The sourdough bread was crusty, piping hot as Michael sank his teeth into the roll. Across from him, he could see Kate grimace slightly at the flavor of her own. She took a dainty second bite, as if tentatively tasting it to confirm her worst fears before washing it down with a sip from her paper cup of tea.
“It’s very strong, isn’t it?” she said. He had watched her stir one and a half packets of sugar into the tea, but no cream. A plain black brew that reminded him more of coffee than the perfumed herbal packets his editor sometimes brewed at publisher’s meetings.
“It’s supposed to be,” he answered. “I read somewhere that the loaves are made sometimes from cultures a hundred years old.” He often pictured someone scraping a side off a crusty, moldy loaf whenever he imagined this scenario.
“It’s a little like soda bread,” she said. “A friend of mine–and Irish chum from school–used to bring it from home after her holiday.” She broke off a small piece and poked it between her lips.
The view through the window revealed houses and shops crowded close on a hill sloping downwards, onto the ocean somewhere at the bottom Michael imagined. “The city on a slant,” a friend once referred to San Francisco in a conversation.
“I never carry a camera,” said Michael. “All the places I go, I never take photographs. Look at that,” he gestured towards the trim frame houses with the city’s trademark architectural style, “Imagine that as some sort of Christmas card, proving to people you know that you did something more than sit at home scribbling.”
“They must know that you travel,” answered Kate. “Why prove what they already know?”
“Because it’s human nature, I suppose” he said. “Making us want to be more than we are.” She produced no response to this, staring out the window at the passing foot traffic, a long-haired man in a tie-dyed peace shirt, a woman carrying a poster board sign.
“There is a song about this city,” she said, after a moment. “Isn’t there? I heard it once in a record store. Something mellow in nature.”
“More than one, actually,” he answered, with a faint grin. “The hippie culture one, the old gold mining days, the one about leaving your heart behind...” He trailed off at this point, feeling stupid suddenly, fearing she might construe a hidden meaning in this remark.
“Perhaps we should go see more of it,” she said. She rose, pushing aside her half-finished roll, although she carried the cup of tea in her free hand. Without any sign of hurrying, she waited for him to wrap his own roll in a napkin and swallow the last of his coffee before he collected his bags. It was a swift maneuver that allowed him to cut ahead of her and open the door in a gentlemanly gesture, although she seemed not to expect this courtesy. Her smile was small, almost quizzical in response.
He scanned the streets for sign of a cab, then thought of the trolley cars, the wires visible ahead for the quaint track system which defined the city’s transportation. Taking a step in its direction, he glanced over his shoulder to make certain of her presence behind him. Kate stood below him on the sidewalk, just outside the bakery door with her cell phone raised eye level. He heard the click of the shutter as it recorded an image–the trolley lines or quaint bookstore behind him, he hoped.
“Now you have proof,” she said, moving closer and flipping the screen to face him. An image of himself from the elbows up, an expression of mild interest on his face beneath slightly raised eyebrows.
He cringed inwardly at the sight of himself–he always considered his face less than photogenic with his long nose bridge and nondescript features which even the shadows of the building above didn’t hide. He hoped she would erase it, but it vanished from sight in a split-second as the phone’s screen menu reappeared.
“The windows of that building are quite beautiful,” she said, as she snapped another photo, this one of the shop across the street. She swiveled to face Michael again, who raised his hands in mock protest.
“Let’s find you something more attractive to photograph,” he suggested. “Have you ever felt the urge to visit Chinatown? I read in a guidebook once that it’s the closest you can get to Asian culture without actually going overseas.” He shifted his laptop strap into a more comfortable position. “Having never been to China, I can’t confirm it.”
“Chinatown,” she repeated. “A famous spot no one should miss while they are here, I suppose.” Something more playful emerged in her tone with these words, vanishing in a moment of serious concentration as she snapped a picture of a low-flying gull.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked. He felt a sense of surprise as she accepted it, tucking her cell phone in her pocket as they made their way from the bakery.
The trolley was packed with tourists, a limited space available for new passengers. Spotting a vacant seat near a woman and stroller, Michael steered Kate towards it, grasping the rail to balance himself a short distance away. A heavyset man in tattoos jostled against him with a grocery bag tote, edging him closer to her despite his attempts to maintain a casual distance.
“Are you all right?” she asked, barely containing a laugh beneath her casual inquiry. He struggled to maintain his grip, forcing a relaxed smile to his face.
“Of course,” he answered. “I’m just ... out of practice. With public transportation.” At home, he was within walking distance of most places he went, the library and grocery, the specialty shops where he purchased liquor and cheese. Abroad was the only place he ever used public transportation, swift buses rolling through the Scottish countryside or ferries crossing the choppy waters separating Ireland from his dock of departure.
“I drive sometimes,” she answered, almost dreamily as she watched the parade of buildings and trees flying past the open car. “Remember which side of the road is mine–that was the hardest part when I first came here.”
“From England?” he asked. The sway of the trolley edged him closer to her even as his shoes attempted to brace against the floor. “That is home to you, I assume.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore,” she answered. She volunteered nothing else about this subject, the uprightness of her posture like a quiet dignity against further inquiry as she turned towards him with a look of curiosity.
“Have you always lived in America?” she asked. “You were born here–parents American.”
“We were an Ellis Island story,” he answered, before realizing that might have no meaning to her. “That is to say, it’s been a long time since anyone in my family immigrated from any place other than the East Coast.”
“Then I suppose it would be difficult for you to sympathize,” she said, with a brief laugh. “To have always been someplace wouldn’t give one the sensation of being afloat in the world.”
His brow wrinkled as he considered this idea, imagining people’s lives as continents shifting upon the ocean. The sense of adriftness which plagued him traveling through any country other than the one in his head. The only time he felt at home abroad was in the lingering weeks he sometimes spent in the Scottish countryside, where he spent much of it lost in his thoughts and wandering about on rural roads.
“I think it’s possible to feel afloat in completely different circumstances,” he said. “Take me, for instance. At home, I leave my apartment once or twice a day–if at all. But a few times a year I go forth in the world–”
“To promote your mysterious books,” chimed in Kate, interrupting him momentarily.
“Correct,” he said, continuing, “and I end up crammed on planes, moving from airport to airport, fleeing one speaking engagement to go straight to a cab or a musty hotel room for a few hours’ sleep.”
“But not today,” she said. Her eyes met his own, a look of sympathy and comprehension in them that sprang ahead of his thoughts as if waiting for their arrival at the station. It took his breath away for a moment, although he couldn’t say why.
The woman next to Kate stirred, her somber face taking on a look of interest. “Are you a famous writer?” she asked Michael, rolling the stroller slightly to shush the whimpering infant stirring inside.
He saw a spark of curiosity in Kate’s gaze, a hidden smile as she watched his face. The sense of laughter beneath the surface of reserve that dominated her face with the graceful dignity he had first noticed in the airport.
“Well, actually...” he began, with a flat smile for the woman’s benefit. “Ah, there’s our stop.” Gazing over her shoulder as if recognizing something as he seized Kate’s sleeve and began maneuvering towards the trolley’s exit.
“You might have given her a hint,” said Kate as she stepped off the platform.
“No hints,” he answered, holding up his finger warningly. “I prefer anonymity, remember? I wouldn’t put my name on the cover at all if the publisher had let me have my way.” His fingers were still holding part of her sleeve, he realized; a soft, white fleeciness pulled along without resistance as she followed. With a sense of guilt, he let his hand relax and fall to his side.
The Chinatown in his mind was a combination of a movie he watched once late at night about San Francisco and a storybook of Asian illustrations which a friend once sent him as a souvenir, scenes of paper lanterns bobbing in bright colors and a long red dragon costume snaking through the streets.
It was far simpler, far more understated in real life, with neither the heavy street fog of the film nor the bright festivities of the book. Shops marked with characters beyond his comprehension, red banners and window displays of imported goods, a heavy odor of spices and city life that both intrigued and repulsed all at once.
Kate had produced her cell phone again and was taking photographs, of a roasted duck with its head curved upwards on a platter, a row of delicate miniature dolls in red Chinese silk. The smell of soy sauce hung heavily from a street vendor’s cart, causing a sense of hunger to assail Michael despite the hot roll at the bakery.
She closed her cell phone momentarily and approached the cart. “One bowl, please,” she said. The noodle vendor nodded, ladling warm noodle and broth into a disposable bowl. As he reached for a stack of forks, Kate shook her head.
“Chopsticks, please,” she said. Michael pictured her graceful fingers handling them with casual precision as the vendor passed the bowl to her in exchange for one of the bills she handed him.
Her fingers twined the noodles around them as she held the bowl out to him. “Try some,” she said.
“I shouldn’t,” he said. “You shouldn’t feel you have to offer–”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t feel pressured,” she answered. “Merely generous. It’s only a bowl of noodles. Eating before another person seemed rude.” As she spoke, she poked the chopsticks closer to his mouth.
It was politeness which forced his hand; despite his hesitancy, he opened his mouth, feeling the slippery boiled dough brush his lips before tasting the sharpness of soy and white ginger. Something about his expression struck Kate as comical, apparently, making her giggle slightly.
“Good,” he murmured, after a moment to swallow. She shook her head.
“I rather think you’re making excuses,” she answered. As if to prove her wrong, he took hold of the bowl and lifted out another mouthful, the strands dangling long from the chopsticks.
“Not at all,” he retorted. “See?” He lowered them into his mouth in spaghetti-fashion. There was another shutter click from Kate’s cell phone as she snapped a photo of him.
“Unfair,” he protested. In response, she placed the phone in his hand.
“Then make it fair.” She took the bowl of noodles from his other one and wound a generous portion of noodles around the chopsticks, opening her mouth in an exaggerated circle to consume them. The pose seemed ludicrous–almost childlike–in comparison to the serene composure he had observed from her thus far. With a sense of fascination, he pressed a large button he assumed operated the camera. Kate’s face was frozen on the screen momentarily, the street scene a blur behind her dark hair and pale skin. He gazed at it as if committing it to memory before it vanished from sight.
“This is kind of fun,” he said. “I’ve never taken a photograph on a phone–sort of a feeling of empowerment.” As if to prove his point, he snapped another photo of her–no noodles in this image, but an expression of calm surprise, eyes slightly widened beneath the half-strands of dark hair brushing her face.
He would keep that one if he could, he realized. Have it framed somewhere as if freezing a moment of transition between the two sides of her nature, despite the fact that she was a stranger until an hour ago.
She withdrew the phone from his grip. “Stand over by the shop door,” she directed. “Against the red banner.” He obeyed, his hand touching the red silk as if holding it in place–or demonstrating it like a product–as she moved the camera lens up and down in search of something.
“Smile,” she said. He obeyed, although he felt the effect was one of a person forcibly posed. She took a step forward, then two more, until she stood directly in front of him. The shutter snapped.
“Why did you do that?” he asked. “The banner won’t even be visible that close.”
“It’s a photo of you, not the banner,” she said. “Anyone can take a photo of a stationary object, but–oh, what a shame, it’s blurry.”
He craned to catch a glimpse of it, but her fingers struck a button with expert speed, no doubt deleting it. She frowned as she repositioned the lens.
“Here,” he said. He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her, drawing her back against his torso. He felt her body resist slightly until his free hand adjusted the cell phone camera to face the two of them.
“Now take it,” he said. His fingers closed over her hand automatically, steadying the bowl of noodles which trembled in her grip. Her finger squeezed the cell phone button, producing the familiar click. The photo appeared, Kate’s reserved smile, Michael’s eyes crinkled at the edges with his own.
She gazed at it for a moment, then snapped the phone shut. His hand withdrew from the bowl of noodles, his body edging slowly away from hers as if to avoid drawing attention to the closeness which existed between them until now.
“Take picture?” A stranger’s voice enquired, the accent thick with Chinese syllables. Both Kate and Michael turned in the direction of a smiling man holding several shopping bags.
“Yes, please,” said Kate. Her reply sent a jolt of pleasant electricity through Michael’s body. He watched as the man set two bags carefully beside the curb before accepting the cell phone from Kate’s hand, a brief murmur of direction on its use that Michael’s mind failed to translate. He felt her draw close to him again, the softness of her hair brushing against his jaw.
“Smile, please,” said the man aiming the cell phone at them. Michael heard the click, then a soft murmur of assent from the photographer. They started to move apart, but the man shook his head.
“No, no,” he said. “You kiss.” He motioned for them to obey.
“Oh, we’re not–” Michael began, his cheeks reddening; beside him, Kate tucked a strand of hair behind her ear awkwardly.
“Yes, yes, a couple,” he said. “You kiss–for picture.” As he gestured, he raised the camera lens again.
Both of them were framed within it, neither of them moving. Michael glanced down into her eyes, two dark blue orbs meeting his own.
“Maybe we should do it,” said Kate after a moment. The faintest smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "He shall never understand why not."
Michael hesitated, then leaned forward, his lips pausing for a moment a mere breath from her face. He meant to kiss her cheek, a soft peck before the camera; her face moved to close the distance. Her lips touched his; he could feel her soft skin, the curve of her muscles. A faint scent of strawberry lip gloss and mint on her breath.
For a split second, they were frozen like this, until the electronic click from the cell phone’s camera. Michael drew back, his eyes glancing into hers for a reaction–a look of apology, of forgiveness, of mutual pleasure for this moment between them. There was a second click from the cell phone in the hand of their photographer as they broke from the kiss.
The man placed the camera in Kate’s hand again with a smile and nod before collecting his bags.
“Thank you,” called Michael, Kate’s voice echoing the words behind his own. The cell phone photo was still frozen on the screen, their two faces cropped to fill the square almost completely. The stunning blue of Kate’s eyes alight with a sudden burst of warmth, his own face transformed by a still, almost tender expression.
*****
He saw the photo again, later that afternoon as Kate scrolled through the images on her phone. The sunlight was hazy with pink over the city as she crouched on the stone steps of a building in Chinatown, Michael stooped protectively behind her.
Their walk had taken them past the noodle vendors, into streets exotic and dark in comparison to the tourist aspects of Chinatown. He held her elbow protectively at the sight of a group of teenagers arguing before a restaurant’s entrance; even though none of the youth gave them a second glance, he felt more assertive. The posed kiss for the photograph had given him certain privileges and responsibilities in the made-up scenario between them.
“Do you have the right angle?” she asked, posing with her head in the jaws of a dragon image spray-painted on a wall. A few feet away, Michael focused her in the lens.
“Funny face, now,” he commanded, in a mock stern tone. “Otherwise, you’ll be stuck there forever.” She stuck out her tongue at him, then assumed an open-mouthed expression of horror.
“Now you,” she said. Although for his photograph, they chose a different spot, a carved statue before a shop in the form of Buddha, an incense bowl before it.
“Silly face,” she commanded. He hesitated, feeling a sense of embarrassment that his own sense of humor froze at these moments. By his standards, it was wrong that someone as outwardly refined as Kate could mold her features so swiftly into playfulness while his own managed only an awkward smile.
“No, Michael,” she scolded him. “Relax.” Something in her voice–a warmth, a depth of feeling–compelled him to obey. He folded his hands in an exaggerated prayer, eyes crossed as he struck up a pose beside the statue. The figure of Kate was blurred in his vision, although he heard a laugh from the twin images before him.
They took more photos, of Chinese characters on windows, of carved jade dragons on display, of eels in a water tank in the marketplace that startled Kate with a shriek when one was hauled forth from a water tank.
“Easy,” said Michael, with a laugh, touching her shoulders as she leaped back. A shock traveled through his fingers like electricity as they brushed her white wool coat; but when the image of the kiss entered his mind, he drew back.
“I’m sorry,” said Kate. She tucked a strand of her hair aside, glancing at him with a look of apology. “I’m afraid the ethnic marketplace may be too exotic for me at this moment.”
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “I would scream if I were mere inches from an eel, too.” Something in his voice gave him away, a slight note of sarcasm that made her swat his arm.
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” she said. “After all, I could hardly call upon you for help– you, without a last name. Mr. Whoever-you-are.”
“Use my first,” he answered, with a playful smile. It was the moment at which he intended to relinquish his hold upon her arm, but didn’t. Instead, he was guiding her forward, through the moving bodies around them as if the two of them were joined naturally together.
She told him she loved poetry and studied it at university–perhaps a hint for him to reveal his published name. It had become the inside joke of their afternoon, his steadfast refusal a pat reply.
Instead, he told her that he had never visited England.
“I’ve come close,” he said, “I stood on the dock of an Irish port once, waiting for a boat to take me around the coast, and saw the outline of its shores. Hazy in the traditional fog, I’m afraid,” he joked.
“I love the fog,” she said. “It seemed sometimes I could lose myself in it. When you’re a child, these things are always much more real to you. As if when you’re all grown up, everything around you is a picture in your mind, your imagination. Not quite real, somehow.”
Not quite real. Her phraseology, the light carelessness of her accent seemed tangible to him, physical properties he could reach out and touch. He imagined her voice as frail as glass, words that would shiver apart if handled too harshly. Delicate, graceful, a calm surface of perfect manners–rather like the outward shell of Kate’s presence.
“Were you sorry to leave it?” he asked. “England, I mean. I assume you live in America now–”
“I do,” she answered, abruptly. With a soft laugh, she added, “To both, I mean. There are things I miss about it–some can’t be put into words, I suppose. But doesn‘t everyone miss something about what they leave behind?” Her eyes wandered in his direction. “You must miss something about the places you left in your past.”
He sighed. “The only place I ever missed was the beach,” he said.
Her laugh made his own lips curve upwards in a smile. “Not in the flippant sense,” he explained. “I mean–when I was a boy, I visited this beach one year, a point somewhere on the West Coast. We were driving up the coast to Washington state and we stopped at this place for lunch. I spent a whole afternoon throwing rocks into the ocean before they made me climb in the car again. I dreamed about that place for years afterwards.”
He felt her steps slow as she glanced quizzically at him. “And you’ve missed no other place in your life?” she said.
With a shrug, Michael grinned. “I’ve never left anywhere else,” he said. “Same city all my life–just not the same apartment.” He wondered if he even missed the apartment in which he lived now, the silent rooms where he typed amidst bookshelves and house plants.
She volunteered no other information about England or her own home, shifting the subject as they wandered onto a street Michael recognized from earlier, although the faces populating it were different from the early afternoon shoppers. He jostled amongst two women arguing in excited tones and a man carrying a stack of newspapers as he made his way into what appeared to be a Chinese version of a cafe. Outside, Kate watched a group of children playing a game with chalk and colored pennies as she waited for him. He found it comforting that she remained in the same spot until he returned, perfectly visible through the windows as he made the purchase.
The cup of herbal tea was the only treat Kate accepted in repayment for the bowl of noodles–she had staunchly resisted all other offers until he persuaded her with the one thing he assumed might be her weakness. Now half-empty, it was growing cold in his hand as he rested with her on the steps. Before him were the pictures they were both admiring; in his mind, the moment with the kiss replayed itself as it appeared on the screen.
For some reason, he could not find the courage to comment on that moment, even casually; an unspoken connection between them which remained just beyond words.
Instead, he said, “The one of you and the dragon–that’s what I expect to see on your Christmas card next year.” In return, he received a demure smile before she scrolled to the next image.
His shoulder ached from the burden of his luggage, giving him an excuse to lower it onto the steps. He crouched beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers.
“I suppose yours will be the one outside the bakery,” she said. “The look of surprise captures the spirit of the season, don’t you agree?”
“That’s the look on my face every Christmas morning,” he said, “as I open the customary gift basket from my publisher.”
“Ah, your mysterious publisher,” she said, pretending to be impressed. “Does it have an identity, or does it prefer to remain anonymous as well?”
He was tempted to give in and tell her his name; to offer her his phone number or email, for instance, so she could send him copies of the photos. There was still something between them that seemed too much like strangers for him to break the barrier of politeness and small talk with something more concrete than previous remarks.
Michael carefully placed the cup of tea behind them as he drew closer. The pink light was growing brighter, like a sunset over the ocean. There was a noisy crowd somewhere in the street behind them, the sound of a celebration in progress.
“Do you wish you had spent the day in the airport?” Kate asked, looking up from the image of a silk kite display frozen on the screen. Her glance at him was sideways, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Spending the day with a stranger–I think it isn’t how either of us would have planned to waste our time.”
As she spoke, her body shifted in his direction as she settled more comfortably on the steps. The cell phone lid closed gently, her fingers folded over the screen that held an image of them moments before. The gesture was protective, almost like a caress.
“No,” he answered, softly. “I think I was growing tired of terminal waiting rooms. The speaking engagement at each stop...” He trailed off at the mention of the podium and platform awaiting him in Belfast. “None of the others days I have spent away have seemed quite so... real as today. If you understand.” He glanced at her with these words, as if anticipating a glance of sympathy from Kate.
“I feel a little like a child who ran away from school,” she said. “Rather as if I escaped something by taking your suggestion. I suppose we ran away together, in some respects.”
He laughed. “From boredom?” he asked.
“From indecision on my part,” she answered. She was silent for a moment, pocketing her cell phone as she gazed at the street scene before she looked at him again. Her blue eyes darkened as something in their depths stirred to the surface. His body had drifted closer to hers, so only a breath of space remained between her shoulder and his own, a touch apart. From around the street corner, a noisy procession appeared, youthful faces and the sound of drums. A parade, a festival, perhaps an announcement of some kind that involved the whole neighborhood.
“What time is your flight?” Kate’s voice was quiet, her gaze still focused on him. The question seemed bold to him, as if there was a hidden meaning in the innocuous words. In his mind, a series of images flashed: himself with Kate in a bar, a series of drinks, the sheen of her hair beneath the low lights of a corner booth. His heart leaped forward to events following it that were impossible, presumptuous, prompting him to longing and fear in the same moment.
“Six,” he said. “Six-thirty.” It was the note of apology in his voice, not the words, that broke the fantasies in his mind apart. The scene before him was an ordinary street corner, an ordinary stranger beside him with a polite expression on her face. A loud bang in the street from a firecracker someone in the throng of passersby lit and tossed ahead of them.
“It’s well past five,” she said. “I suppose you must be going.” She rose, collecting the almost-empty cup of tea from the steps.
“Let me walk you somewhere,” he said. “I’ll hail a cab–we’ll go to the airport or the driver will find a restaurant for you–”
“I’m quite good,” she said. “I still have more than enough time to kill, as the expression goes. I think I shall find another place with a cup of tea before I go back.”
“Please, I should,” he began, feeling a sense of urgency and guilt which was inexplicable given their circumstances. She touched his arm, offering him a brief smile.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was gentle, the kind smile lingering for a moment before vanishing as if sinking beneath a pond’s surface. With the same grace, the same expression of calm thoughtfulness as in the airport, she made her way down the steps, her knapsack swinging from one shoulder.
Michael loped in the same direction, hoping that he would catch up with her without trying. He glimpsed a cab trolling the street, a reminder of the distance to the airport and the boarding pass in his pocket. The powder blue hat had vanished behind a man carrying a child on his shoulders in the crowd; a series of children raced past with sparklers blazing like wands in their fingers as Michael waved his hand at the cab.
*****
There was no view from the dark window of Michael’s plane as it crossed the ocean towards Ireland from Boston’s airport. Miles below him was a sea of blackness, a crushing current with sprays of salt water, but his mind was on the girl in the powder blue hat who was all but nameless with the limitations of “Kate” for search material.
He tapped his fingers against the beverage in his hand as he contemplated why he didn’t ask her last name at any point. It seemed childish now, not to have given her some basic contact information or exchanged numbers.
Then again, perhaps she hadn’t wanted to see him again, thinking of him as nothing more than a friendly stranger, a pseudo-celebrity who would become a story she shared with friends over drinks. She was a little younger, far more attractive than him. The question about his flight time–who was to say that wasn’t a friendly inquiry? At best, a spontaneous invitation for a brief romantic encounter, but nothing that warranted future flowers or tenderness.
Had they landed in Chicago as originally planned, he could have offered to show her the sights–but then, they would never have met under those circumstances. He would have caught his flight to Ireland, she would have disappeared in a crowd of brief visitors to the city. It occurred to him that he had never thought to ask her why she was visiting Chicago, nor where she was visiting from. She might have been impressed to know that he was from there, although he was hardly capable of recommending restaurants or pointing out a good place for a cup of tea. Even in the most carefully constructed fantasy, he couldn’t create an outcome in which the two of them crossed paths as more than brief fellow passengers.
He took a sip from the chilled drink, then let his gaze fall towards into the blackness outside the plane. For once, he was thinking neither of the hotel menu, nor of the dilemma of his hero stranded in battle in the fields of Scotland.