“Okay, let me think.” I rifle through my brain and try to think of something I can tell a complete stranger. One who I don’t want to hate me. “Okay, I have one.”
“I’m ready.” She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweater and settles back, her eyes still on me.
“One time, my sister made a beautiful cake for my grandmother’s birthday. Like stunning, she worked on it for months, practicing and testing out recipes. It had tiers and perfect little sugar figurines and real berries she’d picked herself. Anyway, I was coming to visit from London after a pretty long night… let’s say, celebrating. And when I came home, I went into the fridge for a teeny, tiny bite to eat and…”
“Oh my god, please don’t say it.”
“Hey, you wanted to hear it. Yes, I ate the cake. Like… more cake than a human should ever, EVER consume in one sitting. And not like, just the top tier and left the bottom intact for a grand reveal at the party later. No, I went full face first diving in cake mode.”
She covers her ears and shakes her head, like she’s trying to forget she heard it. “This is worse than murder. So, what happened?”
“I did what any self-respecting older brother and loving grandson would do.”
“Confess and then go out and replace the cake?”
“Hell no, this is something no one else knows, remember? No, I propped the fridge door open, let the dog in and went to bed.”
“Oh no.”
“Yup, I’m pretty sure it was my sister’s scream that woke me up the next day,” I try to bite back the grin, remembering my sister Anca’s screech and me just pulling the pillow over my head and falling back to sleep.
“Did they suspect you?”
“I’m sure my sister did. She gave me daggers all day. My grandma was just happy to see me and my too good-looking face. The dog was literally in the doghouse for a while though.”
“You’re Satan,” she tells me, jaw dropped.
“I don’t deny it,” I shrug, and then unsuccessfully swallow another chuckle.
“You’re not supposed to laugh at that!”
“I’m sorry! My sister was soooo mad. It was torture trying to pretend I didn’t know what they were talking about.” I wait until I can keep a straight face again before I say, “Okay, now your turn.”
“What?” she asks, eyebrows shooting up. “”That wasn’t the deal. Nuh uh!” Her face is so expressive, I can’t stop looking at it. I suddenly have the urge to take her through the gamut of emotions and just watch them play out on her face. Happiness, surprise, sadness, shock… arousal, desire, lust… especially those last three. I imagine she wouldn’t hold back on showing just how she was feeling if someone evoked those feelings in her.
I clear my throat, and try to clear my brain of the images popping up in my head uninvited. “Um, it is the deal now. Tell me a secret.”
“I don’t have anything, I’m boring. No secrets.” She stares straight ahead, her mouth clamped shut.
“You just told me that nobody tells everybody everything. Your exact words.”
“Shit. Stupid me.” She taps her temple and then tilts her chin, leaning her head on one hand, thinking. “Okay, it’s not very interesting though.”
I have the urge to tell her that she could recite the terms and conditions for signing up for a phone contract and I’d find it fascinating. But I have the good sense not to. So I just wave my hand, encouraging her to share.
“I wish I lived in Australia for one very silly reason,” she blurts out.
“Koalas? Kangaroo? The desire to marry Crocodile Dundee junior?” I throw out the wild guesses.
“No, but now I have two reasons. No, it’s because I love that they call fall ‘autumn.'”
“Um. Okaaayyyyy, but you can do that here, I’ve heard it.”
“But not ALL the time. I mean, I would take every opportunity I had to say ‘autumn.'” She sighs. And repeats the word under her breath. “‘Autumn.’ I mean it sounds so atmospheric and romantic and of cool afternoon drives through the mountains and spicy pumpkin soup with melting buttered toast on the couch at night. You say ‘autumn’ and you hear French music in the background, which is where the word ‘autumn’ comes from ‘automne.’ You smell the scent of cinnamon in an apple pie baking knowing there’s freshly whipped cream in the fridge, like real whipped cream, not that stuff out of a spray can and a hot fire crackling and a bodice ripping romance novel waiting when you come in from a long walk around a still lake, crunching red and orange and yellow maple leaves under your feet.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of pressure for a little word,” I tease her, but I’m fast falling for the undeniable charm of this woman. Such passion over something as simple as a word. I feel the same way about a music scale; the perfect note, the right tempo or expression for a song.
She pulls her knees in and lays her chin on them, looking out into the night. “That’s the way I like it. Word shouldn’t just be used willy-nilly. Why use ‘fall’ when you can convey all those other things with ‘autumn.’ I mean, it’s built into the word, ‘awe-tum,’ like awesome.” She grins as if she’s just thought of that. “I hear ‘fall’ and I want to check my body for scrapes. Where’s the allure in ‘fall?'” She frowns as if angry at the word for even existing, for not carrying its weight.
She stops and wraps her arms around her legs, laying her cheek against her knee and looks over at me. “Sorry, was I rambling?”
“If I say no, will you keep talking?”
“I think I’m out of autumn things,” she shrugs, and I can tell a thousand more are flooding her brain right now. I want to hear each and every one.
“How ’bout I trade you for another one of mine,” I offer her. Any excuse to get her to open up more to me.
“Is it juicy?” Her eyes sparkle at the prospect.
“Like a lemonade stand on the first day of summer.”