me: Almost home, missed Rosenberg … and you, of course. No to sex in the stacks. Might piss on John Harvard. I mean … does any human really deserve to be idolized to the point of having a statue made of them?

Oliver: Won’t even address you missing the mutt more than me. I will change your mind about sex in the stacks. And if you’re going to piss on John, take the mutt with you. He’ll show you how it’s done. BTW, as your attorney, I really should not condone such behavior.

Me: My ATTORNEY? Being in Portland has already helped you. Shall I shine your shoes and press your shirts for your return? No need to take Rosenberg. I have a Go Girl. It’s a firm NO for the stacks, no mind changing.

Oliver: No comment. Go Girl? And there will be something firm for you in the stacks when I get home, but it won’t be a NO.

Me: Home.

Oliver: …

I’m not sure what his ellipsis means. I unlock the door and start to say Rosenberg’s name when my breath catches in my lungs and my words are stolen. The whole lower level is filled with bouquets of white and “crimson” roses. And before I can even move, I hear the click of a camera.

“Alex!” She grins and takes more pictures of me.

“Did you—”

“No, no … I’m just capturing the moment. It’s all Oliver.”

Setting my bag down, I pull one of the roses from a vase and smell it.

Click. Click. Click.

“How did you get in here?”

“I have a key and I keep it under our entry planter with ours. Oliver suggested it. I understand why I needed the key, but his suggestion to keep it under our planter is weird.”

I grin. Alex hasn’t heard that story yet.

My phone vibrates. It’s Oliver and he’s sent me a picture with a message.

Oliver: My new screen shot for my phone.

The picture is of me smelling the rose. The one Alex just took.

“You’re sending pictures to Oliver?”

She snaps a few more of me. “Yep. That’s what I’ve been hired to do.”

Me: Why are you having Alex paparazzi my every move?

Oliver: Missing your touch is almost unbearable. Missing everything else too, would kill me. Love you.

Me: Tears … love you more!

Oliver: Nice try, but not possible. Call me later when you’re alone.

Me: O … kay?!

“How were your classes? Any cute guys?” Alex flops back on the couch and twirls her hair around her finger.

“Last I heard, you’re engaged and I’m …” I gesture to the embarrassingly romantic display of roses surrounding us.

“I didn’t ask if you scored us dates for the weekend, I asked if there were any cute guys in your class. You know … on the likely chance that the lecture gets boring, you can strip the hot guy sitting in front of you with your eyes and dirty mind.”

I toss the rose I grabbed earlier at her. “For starters, there is no one sitting in front of me. I have to sit in the front row for my recorder to pick up everything clearly. And you’ve seen Oli, he’s…” I sigh “…perfect.”

“I love that your definition of perfect is a guy much older than you with a tainted past and a wife in the looney bin.”

“I feel bad for her.” I sit on the floor next to Alex with my legs crisscrossed. “Does that make me crazy?”

“You feel bad because of what she did or where she’s at?”

“Both. She didn’t choose to lose her sanity. Can you imagine what it would be like to not have control over your thoughts or to not be able to distinguish reality from illusions? She’s sick, really sick and …”

“Oliver left her?”

I nod. “The problem is even if I can’t imagine it, I understand why she did what she did. I also understand why Oliver despises her so much, but it makes me wonder where couples draw that line. I mean … when you and Sean get married will you vow to love each other through sickness and health?”

“No, absolutely not. Our vows are going to be more like the reading of a hypothetical prenup. ‘I promise to love you in times of acute, non-antibiotic resistant illness and health as long as you don’t try to pass it off as a beer gut and man boobs.’ His will be similar except instead of beer gut and man boobs it will read saggy tits and bingo wings.”

“AKA, you too are in love with a damaged man who loves you something fierce?”

“Basically.”

Oliver

Inever imagined returning to Portland. Then again, I never imagined moving back to Boston. When Caroline and I moved here, I fell in love with everything: the people, the view, the mountains, and the less-than-two-hour drive to the beautiful Pacific coast. We had a great house, I had a promising job, and we were getting ready to start our family—our future.

Now the view isn’t so spectacular, and I think I prefer Boston Harbor to the Pacific coastal beaches. The city feels too congested, and I don’t recognize the people. Since I’ve met Vivian, everything outside of her blindingly beautiful aura seems dull and boring.

I went to see Caroline today. Mental hospitals have to be the epitome of boring. If a patient’s not truly insane going in, they will be before too long. It’s fairly quiet except for the occasional outburst that’s dealt with by quick hands and a syringe filled with a magical sleep-it-off-until-you’re-ready-to-knock-this-shit-off potion. Every activity is planned with military regimen. There’s a short window of visiting hours, especially for Caroline, and so today there weren’t any breakthroughs, at least while I was there. She was heavily sedated, coming in and out of sleep for the first half hour. Then they brought in her dinner with plastic silverware, customary for suicidal patients. She didn’t eat and she didn’t speak—not one word. I didn’t say anything either. I went to show her I’m here, but my presence didn’t seem to encourage her. I left feeling angry and regretting this trip after only one day.