all the way up its tall stalk to the still tightly closed tip, which, too, would flower as time went on. It was carefully wrapped in a cone of lavender paper and tied with a pale green ribbon, whose ends were made to curl into happy confusion as the young woman ran a scissors over the tips.
Back on the street, he walked until he turned in to the park where she said that she would meet him. He was early, because choosing the flower had not taken as long as he’d anticipated, but still he had to write his note. He wanted it to have the immediacy of something deeply felt, but also seem to have been written spontaneously. One of his fears in embarking on his other project, his book, was that so much time would be spent that in every word one might hear the ticking of the clock. He had spoken to no one but Harriet about his dream of being a writer. He would writetheir love story, but it would be one that took place in the future, without time passing and parents hovering and the obligations of the office swarming him like worker bees surrounding the queen. Their story would reveal itself as the stars did, small but distinct, sometimes unobserved, but always there in the night sky to lead the way, to remind people of a world whose horizons knew no bounds.
He sat on a bench and began his note, the tip of the lucky pen that Harriet had given him for his birthday caressing the paper in the same sure but gentle way he dreamed of caressing her.
“Dearest Heart,”
he wrote, then paused. In the distance, two elderly ladies walked arm in arm, their hats as feathered as if birds had dared to perch atop them. What advice might two older ladies have for him about how best to express himself to the one he loved? He almost stood, but thought better of it. They might be frightened by his sudden intensity. He did not think he could keep his voice calm, neutral, as he always did in the office. They passed by, bird-heads bobbing, and he wondered why ladies selected such hats, unless perhaps they had a secret wish to fly away. At night, birds nested and were not seen, just as the hats resided in their boxes. But what were all these thoughts, when his Harriet did not particularly like hats, and wore them only because it was expected? She wore no hat when she raced into the water, unless you might call a swimming cap a hat. Oh, she might wear a sun hat with a wide brim if she sat on the beach, but still he did not think she was the sort of girl who liked a hat, or who needed one to be beguiling. No, when he closed his eyes, he saw her in the black bathing suit with her neck stretched high, her eyes squinting in the sunlight under no hat brim, only her curly hair, slightly reddish blond, sheltering her from the sun’s rays and falling to her shoulders. In the future, he thought, there might not be so many hats. Hadn’tbathing suits at first had long skirts that had become shorter and shorter until now they were cropped into short pants that hugged the torso? Perhaps hats would also become smaller, no more than a gesture, like a comma. But he was lost again in speculation, putting off writing the letter the same way he delayed writing his book.
“Dearest Heart,”
he began again, but this time his attention drifted to a figure in the distance, coming nearer. It was his friend Bill, the brother of his beloved Harriet, and he suddenly realized Bill would be accompanying them, and his heart deflated. He had envisioned just the two of them on the bench, two stars alone in the night sky who would each take strength from the other’s burning bright.
Except that Bill was alone, and he veered to the right and took another path, striding purposefully in his blue suit, which became smaller and smaller until it seemed to meld into the sky. Lost in thought, Bill had just happened to be walking through the same park where Harriet had promised to meet Richard at half past noon. Bill disappeared, and some part of Richard felt ashamed that he had not greeted
Back on the street, he walked until he turned in to the park where she said that she would meet him. He was early, because choosing the flower had not taken as long as he’d anticipated, but still he had to write his note. He wanted it to have the immediacy of something deeply felt, but also seem to have been written spontaneously. One of his fears in embarking on his other project, his book, was that so much time would be spent that in every word one might hear the ticking of the clock. He had spoken to no one but Harriet about his dream of being a writer. He would writetheir love story, but it would be one that took place in the future, without time passing and parents hovering and the obligations of the office swarming him like worker bees surrounding the queen. Their story would reveal itself as the stars did, small but distinct, sometimes unobserved, but always there in the night sky to lead the way, to remind people of a world whose horizons knew no bounds.
He sat on a bench and began his note, the tip of the lucky pen that Harriet had given him for his birthday caressing the paper in the same sure but gentle way he dreamed of caressing her.
“Dearest Heart,”
he wrote, then paused. In the distance, two elderly ladies walked arm in arm, their hats as feathered as if birds had dared to perch atop them. What advice might two older ladies have for him about how best to express himself to the one he loved? He almost stood, but thought better of it. They might be frightened by his sudden intensity. He did not think he could keep his voice calm, neutral, as he always did in the office. They passed by, bird-heads bobbing, and he wondered why ladies selected such hats, unless perhaps they had a secret wish to fly away. At night, birds nested and were not seen, just as the hats resided in their boxes. But what were all these thoughts, when his Harriet did not particularly like hats, and wore them only because it was expected? She wore no hat when she raced into the water, unless you might call a swimming cap a hat. Oh, she might wear a sun hat with a wide brim if she sat on the beach, but still he did not think she was the sort of girl who liked a hat, or who needed one to be beguiling. No, when he closed his eyes, he saw her in the black bathing suit with her neck stretched high, her eyes squinting in the sunlight under no hat brim, only her curly hair, slightly reddish blond, sheltering her from the sun’s rays and falling to her shoulders. In the future, he thought, there might not be so many hats. Hadn’tbathing suits at first had long skirts that had become shorter and shorter until now they were cropped into short pants that hugged the torso? Perhaps hats would also become smaller, no more than a gesture, like a comma. But he was lost again in speculation, putting off writing the letter the same way he delayed writing his book.
“Dearest Heart,”
he began again, but this time his attention drifted to a figure in the distance, coming nearer. It was his friend Bill, the brother of his beloved Harriet, and he suddenly realized Bill would be accompanying them, and his heart deflated. He had envisioned just the two of them on the bench, two stars alone in the night sky who would each take strength from the other’s burning bright.
Except that Bill was alone, and he veered to the right and took another path, striding purposefully in his blue suit, which became smaller and smaller until it seemed to meld into the sky. Lost in thought, Bill had just happened to be walking through the same park where Harriet had promised to meet Richard at half past noon. Bill disappeared, and some part of Richard felt ashamed that he had not greeted
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