LEAVE IT ALL UP IN THE AIR.

–

Ivan could still hear the music from the artists they saw that night at Violet. He had no clue there would be a live show, but was pleasantly surprised when they came on, some electro-indie pop band, the music carrying away the patrons of the lounge as they danced and sang and drank away the night – Ivan and Ada included. He’d gotten drunk off shot after shot of something called violet lights, some purple-colored vodka based shot that hit him in such a way, it got him yelling profanities (lovingly) in Norwegian at strangers and the band. He hadn’t felt this good, this…relaxed, happy in so long and truth be told – part of him wondered if it had anything to do with the alcohol at all, but entirely to do with her.

He was standing by a large mesquite tree, his arms folded across his chest and he wore a smile as he watched her balance along the edge of the flowerbed. Ada was so…different when she wasn’t with Gray. Any time he caught sight of them in public, whether at Steinbord, walking alongside each other in north side, coming out of a shopping center or a cafe, she just looked…dismal. Absolutely dismal. She hardly wore a smile and when Ivan would catch one, it was just forged in front of Gray. Probably to satisfy some stupid, stuffy joke. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see how unhappy she was with him – it was so clear. And yet, Ivan couldn’t help but think that was just him hoping, wanting to be with her. At times, it was so unbearable; the tension between them as of late just…awkward – like that moment back at Violet that night that he just couldn’t get out of his head: Ada standing by the bar, Ivan coming out of the bathroom and approaching her, about to grab his ninth or tenth shot of violet lights and he trips over someone’s iPhone, only to lean awfully close to her, hand on the edge of the bar counter to hold himself up and their faces…so near he could smell her perfume. The whole walk over to the park, he just kept thinking about it, playing the scene over in his head – hating Grayson, cursing him for just existing. 

Ivan nodded, stepping closer to her, following her path alongside the wall. “Except we didn’t have this back home, little parks like this,” he gestured at the flower bed with his chin, “my balancing was done on boulders. Not the same, but, you know,” he shrugged, his hand instinctively finding hers, helping her make her way around. “I have this picture of myself in my apartment, I was like…ten or eleven or something,” he looked at her, “I’m literally balancing on this rock near Trolltunga, wedged between two fjords,” he paused, a smile, “you can see the fear in my eyes, literally. I’m like shaking, fucking terrified in this picture and smiling with my thumbs up at the same time, y’know, no big deal, just standing on a rock looking down at the ocean 900 metres above sea level.”

—

the gesture was spontaneous, barely needs a conscious thought prompting it into being — it was pure chemistry: he reached for her hand so she had to take it, didn’t matter whether she did willingly or if this gesture would hold any sort of regret at all in the morning. it had to be — be it for a need for balance, a whimsical belief that it’d stop the spinning. be it because she wanted to. fingers tangled in his easily — too easily, one might argue. the unwanted spectator of the scene might’ve found her willingly putting herself on the edge where safety pours itself into danger, and that would all be a simple excuse to fall against him when the drop came.

oh, ada, what is happening to you? the conscious side of her brain still holding on to thoughts of controlled stillness, urged her to take a breath and run a full check of all the things that were slipping past her control now: the way her skin flushed just slightly the second their skins touched one another, the way her back had lost its arch but found the pride of a fierce, straight line, once she’d found the connection with his hand. all of this was unconscious — a side of her that was not thinking but feeling, auto-pilot without a steering wheel. and none of it came from the booze, no: all of it came from that single touch. but she would not see it — stubborn child that she could be, she would refuse to turn around and sober up, say i’m sorry, disappear back into the pearl-gray nothing she’d come out of. no: instead she kept her hand tangled in his, barely balancing herself, and laughed.

“oh come on, you’re just bragging now. oh, i’m iv-aah-n, i’m so strong, i’m the indiana jones of the fjords ——”, her voice made cavernous by the bad imitation she was providing, then quickly melting into laughter, the melodic kind, the one she seldom allowed to resonate through her chest. her balance faltering, she steadied herself against his hand — still not letting go. “skipping stones over the abyss”. she smiled to herself: wasn’t that, in a sense, what she’d been doing? toying around the notion of balance, knowing a fall was just waiting for her to slip up. “i think i should try that. i’d be fucking great at it”.

the buzz was a blessing — not a need to numb herself to the reality around her (in fact she liked it, found a strange enjoyment in the oddity of the situation: the distant smell of industrial waste, the chill of the air against her skin, the way the smoke flared up her nostrils each time she took a drag). the alcoholic buzz she found herself in was a curtain allowing her some decent amount of leeway in which she could dance around facts that needed to be faced, eviscerated for the sake of clarity, and yet she still wouldn’t dare look in the eyes. it allowed her to ignore the way her eyes sometimes met ivan’s and found an unknown sense of calm inside of them — how she’d unconsciously pull closer to him each time they stopped somewhere, not meaning to steal any more room for herself and yet always finding her shoulder brushing against his. it allowed her to not think of the fact that she’d consciously turned her phone off the second she’d met him (loose plans to see a concert together turning into a whole night with one another, not anywhere near over yet) — not wanting to know that gray was looking for her. not needing to know that she belonged anywhere else but out in the wild of an unplanned time. 

the past few weeks had been... odd, at best. she’d found herself asking questions — too many questions. and the alcohol had helped: and tonight, again, when she’d found herself measuring her words a little too carefully, her composure a little too unbalanced around him, it had been a magic spell to calm her down. perhaps return a version of her that was still somewhat grounded — even though she felt like she was losing her grip, like the string of a kite slipping out of a child’s hands. but that was the point — feeling grounded wasn’t cutting it anymore. feeling anything had been reduced to a medical-induced fog she was tired of, aggressively so. as if it could help clear the fog away, without thinking, ada acted on a whim the way a child might have and took a step to the right, leapt on the half wall surrounding the colorful flowerbed of a park. “remember doing this as kids?”, she chuckled to herself, keeping herself balanced over the thin line of concrete, hair tucked behind her ears as if they could obstruct her sight, somehow throw her off balance. chuckling lightly, she took a drag off her cigarette and took the time to let the smoke fade off into the night, a sigh leaving her as it did: “it used to feel so badass ——” 

–

“Really?” Ivan smiled, a small laugh, more like a breath, escaping him as he watched her sip her wine. “I find it hard to believe you’re never busy. I mean, you’re gonna be future Mrs. Grayson soon, right?” – the question came out almost hopeful, in need of hearing whether or not she considered herself truly his; he wondered whether or not there was a chance Ivan could somehow fit in all of this. What a horrible thought – just drink her out of your head, he remembered – and with that memory, he took another few sips of his wine, finishing it off with nothing left but a few lingering drops. 

It would’ve been a lie if Ivan hadn’t been thinking of all the ways her use of the word date could’ve been interpreted. She meant date, as in two friends meeting up for lunch or a drink and having a good time, definitely not date as in two people, romantically interested in one another, of course…or did she? He was so in his fucking head about all this, about her and them and what she thought of him. He needed to move. He needed to get up and walk, maybe say some excuse about leaving a roast in the oven and then once again, his stupid, fucking impulse: “What are you doing after this? Dinner, I mean? Did you wanna walk the city a bit? Grab a coffee? Maybe a dri–?” 

But before he could finish, one of his servers arrived with their meals, ‘one raspeballer med honning and two kylling i hvit saus,’ Ivan leaned back, allowing the dishes to be served (exquisite fucking work) – “tusen takk, Clara. More wine would be good,” he smiled at his server, then spooned a raspeballe onto Ada’s then his own plate, a bit of resentment in him at Clara cutting their conversation short – “enjoy.”

—

mrs. grayson. ah, she could almost hear the churchbells — ominous-sounding, like the kind she’d once heard playing in a funeral scene, in some black and white movie of an italian countryside tragedy. for a second she was almost tempted to confess her unspeakable secret to ivan: admit that, while too frightened to ever pull herself out of the equation that involved grayson cullen and his million-dollar house with a view, the idea of staying by his side for the foreseeable future led her to spend whole nights awake, and when he wasn’t around go out instead, in search of a way out, a solution she couldn’t see — on one side freedom, but from the other side’s perspective it looked like danger. by all means, ada had been finding herself at an impasse for a while now — a startled cat in the middle of the road, not knowing which side she was supposed to fall on before the car ran her over. 

but she couldn’t admit to any of this, and it felt especially wrong to confess all this to ivan, now that she’d already sequestered his day off: so the smile she offered was entirely fabricated, a mask worn for the benefit of the conversation, to not let either of their thoughts dwell too much on the gloomy note hers had taken. “sure. it’s not gonna be easy, i can tell you that”. a reserved chuckle, gaze avoiding his — ada took yet another sip, and regretted that it seemed she had to keep turning to the glass to rub the edge off her own thoughts. but the food arrived — the scent leaning into her nostrils right away, an involuntary smile curling her lips.

she’d been meaning to retrieve the trail of his words, say that no, she had no plans, and if he wanted he could come along for a walk that would no doubt end up cutting through the desert at an ungodly hours — before she could make a fool of herself, the food before her captivated her. her fork raised, she approached the carefully decorated plate with curious interest, one look at ivan as if somehow she needed directions to bring it to her mouth — but she did, and when a small piece of chicken met her tastebuds she was caught in surprise by the flavor. “oh my god”, a childish smile, quickly covered with a hand as a drop of sauce threatened to slip out her lips. “sorry”, she apologized, reaching for the napkin. “i forget how to eat like a proper lady when i get excited”.

–

‘That’s a great idea!’ – Ivan thought immediately about his night with Fred, about his confession, about the words she told him – ‘if I were you, I’d probably just drink her out of my head’ – and this definitely, definitely wasn’t drinking her out of his head. In one way, he regretted his stupid, fucking impulse but in another, he was grateful for it. At least, this way, he got to see her (and without Grayson around, more importantly – he hated seeing them together. He hated covering for his bartenders and seeing them walk in, arm in arm, trying his best to ignore her gaze). Still – it made it harder, the more time they spent together.

Seeing as she reached into her bag, he took several more gulps of wine (a little desperate, but not enough to cause attention). He watched her pull out her phone (how fucking rare, someone who doesn’t have their stupid mobile on the table beside them) and point to the event. Crossing his arms against his chest, he leaned in closer, his eyes focusing on the screen in front of him. He knew of it, of course. Taking the phone in hand, he took another sip of wine, nodding as he lowered the glass. “Yeah, this is every summer here. It’s a nice festival,” his eyes found hers for a moment, “we can go, for sure.” He handed her the phone again. “I like it a lot, reminds me of home in some ways. And they sell a lot of good produce, maybe I can make us a late lunch after? Unless you’ll be busy then or something but, it’s an idea.”

—

part of her (a side of her that was vivid, and yet thoroughly unaddressed: like an unwanted guest that would still make their presence known, despite how badly she wished they’d leave her alone) knew her enjoyment for his idea went far beyond the simple idea of a nice day out. it wasn’t just that. it was him, really — at the bottom of the day, ivan symbolized a world that was in stark contrast with the one she’d chosen to trap herself in the moment she’d agreed to marry grayson. a world made of steel-like coldness, controlled behaviors, shades of beige over white, anti-septic cleanliness. she saw none of that in ivan — she saw something (quite ironically) summer-like instead, colors, flavors that went beyond what he offered in his menu. that part of her knew this wasn’t just a plan for a shared afternoon — but a step further away from the resolution she’d made, to condemn herself to a life as a good girl, where good girl mostly just meant a rendition of a statue.

busy. the word inciting a childish giggle out of her, and it was cheerful, or attempted to sound so, but mostly it hid a form of despair — she could find a million ways to fill her days, all of them would remain non-consequential pastimes that grayson would only approve of as long as they kept her attention focused on him, too. he’d found ways to get her out of any activity she’d truly longed for: horse riding had been replaced by him taking her on walks through some art gallery that just bored her to death. theatre class had been sacrificed because, come on, wednesday was his only day off — why would she stay away? “i’m never busy”, ada chuckled, quickly following up with another sip of wine, avoiding his gaze, not wanting him to look too much into her — the cobwebs of a life she poorly tried to hide. “i like the sound of that”, ada’s smile widened, sincere now, not trying to hide — widening a little more just before she took another sip, and teased: “alright then. it’s a date”.

–

“Hardly,” he laughed lightly, leaning in with forearms against the table – finding himself in a position he wished he wasn’t in – but it was unintentional, random, a natural reaction; the response to the pull she had on him. No matter what, he always found himself lured to her, closer than he expected (wanted in the place of expected would’ve been a lie), and then realizing it suddenly and backing away before it’d be too late, before it got too far. But he leaned in still, even if she’d been closing in too, not wanting to make her any more curious about his nervousness. 

“And I don’t know, honestly. Probably sleep,” he cracked a smile, his gaze flickering to a glimmer against his glass of wine before glancing at her again. “I mean, if I can. But uh, yeah, maybe go camp in the woods somewhere, grill some fish out in the forest, sleep under the stars, you know, the usual.” A half shrug later, he finished off his glass of wine – glad to feel the heat of the alcohol ease him into the moment, finally. And then a thought occurred to him and he bit his lower lip, the words don’t do it, don’t fucking do it repeating themselves in his mind but it was of no use against his impulsive nature: “Maybe we should hang-out, if you’re free, of course.” – idiot.

—

a spark of interest suddenly brought her back up right, chin up, gaze widening as if a lightbulb had just lit up by the side of her head. a voice, for sure, stuck to the back of her mind, whispering don’t do this — not just a betrayal to gray’s need of always having her playing the role of the doting arm candy, but something close to a child’s whim, teenage-driven, something that wasn’t supposed to interest her so. but be it as it may, the truth was unavoidable: evidence a, she genuinely enjoyed ivan’s company, far more than anyone else’s. evidence b, she’d spent the last few months trapped in a callous haze of boredom that, on a good way, led her to drinking too much, smoking too much, spending too much time awake, roaming around town. evidence c — no one was around to judge. 

glass suspended mid-air by her hand, forgetting suddenly her desire for one more drink, ada smiled. “— that’s a great idea!”. the hesitation she could spot in his words (perhaps he wasn’t much inclined to spend his days off with someone, and if she was any less focused on her overwhelming apathy she’d see that) was met with equal and opposing enthusiasm, and right as her mind began conjuring prospects of activities they could engage in, one more lightbulb lit up. wiping her lips with a napkin, she reached to the side of the table for her bag, fishing out her phone and tapping quickly. “there’s this event i’ve been wanting to check out — sort of a farmer’s festival, or something like that”, outstretching her hand she offered him her phone, the landing page of a farmer’s market carrying a load of related activities with it — lessons in organic farming, horse rides, things that would’ve inevitably gotten her dirty and made grayson scoff with superior sufficiency. “it’s a bit old fashioned i guess, the whole… country vibe of it”, ada chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she took back her phone, never letting herself loosen up too much. 

–

What he noticed the most over the past, not even months but years, was that more and more, Ada wanted to steer away from conversation about Gray – maybe it was that she spent so much time with him (or did she? He saw them often, shopping together, eating together – here, drinking at Violet, but there were days where he often saw her alone and he wondered then what Gray had been up to…business, maybe) and she wanted a change, wanted to know what else the world had going for it, outside of her life with him. But there something in Ivan that hoped…hoped that maybe it was that picture perfect Ada and Gray weren’t so picture perfect anymore – maybe the glass that framed them had been cracking.

But then she hit him with a question he wasn’t expecting. Shit, was she good. “Me?” He swallowed, taking a sip of his wine, several sips. “I’m great, yeah, good,” the words came out rushed, fuck. “I’m just, tired, you know? I haven’t been sleeping well the past few days so, I’m high on caffeine all the time. That and weed, obviously. You need balance, you know.” He cleared his throat again – a really shit, nervous habit – and he took another sip of wine. “Anyway,” he sighed, “I’ve been good. I mean, I’ve been okay,” – as okay as one could be after a break-up; a break-up Ada knew about, a break-up Ivan felt weird thinking about in front of her – “just a lot of work, you know, the usual. But I’ve got a few days off now – two whole days —- pretty wild.”

—

the look on her face was only vaguely puzzled. this way of his — the carefree way he had of letting his spirit out boldly, unfiltered, unbridled by assumptions and conventions — somehow mesmerized her: and yet a part of her, the one that had been taught to listen and observe rather than make a sound in her own world, wondered whether it wasn’t some sort of cover, too. like there was something else he wanted to say or let go of, and laughing about life was his way of covering the sound it made in his head. she could understand that pull: she’d hear that sound too, more often than not, shattering glass getting crumbled over and over. she’d found her ways of covering it — perhaps unconsciously, she’d made one out of her conversations with ivan, too.

concern (the quiet, unspoken kind) could still be felt, but dulled down by the sound of his laughter — ada let it subside, listened to him in appreciative interest instead, let her chuckle echo into the glass as she sipped at the wine slowly. “wow. two whole days? will you even know how to hold a pan when you’re back?” her tone lighter with her harmless teasing, ada cracked a smile and set the glass down, both arms then down on the table, as if her posture and the nature itself of their conversation required them to never put too much distance in between them — part of her mind, perhaps, approaching this shared moment as something close to a secret. as innocent as it was, gray would’ve scrunched his nose at this, for sure: and yet that was hardly a reason why she so enjoyed this — she could’ve questioned herself, perhaps, find out the exact meaning of her attachment to this place, even more to the company of its owner. perhaps: it seemed the illusion of tranquillity was much too dear to her to consider the possibility she’d been looking for something else instead. ada shook her head lightly, laughing. “that is so much free time, ivan —”, she teased again, an exaggerated ‘so’ with her gaze widened. “— how are you gonna fill it all up?”

–

He noticed it immediately, the way she leaned in, listened, and nerves getting the better of him (as they’d been doing lately any time she was around), he parted his lips, let out a soft, silent breath before inhaling, in hopes that the simple act of breathing would ease him into the moment. He gulped when her eyes landed against his, inwardly cursing at himself for acting like such an idiot. What was this? Fucking high school all over again? She’s a grown woman, he’s a grown man and she was engaged – let this go, he thought, let her go.

He could see the blush in her cheeks after the comment made about his grandmother. Beautiful. He laughed – humor, a distraction, thank god. “Yeah, no problem, let me go and place that and I’ll be right back.” Standing, he fled to the kitchen, walking smoothly through the crowds and tables, evident experience in cleaning up the place after every shift. Sometimes he didn’t get home until after one, only to arrive to his apartment with too much energy to sleep where he’d then escape, off to the lake; the only lake in Red Ridge that most summers was dried out – not this summer though, luckily. Ivan missed water – missed the sea and canoeing along ocean rivers between giant faces of mountains, fjord walls on either side. 

When he returned after placing the orders (“make sure these dishes are your best, I’m eating them, so don’t fuck them up”), he sat and picked up his glass of wine, took a few sips, then he rubbed the palm of his hands along his thighs and spoke: “So, uh, yeah,” – a smile – “how’ve you been? How’s Gray and everything else?”

—

her eyes followed him silently as he moved around his restaurant, walking his territory and yet somehow looking just a tad out of tune with the image she had of him. someone fierce whose passion prompted his movements, someone vibrant — it looked like the colors were just mixing a little too erratically today. not that it was a bad look — there was something about him she found absurdly intriguing, the way a book might have been, urging her to read on and on and yet never truly knowing why. as he headed to the kitchen, ada leaned back in her chair and sipped at the wine, savoring the vague note of fruit lingering over her tongue. lingering, always — everything around her, always lingering, never truly staying. the old, familiar sadness lingered still: the empty plate made her sad. soon enough her lunch would be over, she’d have to find an excuse to drag herself home, face the emptiness of her halls and ask herself if she was okay with that. with all her life had come to. her smiles fading, gaze heavy with thoughts that pulled her down — scratching the corner of her thumb, she hooked her fingers to a hangnail and ripped it off.

the sting making her flinch, instinctively bringing her thumb to her lips — and then, as ivan returned, her hand quickly disappearing beneath the table: a thirty-three year old woman who’d still feel red-handed, imagining her mother and the cutting glances she’d offer. “sorry”, a nervous chuckle. “bad habit”. the smile lost none of its nervousness, upon hearing his question. if anything, it turned duller instead: a shade of (would you look at that) gray tinting her gaze, a smirk offered to disguise it. “ah, same old. he’s been working a lot. i’ve just —” been doing absolutely nothing, except for spending most of her days in a movie theatre, letting them pour her full of stories much more intriguing than her own life. ada shrugged, a vague motion of her hand meaning to wave those thoughts away. “— been keeping myself busy”.

her gaze, the usual brightness dimmed by thoughts that were plain boring at best, returned to ivan with added curiosity. as if she’d paid her due by offering facts, harmless small talk about herself, she was much more interested in what he had to offer instead: a curious look, chin resting over her hand. “how’ve you been?” though it came with a smile, she soon lowered her voice, a more serious look in her eyes (yet somewhat playful — conspiratory, maybe, in the sense that it was something a regular customer wouldn’t want to ask, though she’d like to believe their dynamic was one of genuine friendship by now, disrupting the borders of a simple business relationship). “ivan, can i ask you something?” leaning over just slightly, ada made up for the serious tone with a smile. “you seem a bit nervous today. is everything okay?”

–

Ivan could hardly bear it, her eyes gazing at him with a curiosity that always seemed to be present, curious about his work, his life – when they spoke, she was always there, never on her phone, never worlds away. His life was always met with shallow celebrities hiring him in for events, birthday bashes, galas for the opulent, dinner parties – all of them asking him stupid, shallow shit like ‘why’s it called a tarte tartin?’ with a giggle at the end, in which he’d always reply that he didn’t know – he didn’t even make tarte tartins at his restaurant, hadn’t made one since he lived in Oslo. What a general, boring question. But Ada – Ada saw him, she listened, understood him, and the way she gazed at him said it all. And it stirred him in ways he wished it didn’t.

Shit. Well, there went his plan to avoid her at all costs. “Oh,” he smiled, lowering himself against the teal-colored seat of his restaurant – weird, being on this end. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I had planned on causing mass mayhem and destruction, but this works.” Don’t be a fucking idiot, play it cool. Clearing his throat slightly, he tapped the forearm of one of his servers who made their way past and asked them for two glasses of ‘the cheverny’ before turning back to her. 

“I mean if I’m here eating with you, I won’t be charged anyway so don’t worry about that,” a smile in her direction, he paused before taking a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “So it’s seasonal right now, we’ll actually be switching it up next week but my favorite is the kylling i hvit saus and the raspeballer med honning. The chicken is stuffed and seared with a sage and butter white sauce and the raspeballer,” he paused, “I don’t know what they would be in English, actually. Maybe dumplings? They’re round potato dumplings with a honey and juniper berry glaze. It reminds me of grandmother. —- The dish, I mean,” a breathless laugh, “not the potato dumplings.”

—

conversation came easy — uncharacteristically effortless, as if a weight was suddenly lifted from her: not needing to filter each word leaving her lips, not required to weave each sentence in order to craft the perfect persona to project, the one that wouldn’t turn people’s looks into a tight scowl of disappointment. she enjoyed her conversation with ivan — far more than she’d be able to see for herself. sure it had added to the charm of his place, why she’d inevitably gravitate towards his restaurant even when purposefully trying to choose different venues for her lunches. and it added to her enjoyment, too: her smile reaching a new degree of dim, yet genuine brightness, as he gave in and took his place across from her.

while a hearty laugh echoed out of her lips, it was soon replaced by a fake, playful expression of puzzled disappointment. “aw, shoot —” a cartoonish fist pressed against the edge of the table: “here i was, just in the mood for mayhem and destruction”. she had no brakes holding back her blatant appreciation for his company, although — what was that, the way he cleared his throat? something seemed just slightly off: like perhaps asking him to join her had forced him to step a little too far out of his comfort zone. ada could feel the sudden touch of doubt, a hint of regret: growing quieter for a second, eyes observing him with curious wariness. perhaps she’d have to apologize — two hesitant fingers tapped against the edge of the table, gaze drifting away from him for a second.

and rising back again as he spoke: she could see a burning passion in the way he spoke, warmth pouring over the way he talked about food — like a lover, like something as close to the essence of life as she’d ever seen. unconsciously, she leaned closer: chin against her hand, attentive, eagerly listening to each word he poured onto them. laughter then, following his last hiccup — ada pulled back, a hand raised. “sure hope they don’t taste like grandma”, and then, right away: flushing, embarrassment flooding her as the consequences of an unfiltered self made themselves know. nervous, she avoided his gaze for a second — then cracked a smile. “alright, that was a bad one, sorry”. chuckling again, her elbow returning to the table, leaning close: like the pleasure of his company had to be appreciated from a short distance. “alright, i’m in — but you’re gonna have to order, ‘cause i don’t know how to pronounce the half of that”.

status: closed for @adasglass​ location: steinbord / 4 p.m.

The July heat was almost unbearable that afternoon – fair skin, fair features, melting under the afternoon sun. A boy from the north – he definitely was not made for the midwestern American summer. Ivan stood beneath a large parasol near the fruit stand that had been selling locally grown apricots, figs and mulberries. His arms were crossed against his chest as he hunched over the table, eyes slightly squinted in the sunlight, attempting to find what he’d been in search of that afternoon.   

“No elderberries yet, Sandra?” Blue hues glanced up to face the indigenous woman in front of him. “No, no, Ivan, not harvest time for those yet. Almost. Come back in two weeks and I’ll have a whole case for you. You gonna make that drink again?” “Yep,” he smiled at her, “why? You guys like it up at the farm? I can make you some, if you want.” “Ohh yeah, we’d love that! Tell Mikey here what it is,” Sandra gestured to the teenage boy that had been sitting on a portable gaming console – a Nintendo DS or who knew what. “We call it hyldeblomst saft, just an elderberry drink that I like to mix with raspberries and lemon, a little bit of honey and some booze for the adults.” “Does that sell out at the restaurant?” “In the summer, sure,” Ivan half-shrugged, “you guys should come around some time, on me. That way you can taste how amazing your products are.” “You’re too kind, Ivan, too kind.” – funny, because others would definitely beg to differ – his staff, for one. 

An hour later, Ivan had arrived at Steinbord, because a day off meant being smothered by the needs of your employees, of course. He had a case of cucumbers and carrots in his right arm, using the other to push the glass door open – eyes instinctively observing the flow of his restaurant, the way the servers moved, smiled, talked. He rushed passed a few tables, greeting regulars and staff alike as he headed towards the kitchen. “Okay, thirty-five cucumbers and forty carrots.” “What about einebær?” called one of his line-cooks. “We have a bunch of that already, and lapskaus isn’t until August, we still have a few days. Can I go home now? Will you all be okay or do I need to change your diapers?” His crew laughed, Bjarne passing him from behind, “Ada is here, she’s sitting at forty-three.” 

Well, fuck. As if breaking up with his fiance wasn’t enough shit on his plate, he had to go and fall for a woman that not only was a close friend but also engaged and she had no clue about the way he felt and more and more as the days went, insisted on the two of them hanging out (or maybe that’s how it seemed ever since he discovered these new feelings stirring in him every time he’d been around her, stewing like fucking lapskaus itself) – frankly, it was all fucking torture, every bit of it – and there she was, long dark hair, doll-like eyes and lips, the epitome of ethereal, sitting at table 43, looking over his menu. He could feel his stomach sink more and more as he casually made his way across the restaurant. If she didn’t see him, maybe he wouldn’t have to withstand the torment (as much as he wanted to see her, lay eyes on her as long as he could) but then his name from her lips, soft voice, rang through the crowd. 

Ivan stopped, gulped and turned on his heel, quickly putting on his oh, I didn’t see you there grin – a common one from his varying collection. Hands in his pockets, he strolled over to her table, heart beating harder the closer he arrived. She’d never know, of course. “Hi there,” he smirked, “not tired of my menu yet?”

—

     odd, how over time this place had started feeling more like home than her house ever could. it wasn’t just the warmth — the rich texture of something with a history, that could maintain an identity even when surrounded by steel, glass, looks of pristine modernity. she came here, in a way, because it felt like existing: like the way her senses could adapt themselves to the scents and tastes of steinbord was proof that she was real, she existed, that she wasn’t just a half faded hallucination out of the mind of someone with a poor imagination. she remembered gray, the first time they’d eaten at ivan’s restaurant, complaining that it wasn’t his style — too many flavors, too far out of his strictly new york-based palate. maybe that had played into her affection for the place. maybe it was just how easy it was to consider it her place.

       she’d picked her favorite table by her third lunch at steinbord. to the side, a little further from the others — where she could see the other customers, the kitchen, observe the tides of people coming and going and finding some strange enjoyment in spying on their lives. she’d come to anticipate grayson’s trips out of red ridge, or the days where work would request his constant presence, so that she could enjoy herself at steinbord, instead — a luxurious whim at first, and it had quickly turned to a private ritual.

       spotting ivan across the hall, she’d greeted him enthusiastically — that was part of the ritual too. she’d come to enjoy his company far more than anyone else’s (far more than gray would care about, too: he’d commented, back when he’d tried steinbord the first time, about how unprofessional that chef had looked. she’d laughed to herself, on the way home; she’d thought his character vibrant, instead — a stark contrast agains gray). setting the menu down, her back straightening ever slightly to meet his gaze: as if a certain form of  preparation was required from her, upon meeting him.

     “i could never”, ada mused, quick glance going back to the menu, back again to ivan: she did notice the slight uneasiness about him, a vague hue of discomfort — her gaze turned curious then, wanting to ask what that came from, holding herself just right before voicing her question. lips tight in a smile, she let her right cheek rest against her chin, head tilting, looking up at him in some gentle, friendly plea. “will you hate me if i ask your help on your day off? i’m having trouble deciding what i want to eat —”. a glance at the chair right before her: empty. her smile returned, brighter: “you could join me, you know. i’d pay. you could chalk it up to quality control —”

where: the middle of the street  ( because she’s a goddamn lunatic )

to: open @redridgestart​

wheels against cracked pavement  ,       she rolls forth like a fallen angel ,      covered in the dripping colors of the sky ;     blue and orange and red  ,     sprinkled across the horizon in uneven layers  .     hair flowing freely  ,    gold and brown caught in a gust of wind like hanging sheets from her mother’s clothesline and wishbone arms outstretched like a bird’s to set flight .   where will she fly to next ?      sometimes she wonders if mitch would really be mad if she tripped and fell on a corpse .    probably .    she almost wishes she would .     hips sways to the rhythm of the temptations  ,     shifting weight equally between both feet  ;     feather lashes gingerly shut as lacquered lips soundlessly mouth the words as she glides forth .     “  …guess you’d say …     what can make me feel this way?   “  

—

this is not the kind of place she’s supposed to be found in. if this was a book, there’d be a precise trail for a character like her — living room to bathroom to bedroom to garden, and all over again, a 21st century recluse. so her need to break out must be understood: her need for escape is vital. he’s been out for two days now, and ada’s allowed herself to dip her feet in the waters of uncharacteristic, youthful freedom: staying out far too late, spending way too much time on overpriced drinks and a pack of smokes that’s being consumed not really by an actual need, mostly boredom leading her nicotine consumption. cue the plot twist: rolling before her like a shadow, or a winged creature of the night. sitting on a bare, cracked half wall, ada lets out a smile while the smoke from her cigarette seems to follow the trail left by the skating girl. “that’s a nice song”, she jokes, right as she speeds forth, while the crackling lightning sparks an idea shining in her gaze: she’s never rollerskated before. “hey. will you let me take a spin in those?”

open || @redridgehq​

Acacia couldn’t help it. Some days brought her to the steps of the restaurant that had been her home. No matter how short it had been, she’d always view it with a kind of wistfulness. Like a moth to the flame, she was across the street. Large sunglasses obscured part of her face, but any of  the senior staff would still recognize her. The danger wasn’t lost on her, but the same amount of uneasiness curled around her throat. It was a constant companion, though. The woman paused for a moment, eyeing the sign advertising the day’s specials. Her desserts were still being featured. She’d bet a week’s tips that the recipe was the same. too. Acacia shook her head as she thought better of her snooping, she hurried around the corner, only to stop short before colliding with a stranger. “Oh! I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. 

—

     now and then, she’d find ways to escape. coddle herself with the soft spoken luxury of a day full of errands — busy her time with menial, mindless things her life could’ve easily gone on without, but somehow helped ground her to her existence. gave her a purpose, in a sense: something to do that didn’t end and begin with staring out a window, losing a meaning she never had in the first place. today’s errands brought her walking leisurely around town — picking up books she’d ordered from subtext, fresh flowers before some sort of high-stakes dinner they’d be hosting at night, focusing her efforts, her attention, on every little detail that might paint her life a shade of functional. she’d seldom allow herself pleasures for the sake of it: cue the cup of caramel latte in her hands, a little moment to herself, an excuse to let her mind fade to the background — let her tastebuds rule, for just a second. a short-lived one, at that: her mind elsewhere, barely focused on her steps, the near collision throwing her off balance — her latte careening out of its cup, spilling over, hitting her forearm on the way down. “oh — crap”, a half curse leaving her as she took a rushed step backward, barely avoiding the spill. thrown off the gentle rhythm of her day, ada took a second to readjust: gaze rising to meet the stranger’s, seeing the apologetic look on her face and knowing, right away, her mind must have been as lost as her own. “it’s okay”, she rushed to smile, fill in the gap of her hesitation. raising the now half empty cup just slightly, ada chuckled. “i wasn’t that much into it anyway.”