This story object requires two people to begin. The recording, located at the top of the umbrella, begins when two hands are holding it, just above the handle. People should be standing next to each other for the interaction.
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We stand in heavy downpour. It thuds against my umbrella, bright blue, barely used with the label still firmly attached to the canvas, and drips down in front of our feet. The cold metal and plastic between our fingers digs into our skin like an icy, dull butter knife.
It’s almost a crime, you mutter, staring down at the small stream passing between our legs, downhill towards the parking lot.
We’ve been standing outside for almost ten minutes now.
Even if there was a fire, the rain would have put it out by now, I say, trying to distract myself from my numbing feet, clad in water-clogged plimsolls and the way your Burberry coat keeps scratching up against my windbreaker.
You laugh, use your opposite hand to shift your backpack, then look up at me.
The mist on the umbrella handle has caused both of our hands to slide up, yours on top of mine, and I feel a rush of heat flood my cheeks. It’s like I’ve just been skiing, rough winds against my face, a red abrasion masking the surface in rosy vermilion.
We’ve both been anticipating a ring over the PA system, an invitation to return to class, but when it comes, we are motionless. Snagged branches in a mountain river —the current rushing past us, not taking a moment to slow down after the spring thaw.
When we are the last ones left, standing alone in an empty high school parking lot, you remove your free hand from your pocket and extend it out towards me.
Thank you for sharing your umbrella.
It’s a simple gesture, a simple thanks, but it leaves me stunned, mouth agape, searching for words.
It was nice to meet you too, you finish for me, taking my free hand in yours and giving it a parting shake.
I nod like the fool I am and smile. I haven’t even introduced myself yet, but I will.
Person 2
Tonight it is only a drizzle. A light coating over the sidewalk that dries up in some places and pools in others. The bus stop awning reaches over our umbrella, but we still hold it tight in curled hands.
Yours are cold. I cover them with damp, warm fingers and a palm still greasy from fake popcorn butter and the perspiration off my soft drink.
Despite our silence for the past two hours, you have little to say —a short opinion on the movie and a besmirched comment about the off-schedule bus. It’s nothing new for us. You say more in your actions than in words, but sometimes smiles and nudges, grimaces and cold shoulders, aren’t enough to go on.
Was that your mom in there? I nod down to the cell phone in your hand, fingers wrapped tighter around the novelty case than the cool plastic of the umbrella.
Huh? You utter bluntly. Your thumb rests against the umbrella’s eject button where the ink of the inner circle has worn away to seven irregularly spaced dots with two faded triangles inside of them.
Was that your mother trying to call you during the movie? I clarify.
You hum, nodding your head as a car whips by, hugging the corner of the curb.
Did she need anything?
I feel like I’m prying now, but it usually feels this way when we have conversations.
Yeah… Your words fade out and I can’t help blaming myself for the yes or no questions.
And?
I feel your fingers start to slip away from mine, sliding out from under my grasp, and turn into you to stop it. Your eyes go wide, wider than normal, but then again, they’ve always been half-lidded like you’re perpetually suspended in a daze.
Stop, I whisper. I divert my attention towards other pedestrians walking past us, but none seem too amused by the twenty-something couple, standing close together under a bus stop.
Your forehead wrinkles and you lower your gaze from mine in a plea to let you go —an easy exit to rid myself of your baggage and fluctuating states. But it’s not good enough for me. I need to hear the words, see your lips forming the sounds. I wait, staring down intently, but they never come.
Do we have a future? she asks, when we have both composed ourselves again.
I haven’t answered her question yet, but I will.
Person 1
Your hand is over mine. It brings me warmth, but we are not cold. It’s the middle of spring. There’s a small Greek place across the street from the adoption agency. The smell of Tzatziki sauce and chicken souvlaki drifts across the avenue, mingling with the exhaust fumes of a passing truck.
My umbrella catches on a low branch as we make our way out of the entrance. We stop our shuffling so I can reach up and untangle us. The tree has left another new hole in the light blue canvas —less frayed than the others, but time will eventually leave them uniform.
She looks like you, you tell me, rubbing circles over the back of my hand with your thumb.
I breathe out a small laugh.
You’re crazy, I say. I’m not mean. It’s endearing. If anything I am the crazy one.
Well don’t tell her that, you reply, twirling the umbrella in our hands. It spins, splaying water out around us.
I haven’t come to love her yet, but I will.
Person 2
It’s been years since we’ve traveled this far east of the city. New trees have popped up in the place of old ones, fuelled by the constant spring rain. The restaurant is no longer a Greek tavern, but the memory feels well placed.
Do you still want to eat here? I ask, placing my fingers between hers as we grip the umbrella handle, rusting slightly in the crevices.
She nods. I feel the movement of her hair against my bare arm, littered with goose bumps.
It’s strange, asking for a table for two —no more celebratory dinners for straight A’s and dance recitals, no more kids menus, no more booster seats.
We haven’t done anything by ourselves in years, but we will.
Person 1
The Velcro is worn-out —threads and lint between its bristles— and no longer sticks together. If the labels and imprints hadn’t washed away already, I’d have sent a letter to the company, thanking them for such a well made umbrella.
Steady rain softens the voices around me, already hushed from circumstance. There’s been a persistent drone for weeks now. I hear it in the grocery store as the delicatessen employee confirms my order for the store brand roast beef in a 2. It syncopates with the bus engine when I visit her family at their new house on the outskirts of town. And it lulls me to sleep when I’ve managed to move myself from the couch in front of the TV to our old bed, creaky from ware.
It’s her turn to say last words and I strain to focus, listening as she recalls shared memories like they belonged to more than just us. She really does have my eyes —hazel from the day we met her, barely two feet tall with such fare hair and skin.
It’s as if I can feel your fingers, dancing over my knuckles, thrumming along to the beat of the cars passing on the highway overpass.
I haven’t done anything on my own in years, but I must.
