“With that smile, I would bet,” they grab their tip jar, “this, that I do.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, for your information, you're also on that list.”
“I know. But I'm your caffeine dealer, so I don't count.” They set my usual on the counter.
“That just means you count more.”
As the RedLine trundles over the Longfellow Bridge, I take a picture, sending it to Cillian.
Jac’s claim that they knew who I was texting by the look on my face echoes in my memory when I realize I’m grinning at the three dots indicating Cillian was working on a response.
Fixing my face, I shove my phone deep into my bag, ignoring the vibration.
Yes, he was on the pros side of the equation. Of course he was. He’d been so kind and welcoming, sharing his city, hisfriends, his bed...I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
And, yes, we’d been spending more nights together than apart lately. But with Two Sons being so short-handed, it only made sense. My apartment was within walking distance. It was convenient. It didn’t have to mean anything more than that.
And the nights you go home with him?A traitorous voice in my head asks.
My stop comes up before I have a valid answer.
Instead of going to the park, I pivot in the opposite direction. The park was something Cillian shared with me and I don’t want to think about him, about us.
I don’t want to think.
Abandoning my good intentions to get some work done, I wander. With each new block, the city unfolds in cobblestones and concrete, one thing after another demanding I pull out my sketch book. By the time my tired feet and empty stomach are welcomed by Chinatown’s gate, I’d captured a tour guide in a tricorn hat, a cemetery with graves older than the town I grew up in, and the brutal angles of modern buildings.
Not wanting to look at my phone, I choose the first bakery that catches my eye, grab a mix of sweet and savory bites, and settle in at the pocket park in the gate’s shadow. Most of the tables are filled with older folks playing games and carrying on lively conversations. They pay me no mind as I let their banter wash over me, pencil lazily capturing snippets of the scene between bites.
“You’re very good,” someone says behind me. I jump a little, startled to find myself being observed by an elderly couple.
“Thank you,” I say. The woman is decked out in an almost dizzying array of patterns and colors that somehow manage to work while the man on her arm wears a sensible grey tracksuit.They give the impression of a rainbow and the cloud that brought it on.
She takes a seat across from me as the man beside her protests in a language I don’t speak. They bicker back and forth for a moment until the man tosses his hands up in defeat.
“You do what you want,” he grouses.
“I will,” she says with a smile. Clearly, this was a familiar dance between them. “You could draw us?” She asks as though she already knows the answer.
“You don’t have to—” He begins.
“She’d love to. Wouldn’t you?”
I laugh. “I’d be honored.”
The man shakes his head as he sits down, but still, he immediately takes her hand in his as if it were a habit—automatic.
We begin chatting as I start to sketch. Or, rather, Miss Lily begins chatting, leading introductions for herself and Mr. Tae before slipping into their story. She tells me how they both immigrated from Korea, how they’d lived in Boston for almost forty years. Lily explains how she left her abusive husband when she was 30 and how wild she was until she met Mr. Tae. He makes sure I know she’s still wild with a smile that crinkles the lines on his face.
“He asks me to marry him every year, for twenty years,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Every year I say no. You know why?” I shake my head, the mention of proposals still enough to make my teeth grind. “Because husbands are useless. Boyfriends are better.” We all have a laugh at that.
“Why do you keep asking?” I ask Mr. Tae.
He beams at Miss Lily, “So she knows I would. If she wanted.” He turns back to me. “But being a boyfriend keeps me young.” This earns him a peck on his cheek.
I take care to capture their matching smile lines, whitehair, and the shared spark of adoration in their eyes—little things that speak to lives well-loved—as they continue to tell me their story.
Using the pencils Cillian bought me, I finish with some touches of color. Partially because color is clearly important to Miss Lily, and also because I just want to keep listening to them.