Frayed Read online

  There are times when I can feel it happening. It’s like a plane lifting off the ground during takeoff. You can feel the hover followed by the incline and then you’re just flying. But other times, it catches me off guard. I realize it when I’m already in the middle of the daydream. When that happens, I give myself an internal nudge and I’m back in the present, having sorted an entire bin of socks with very little memory of it.

  Just a second ago, I caught myself thinking about the best carbonara I’ve ever eaten. I’m here at West Apparel holding up tube socks, but I may as well have been sitting on a tiny stool at a corner table inside Mama Matteo’s because I swear I could taste the creamy sauce with bursts of tangy Parmesan and crunchy pancetta. I reluctantly pulled myself out of that fantasy and felt a pang of disappointment when there wasn’t a steaming plate piled high with pasta in front of me. Nope, just a plain brown countertop with scattered paperwork and a few stray cotton fibers. What a letdown.

  I grab a batch of socks from my bin and unceremoniously plop them onto my work surface. I sort through a third of them before I feel it—another crinkle inside the toe of one of the socks I’m about to inspect.

  Without even seeing it, I already know what it is. Another note.

  The first note has been a bit of a complication. I don’t want to be seen. Well, maybe I want to be seen by her.

  I inhale deeply and let out a slow breath as I reach into the sock and pull out the curious slip of paper. Just like its predecessor, it’s orange and intricately folded. I waste no time unfolding it. The words staring up at me are written in the same hybrid of cursive and print.

  Do you take cream in your coffee?

  I turn the paper over. The back side is blank. These are the only words written. It’s a simple question, but it has my attention. I feel like my admirer is leaving me breadcrumbs.

  It only takes a second of the gears turning inside my brain for everything to snap into place. It’s so obvious and deep down, I’ve known it all along. It has to be 15.

  I consider the evidence: the first note appeared the day after she started working here; she knows that once she’s finished inspecting her bundle, I’m the last stop; and just this morning, Mr. James said she stopped for coffee on her way to work.

  If she wanted to get my attention, this was a sure way to do it. And her plan worked. If my interests were peaked before, they’re on high alert now.

  But why write me notes like we’re a bunch of teenagers in high school? Why not just talk to me?

  I suppose that question goes both ways. Didn’t I purposely avoid conversation with her this morning?

  I reach into the left pocket of my khakis and pull out the first note. Somehow I knew I’d find it in there even though I don’t remember actually putting it inside.

  You are not invisible. I see you.

  At first, it felt ominous. Like someone was inside my head, picking apart my brain in an attempt to divulge the innermost thoughts of my psyche. It has a whole other meaning now that I know who the author is.

  Smiling, I imagine her sitting within the confines of her gray cubicle. She’s trying to work diligently, but she can’t quite shake the intrigue she feels about the man sitting a few feet away from her. Despite her growing interest and the coincidences in which they keep running into each other, she just can’t seem to drum up the courage to speak to him. Instead, she puts pen to paper and tells him the first thing she wants him to know. Ever the observer, she knows that he makes it his job to keep to himself. He’s guarded and closed up tightly. She wants him to know that he’s not invisible. In fact, in this room full of people, he’s the only one she sees.

  Do you take cream in your coffee?

  She notices me and more importantly, she wants to know me.

  11

  Sitting at my regular table in the corner of Sam’s Deli, I look out into the expanse of the café. A small line has formed at the counter while a few tables in the relatively modest eatery are occupied. Sam’s is one of those places where you can never go wrong. I always order a pastrami on rye. In a New York style deli, the humor of that cliché isn’t lost on me.

  The bell above the door jingles as people enter and exit the deli. Each time, I look up from my sandwich. I could say I’m just being curious; that I’m not looking for anyone in particular, but that would be a lie. I give my head an internal shake. There are so many lunch possibilities—what are the chances she’d end up here?

  Apparently, the odds are quite good. The bell chimes once more and in she walks.

  She looks a bit flustered patting her pockets in search of something, her phone or maybe her wallet. Her whole body sighs with relief as she reaches inside the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a small beaded change purse.

  She’s the third person in line, and she stands there completely oblivious to me. She’s staring up at the menu deciding what to order, which strikes me as odd considering most people come to Sam’s knowing exactly what they want. But then again, she only started working at West a few days ago. Maybe she’s not from around here. Another thing we have in common.

  She places her order and moves to the pick-up spot. I notice that her phone is nowhere to be found. She isn’t carelessly scrolling through social media or swiping left on a dating app. It’s refreshing that she can just wait for her food without needing to escape her own company. We are so much alike.

  When the man behind the counter hands her her tray, she makes some pleasant chitchat and he smiles and thanks her. She’s practically a living, breathing ray of sunshine out in the world walking among us and completely bewitching everyone she comes into contact with.

  She turns with her food and glances around the restaurant. Since I’ve been watching her so intently, I hadn’t noticed that all the tables have filled up. There’s one seat left in the whole deli and, as luck would have it, it’s directly across from me. But luck has nothing to do with this. We’ve been destined to connect ever since we first met last week.

  Without thinking, I raise my hand and wave in an attempt to get her attention. She looks in my direction, and the smile on her face when she sees me is enough to set the room on fire. I motion to the empty seat at my table, and she makes her way over to me.

  This is it. Our time starts now.

  My senses are hypersensitive, and every sound she makes is in stereo. The clank of her tray as she sets it on the table, the subtle way she clears her throat as she takes the seat across from me, the faint smell of cinnamon as she runs a hand through her hair, her quick intake of breath as she looks up from her food and meets my eyes. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands and she fidgets nervously—resting them in her lap, placing them on the table, putting one hand on her cup while the other scratches at an imaginary itch on her forehead—before finally deciding to place them back into her lap. I want to reach under the narrow table and take both of her hands in mine.

  We speak at the same time.

  “Hi, I’m—”

  “Hey, I’ve been—”

  We laugh, and I’m sure she feels it, too. The current in the air. The world is boundless and we’re all like buoys in the ocean, bobbing alone, accepting the ebb and flow of life’s waves. When I’m near her, I feel tethered, connected in a way that feels both safe and exposed. I can’t hide, but I’m not sure I want to.

  I motion to her to speak first.

  She smiles, and my heart beats in an erratic rhythm. “I’m Lydia.” Her voice is breathy and there’s a slight waver in her tone. She’s nervous.

  She’s only said two words, but they’re the two most beautiful words I’ve ever heard. And now I know her full name. Lydia March. L. March.

  Up until now, we’ve never been in such close proximity to each other. From this angle, I catch a glimpse of a small strawberry birthmark on her left temple and when she smiles, I notice a slight overlap of her two front teeth. Imperfections make her more human. She isn’t a fantasy. She’s real. And she’s sitting right across from me.
/>   “It’s nice to make your acquaintance. You know me as 5, but outside of work, I’m called Owen.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes at myself. Why do I speak like I’m stuck in a mid-century romance novel whenever I’m around her?

  If she notices my awkwardness, she doesn’t let on. “Well, I’m happy to meet the name behind the number.” She chuckles quietly and tucks a wave of hair behind her ear. She stills her hand and looks up at me behind thick eyelashes. “We seem to have a knack for running into each other. I’m sorry I didn’t stop to talk at the market on Saturday. It was just so crowded.” When she speaks, her words connect in a singsong harmony. I could listen to her talk all day.

  “That place is always insane on a Saturday. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  She grins. “Well, if you call a bag of not-even-remotely-ripe cherries and a bruised ankle from being kicked by impatient shoppers what I was looking for, then yes, it was a successful visit.”

  Her admission makes me laugh.

  “I’ll give you an inside tip—the best time to shop there is on a Friday between seven and eight p.m. It’s right before closing time and you’ll have the place to yourself.” I make a mental note to visit the market during that exact time this week. I know we’ve been surviving on chance, but it doesn’t hurt to help fate along every once in a while.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you!” She looks down and smiles at the sandwich in front of her. I’ve never felt jealous of a turkey club before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  We settle into a comfortable silence, eating our sandwiches and stealing glances at each other. Sitting across from her like this feels completely natural. My right hand instinctively rests on the pocket of my khakis. I feel the crunch of paper beneath my fingers. The notes. She asked me a question in the last one.

  Do you take cream in your coffee?

  I decide to work my answer into our conversation.

  “Did I see you with a coffee from Espresso Yourself this morning?”

  “You did! I tried a specialty drink, some concoction with raspberry and chocolate and entirely too much sugar. I was shaking all morning so if I missed a few stitches, it’s because I couldn’t keep my hands steady enough to inspect them.” She laughs.

  I can’t help but smile at her. She’s adorable. “I hadn’t noticed. But maybe next time you should try an Americano. They’re known for them, and I’ve never had another one quite like theirs.”

  Subtle.

  “You’re full of helpful tips! I should keep you around as my personal tour guide.” Her cheeks flush with color and she brushes the back of her hand across her forehead. She said too much, but I don’t mind.

  I don’t scare easily, so she has nothing to worry about. But then again, maybe she does.

  12

  When my alarm sounds at six a.m. the next morning, I am practically vibrating with excitement. After my groundbreaking lunch with Lydia yesterday (I’ll never get tired of saying her name. Lydia, Lydia, Lydia) I spent the rest of the day in a kind of drunken haze.

  There’s always been something there between us. And now I know she feels it, too. She hasn’t been able to put her finger on it, either, but she can’t deny the connection. At first, she was too nervous to speak to me. Opting instead to write me notes and hide them inside socks she knows I’ll be inspecting. She’s resourceful. I like it.

  Speaking of notes, the little orange gems are laid open on top of my Complete Works of Poe book. I scoop them up and put them back into the pocket of my pants. Eyeing the book perched on the corner of my nightstand, I chuckle. In a roundabout way, these notes in my pocket are like The Tell-Tale Heart beating under the floorboards. Only they bring me comfort instead of fear. Keeping them close, I feel like a part of her is with me always.

  I leave my apartment at 7:10 a.m. It’s early, but I missed her yesterday and I’m hoping that doesn’t happen today.

  During our lunch together, I never mentioned that we lived in the same apartment building. She never brought it up, so I assume she doesn’t know. Sure, I could’ve told her, but where’s the fun in that? I’d much rather share in, or rather, feign the surprise with her when we finally bump into each other.

  The elevator ride is uneventful, but the lobby is bustling with activity. Mr. James is in deep conversation with Bud, the maintenance man, and Mrs. Matz is trying in vain to get her mail out of her box while her Bichon mix, FiFi, struggles at the end of her leash, desperate to get outside. I look around, but I don’t see Lydia anywhere. Maybe she hasn’t come down yet.

  In an effort to kill time, I decide to put on my good neighbor mask and help Mrs. Matz.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Matz. Can I take FiFi while you collect your mail?”

  She sighs audibly when she hears me. “Oh, Orville, you’re a doll. I’ve already walked him three blocks. I don’t know what’s gotten into him!”

  “No worries, Mrs. M. I’ll take him outside to do his business and bring him right back.”

  As soon as I have his leash in hand, FiFi wastes no time dashing out the door and squatting behind the rose bush in front of the building. When he finishes with that bush, he makes his way over to the other three, lifting his leg on each one. I keep my eyes on the front door just in case Lydia comes out.

  She doesn’t.

  When I take FiFi back inside to Mrs. Matz, I give the lobby another once over. Still no sign of Lydia.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Matz,” I say as I hand her back the end of FiFi’s leash.

  “Did he make pee pee?” She says those last two words in a sickening childlike voice that she reserves for her dog.

  “Three times. I think he may have been trying to fertilize the rose bushes out front.”

  She pats FiFi’s head. “Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy! Oh yes you are!”

  Her dog practically pulled her over while she was trying to get her mail and then proceeded to piss all over the rose bushes that line the front of the apartment building. From where I’m standing, that’s the opposite of a good boy, but hey, who am I to judge?

  I steal a glance at my watch. 7:33 a.m. I’ve waited as long as I can. Maybe Lydia had other errands to run this morning and left earlier, or maybe she’s running behind schedule. Whatever the reason, fate decided that this morning was not the right time for us to run into each other. It’ll happen when the moment is right. I can be patient.

  I’m lost in thought on my way to West, letting the events of the last few days play in a loop inside my head. I reach the front doors of the building without any recollection on what transpired along the way. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so transfixed on something or, in this case, someone. Maybe never. Up until last week, life was unremarkable and I had hoped to keep it that way. Now I am utterly consumed by Lydia and it’s still not enough. I’m in dangerous territory, but I’m not worried. I’m nothing if not careful.

  This sorting bin is a disaster. I have tossed nearly half of the socks in here in the discount or reject containers. I’m the final inspector. I can’t imagine how they made it this far down the line. Someone must’ve been sleeping on the job.

  Sitting at my chair, I feel a shift in the atmosphere. It’s slight, but to me it’s undeniable. I know she’s standing behind me, and as I turn in my seat, I’m rewarded with a smile that I’m sure she reserves only for those she genuinely likes. I’ve made the cut. The thought makes me smile in return and it’s then that I notice a cup of coffee in her right hand. She’s extending it toward me, and her lips are moving, but I’ve been so fixated on her face, her mouth, her, I haven’t heard a word she’s said. She blushes slightly and clears her throat.

  “You said you like Americanos, right?”

  I reach out to take the cup from her. “I do. Thank you.”

  It’s a small gesture, but it stuns me. How long has it been since someone has shown me such kindness? I rifle through the catalog of memories in my mind and come up empty-handed.
It’s been years. The last I can remember was when Sarah brought me a muffin when I was practically living at the library during finals. But that was a lifetime ago.

  Lydia eyes the bins on the floor. Her eyebrows draw in and the corners of her mouth turn down. “Oh, looks like I missed a few yesterday.”

  So she’s the sloppy inspector. I wouldn’t have pegged her as the negligent type, but I’m sure she has a good reason for missing so many stitching errors.

  “It’s fine. You’ve only worked here a few days. Don’t worry about it.”

  She nods and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve had some other things going on and I guess I was distracted. It won’t happen again.”

  And then she’s gone.

  Huh. That was strange. First, she’s happy and bringing me coffee and then she’s apologetic and walking away dejected. Does she think I’m disappointed in her? Truthfully, maybe I am a little, but she did mention something was distracting her and now I’m more curious than anything.

  My stomach grumbles a complaint, bringing me back to the present. I reach into my pocket to grab the granola bar I packed and snag the corner of one of the notes. It falls to the floor and when I pick it up, I can’t fight the urge to unfold it.

  You are not invisible. I see you.

  Who are you, Lydia? What are you hiding?

  She says that she sees me. Maybe it’s time I see her, too.

  13