From the bus I can look down into the taxi and
see the woman in her crisp business attire, her portfolio open, white sheets
with black text splayed out before her. I wonder if she is reviewing a resume,
her own or someone else's, wonder if she is off to interview someone or be
interviewed, or maybe she's off to make some big corporate presentation. I imagine
her facing a boardroom of suited men, possibly silver haired, possibly two
times or three times her age. Or, possibly there is one who she is secretly meeting
in a hotel room on Wednesdays over the lunch hour, when she tells her
officemate she's running to Bloomingdales.

I wonder this as I look down into her taxi. Then my bus lurches forward and the taxi speeds off. I am left with my own wondering about what I am about to do. Three more stops, before I do this, two more stops before I am there. I could stay on the bus, pass by the familiar cross-streets and let the summer pass and fall come without doing this. One stop. And then I find myself rise, step off the bus.
My mind is a blur of possibilities, who will
speak first, what will I say, what will he say, will I even be able to look him
in the eye? It doesn't even occur to me until I am nearer that he might not
even be there. And as I get nearer, it's obvious. He isn't. I did not expect
this. Now what? I walk on, east, toward my office, embarrassment settling over
me, the silliness of it all. I feel exposed and naked, like everyone passing me
on the sidewalk can see that this (whatever this was suppose to be) will not be
happening.
But as the walk signal changes and I start
through the intersection I pass by him, recognize his blue sweatshirt, the
blonde curls wisping out from under the heavy dark blue hood, and nearly brush
his arm with my shoulder. He doesn't recognize me (I mean, how could he, why
should he) but I see that it's him and it catches my breath and I have to stop
walking, frozen in the middle of the crosswalk, people squeezing to get by.
But today's the day. The last possible day and
if I’m going to do this it has to be today. So I turn around and cross back,
barely making it before traffic zips behind me, drivers honking at my last
minute sprint.
I don't go to where he stands immediately. I am
sweaty and can't breathe so I circle the square, my sunglasses shielding my
sightlines. I pretend to smell the flowers and check out the organic soaps and
sample the cheese from Somewhere, WI. I skip the honey booth with the live bees
packed between two sheets of Plexiglas, and I skip all the other booths that
sell fruit.
His booth is right on the corner, the white
canopy top makes me think of circus tents. I recognize the other employees, the
one who uses a dirty knife to cut samples of bubble gum pears for all the
girls, and the tallest one who's hands are always shoved into his pockets and
he never seems to be helping anyone.
I pick out my pears, unaware of how many I’ve
chosen until the plastic bag is bulging and my sweaty palms can barely hold on.
I put some back. I decide to keep my sunglasses on because last time I got this
close I just stared at his hair, could hardly hand him the $3, certainly
couldn't string 3 words together. Just handed him my bag of corn on the cob,
trembling. He said something chit-chatty, and I, I, well, I grunted
(seriously), thrust the $3 into his hand and bolted. That was last year.
I'm up next in line and just as I step
forward, dirty-knife-guy replaces him because some little old lady wants his
opinion on the purple eggplants.
"Back for more?" dirty-knife-guy
asks.
"Huh?!" I say quickly and
suspiciously.
"More pears? Told ya last year you'd love
those bubble gum pears."
"Yes, right, yes! I am back for more
bubble gum pears!" I laugh a strange shrill laugh that sounds foreign even
to my own ears and apparently to his too, because he backs away slightly when
he gives me my change.
I start to walk away but I can't. Somehow this
thing, this thing, this thing I want to do has become huge, defining, urgent.
So when I go to leave, I don't cross to the crosswalk. I come around his table
and stand behind him as he finishes bagging the little old lady's purple
eggplant.
I step up to him, step in close and before I can
think, I extend my hand. He starts to extend his, then seems unsure, can't tell
if I’m going to hand him something, or if want one of the purple eggplants. But
then he does take my hand, or I take his, and I lean in and whisper.
We are still holding hands when the words hit
him, I can actually tell when the vocabulary is decoded in his brain and the
text becomes meaning.
"Thank you," he says. "And you too." He is still
holding my hand.
I smile and say, "That's all." I let
go of his hand and walk away.
When I get to my office I immediately slice up
a pear and hit the speed dial button with the heart on it. David picks up and I
tell him what I’ve done. I sense him put on his 'best friend hat' as he says,
"No way! You rock, you totally did that?!" and we laugh about how it
took me all summer to work up the nerve. I tell him how I had to keep my shades
on so the farmers market boy wouldn't see my eyes, so I could be brave enough
to whisper, but David says, 'Hon, I can totally see your eyes through those
shades.'
"Oh, seriously?" I say.
"Seriously."
David asks why today, since there is still one
more week for the farmers market. And I say that I don't know, that it just had
to be today.
"Sure, I get that." he says. There's
a pause and I can tell he has something else he wants to say.
"What?" I ask.
"So does this mean this is the last of
the bubble gum pears?" he asks.
I can't tell over the phone if he's serious
about the pears (because he really does love those pears) or if he's talking
about my crush on the farmers market boy.
"Yeah,
I think so," I continue, fishing a bit. "Plus, I just ate one, and I’ve
had better." I’m curious if his rarely worn 'jealous lover hat' has
slipped on and I wait eagerly for his response. When it comes, I laugh, not
really disappointed or surprised by his security or his honesty. He says,
"Aw, too bad. Man I love those pears."