And All The Things Between Us (One-Shot)

And All The Things Between Us (A Short Story)

As always, he takes her breath away. Those bright eyes and dark lashes that have left her sleepless for nights look beautiful more than ever. She looks over her shoulder. Fans queueing, extending all the way to the sidewalk, each one carrying the newly released comic book. It has taken her an hour to reach the front where the author is signing a poster. As if on cue, he looks up to meet her eyes. They stare at each other until somebody yells from the back, "Hey! What's taking you so long?" She gives him her copy of his comic book, the one he had worked on for the past six months back in Newark, but he doesn't notice the trembling of her hands. He struggles to sign after reading the short message on the first page: Can we talk? He stares at the words, remembering the long conversations they used to have. "Can we?" she asks, her voice soft as a whisper. He nods and goes on to sign the book, his handwriting slightly slanting from his usual. Before handing it back to her, he reciprocated with a forced smile.

"How are you?" Charlie asks. With a purse under her arm, she straightens her black midi dress. It was Mac's birthday gift last year.

"I'm good." Mac takes a space of an empty bench, his favorite among the many. Random letters on its wooden armrest appear like an anagram or code, some shallowly carved than the others, but all belonging to the same handwriting. He used to spend hours trying to decode it, figuring out what the story is behind the code, and what kind of a person would write such a message. He still wonders each time he comes. The park, barely filled with people this morning, has easily become an oasis whenever he needs to clear his mind. Facing the sun, he looks at Charlie and asks, "How's Ben?"

"He's recuperating well. The doctor said he'll need at least a month of therapy and he's good to go."

"Cool. Does he still play those mushy old songs?"

Charlie smiles. "He does. He still does. He still plays Ingram, Ambrosia, John Ford Coley..."

"Still blasting through your walls?"

She nods. "The night you left, he was playing this David Pack song and I went straight to his pad and punched him on the face."

"Ha!" Mac slaps his thigh, unable to restrain his laughter.

"And he was like, 'what did I do?' and I said, 'Stop it, you moron, or I'll throw out your stereo!'"

Mac laughs again, this time his voice reverberates with Charlie's laugh. Just like the old times, their laughter connects them together when words could not. She laughs so hard that her grip on her purse turns loose, its content spilling out to the ground. Mac is quick to retrieve everything for her, including a nude lipstick that he remembers insisting on her. They used to have arguments over the shades of lipstick she should wear, with Charlie's preference for red hues always prevailing, though today she seems to have changed her mind.

"Are you meeting anyone here?" He gets back to his seat, trying not to sound awkward.

"Did you think I came here for somebody else?"

A gap of silence. Charlie sits beside Mac and stares at her lap. "Why did you leave without saying good-bye?"

"I had to catch a flight that day."

"You had a lot of time to tell me."

"I didn't want to bother you."

"I missed you."

Mac doesn't answer.

"When are you coming home?" Charlie asks.

"Not anytime soon."

"Ben's renting it out next month."

"I have this agreement with him. He's free to put it up for rent if I'm not back in six months."