Loon

She closes her office door, picks up the phone and calls Leo. She listens to the ringing on the line and glances over at the page from Sleepless Nights tacked to the wall with Leo’s name etched into it. The coincidence strikes her—how Leo wrote his name, all those years ago, on the page about going to Amsterdam, and how she was thinking of Amsterdam and the lovers, now, because of the postcard, at home, tacked to her wall.

 

Bell? comes his voice.

Hi, Loon, she says, feeling suddenly incapable of communicating verbally.

I need help, she blurts.

In trouble already? It’s barely lunch, girl.

I’m on a break, she says.

Oh, he says. I see. Wolf or woodsman?

Woodsman.

The one?

The same.

Oh, Bell, he says, sighing.

I know.

Tough love or shoulder to cry on?

Let me have it, please.

Gladly, he says, clearing his throat. Men are simple, Bell. Especially swarthy young woodsmen. He wants to know that you need him. He’ll stay out there in the trees toiling away till you call him to come running with his hatchet.

Won’t that be a thrill, she says.

I’m a little jealous, I admit, he replies.

What fairy tale are we in, anyway?

Doesn’t matter.

Of course it matters. Anyway, I was thinking of asking him to the party tonight.

Yes. Do it.

Are you bringing someone?

Mm, he hesitates. There may be a potential fellow there. Little Red Riding Hood?

More like Little Blue Vintage Coat. How should I ask him? Like I know it’s a date, or more casual, like it’s just a thing we could do, as two friendly coworkers? I hate this part. I’m so bad at this part.

Muster up your courage, march on over there, and ask him like you just tromped through the thorny brambles to find him.

You’re clever, but really.

Listen to me.

I listen. I’m listening.

You’ve been here before, Bell. Remember the stories you told me about wandering in the woods when you were a little girl? It scared the crap out of you, but you went out there all alone, knee-high to a bunny rabbit, and picked berries and climbed trees and found bird nests and came home all bug-bitten and mossy. And you loved every minute of it. It made you our beautiful Arctic Bell, impervious to cold and feared by mosquitoes. Aren’t you glad you didn’t stay by grandma’s side, darning socks and baking gingerbread?

Who darns socks?

Girls nobody tells stories about.