Changing Lines

Snowfall mutes the roar of the flames on my apartment to a soft and contented purr. I stand here numbly, not only from the cold, and watch my rent burn away.

I’m not afraid, of course. I have insurance. I don’t know where I’ll be tonight, and my thesis notes are ash, but I have insurance – twenty-thousand dollars of it.

I look down to my left, where Rae makes up for my dry eyes and dripless chin. She doesn’t sob or wail, but there are tears. She looks back up as if to blame the winter air. I keep looking like I bear no mind to argue. She speaks.

“Where will you be staying tonight?” Her voice betrays her worry, but I pretend it doesn’t.

“I have a friend around the corner with an empty couch.” As of late, she – Jenna – has an empty kitchen chair, too, and a half-empty bed.

Rae nods slowly. She looks back at our burning roofs, now the only light at the address.

“I’ll call her now and ask.” I do. Before my answer, a tug at my left sleeve.

“Would she mind if I came over too?” Rae asks the snow at our feet.

She wouldn’t.

Whatever one expects in winter, the place doesn’t smell like much. No citrus, mint, or cinnamon, but nothing less pleasant, either. I do catch a whiff of banana, but of course Jenna would give up on smoothies and bake the things before they went black; she has every right to fall apart a little, last week considered.

“Come on in, it’s cold out there.” Jenna’s eyes are a little red, as expected, but her smile is sincere. We enter, shake the snow from our coats and set our muddy boots by the door. “Your name is Rae?”

“Yes. Yours?”

“Jenna.” Jenna has escorted us to the kitchen and shown us a box of k-cups; some coffee, others cocoa. “You’re welcome to the chocolate, if you need to sleep anytime soon,” she adds, proffering her hand to Rae.

Rae shakes it lightly, not one for bold motions. “So, how do you know Curtis?” She asks Jenna. “High school, classes, clubs, or what?”

Jenna looks from Rae’s face to mine, then to the oakwood floor, then back to Rae; she doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but her right cheek rises in a half smile.

“High school,” she answers. “We actually dated for a while, but I guess most good things come to an end.” That’s true.

Rae’s face does something odd, and I can’t decide if she’s embarrassed for asking and sorry about me, or embarrassed by me and sorry for asking. Then her eyebrows raise, her lips tighten into a sharp line, and her nostrils flair ever so slightly.

“You just asked your ex for a big favor, then brought a girl to her house?” Rae is fuming at the audacity I doubt I possess.

“I-it’s not like that!” I start. “That was years ago; we’re just friends now. And besides, you and I are–” I stop, realizing that it might, in part, be exactly ‘like that.’ Actually, I almost hope it is. “Um.”

Rae’s face turns like a peach, from a faint indignant pink to a deep embarrassed red. It’s her turn to stammer. “Th-thank you, Jenna! Uh, where are the cups? S-sorry.” I look down as she does, and Jenna chuckles. I blush.

Jenna points her to a cupboard near the window, then says something about fetching blankets and retreats down the hallway toward her room, grinning.

I let Rae use the Keurig first. I don’t meet her eyes as I wait, nor as she begins to drink her cocoa and my own mug fills with an Italian roast. By the time I dare look up, we’ve both set to studying; from my canvas and leather courier bag I’ve pulled a leatherbound notebook and gel pen, an Oscar Wilde novel, and several sheets of printed paper; Rae has emptied her own bag onto the table, and is reading from some textbook or other.

Except she isn’t. She’s studying me instead. Seeing my glance, she looks down as quickly as I do, and we resume our studies. I suspect I’m not the only one doing so to hide a blush, though mine is faint.

I rewrite a stanza several times in my notebook, looking for a version that fits with the rest of the piece. I finally opt to abandon my original secondary couplet in favor of a more specific near-rhyme. I prefer true rhymes, but this one makes more sense,, and the structure is looser than usual anyway.

“Is that poetry?”

“Yes.” I look up and see Rae trying to read the poem upside-down. My handwriting is atypical, however, and she appears to give up. “What?” I smirk. “You thought I was just a business major?”

Her cheeks flush. “Well, yes, actually.” Eventually, she meets my eyes again. “I guess nobody’s just a business major, but I never really wondered what else you did.”

“Your loss,” I chuckle, pressing the cap of my pen to my chin. I need a rhyme for something that means door, but not the word itself; I used that rhyme in the previous stanza.

She huffs. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” She doesn’t actually seem to mind.

“Not really,” I smile, “but it never hurts to pretend. And besides, not wondering is always your loss. There’s nothing quite like wonder. It’s wonderful.”

“Ironic,” she drawls. I can’t decide whether her tone is more dry or dripping. “May I read some?”

I consider, then grin; Rae is an art major with some rather impressive pieces, but she’s never let me see her “embarrassing” sketchbook. “Only if you show me your sketchbook,” I answer, right eyebrow raised.

Her expression says it all. I don’t understand any of it, so I wait. She eventually slides a grey leather book across the table, then snatches my black one suspiciously.

“This one: ‘remember my voice, our smiles, that place; think of the rain, recall or our embrace. This sweater we shared, enclosing a space where memories leave their invisible trace.’ Who was it for?”

It was someone. I ask about a drawing.

“The girl has features; why doesn’t the other?”

The boy was just a reference, excluded from the final picture. We return each other’s books.

Jenna, having brought quilts and minky throws to the living room, has long since turned in.

I don’t remember when we moved from the kitchen to the couch, nor could I say how her head came to rest on my shoulder. We might have watched a movie, or perhaps we set to pen and pencil – respectively – for a while longer. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe I’m dreaming.

I’m writing something new. About tonight.

I’m changing into smokeless clothes left here by Jenna’s ex.

I’m running to class, bag at my hip, hand on the base of the shoulder strap for stability. I stumble twice on last night’s snow.

I’m in English, opening my black book. There’s something new; where a third stanza doesn’t end – it isn’t finished – is the edge of my face. Inked lines capture a moment with Rae. I see how I must look with my pen pressed to my lower cheek.

I don’t mention Rae’s drawing when she arrives at Jenna’s.

I think she might like me, because we’re on that couch again, and she’s dozed onto my shoulder. Jenna gives a knowing smirk from the hall; I don’t know what she knows.

Sleep soundly, sweet seraph; sunlight soon shall stir thee.

Rae’s awake. She takes the book and draws. In black and white she’s smiling, slightly blushing. I’m looking at the top of her head. I look happy. It’s beautiful.

I take my pen and write. She takes it back and draws.

We’re gone, a day has passed, and we’re back to the pen. We’re at our lectures, walking out, and Jenna’s place again. At college, and back to the pen. Again. Again. Again.

A picture, a poem, a smile, and a kiss:

There’s light in the fire, and a future in this.

The silence of snowfall, the beat of a heart:

I can’t see the end, but I want this to start.

My claim is undisputed; my check comes in the mail. I had less than eight-thousand dollars-worth of property in the apartment, but twenty-thousand is the minimum payout, so here it is.

Your head on my shoulder, my head in the cloud:

I’m writing the feelings I can’t say aloud.

The sheen of your hair and the glow of your eyes,

This poet can’t capture however he tries.

I’ve made the deposit and moved into a new place; there is little to actually move, of course, but I find time to replace my furniture and used textbooks. Rae is once again just one door to the right.

The lines of your pen and the lines of this page:

You show me a world where your smile doesn’t age.

The image of me with the image of you:

You’re drawing a moment I hope will come true.

We’re on my couch now, but the exchange is otherwise the same. I write, and she draws. The book is almost full and the pen has run dry and been replaced, but the feeling hasn’t changed.

Our story on paper, in two kinds of lines,

Still only suggests what it never defines;

So I ask you simply, and I ask you now:

If I bring the ring, then will you make the vow?