Frozen in Time

He spotted her across the room, surprised by her presence, surprised she was standing there, taking up residence near the piano–his piano–in his apartment, as the live band played one of his requests. Peter Lancaster hadn’t laid eyes on Vivian Morello in four years, two months, six days, seven hours, and twelve minutes. He hadn’t been counting, but as the narrator of this short tale, I thought it important to include, for specificity’s sake.

Still staring in disbelief, Peter was unsure what to think, what to feel, how to proceed. The night had only just begun. Guests were still arriving. Champagne was still being poured. Dinner was still being prepared.

And he was the host of the party. He couldn’t leave, no matter how convincing one of his excuses could be. It was inevitable.

As the thought sent goosebumps up and down his arms, the inevitable manifested itself. A waiter just behind Peter tripped over the living room rug, spilling the contents of his serving tray (which wasn’t more than a few appetizers, thankfully) onto the hardwood. Vivian, as well as every other guest, was pulled away from the small talk to see what happened. Her eyes didn’t even make it to the floor to inspect the mess.

She was frozen. Frozen in place, frozen in time.

Vivian’s gaze was locked onto Peter’s face, shock and sadness coursing through her veins like ice water. She wanted to run but she also wanted to stay. She wanted to find out who Peter was after all these years, what he’d do with her in the room. She wondered if he would walk toward her or away; say something or stay silent; smile politely or not at all. She wanted to stay so that she would know whether she was right about him or not. One thing, however, Vivian knew for sure–her heart was racing and the hand that held her champagne glass was beginning to tremble. Silence surrounded her, even as the rest of the guests continued in their laughter and pleasantries.

She noticed how still Peter was, and how he stared back at her, his thoughts obviously occupied and his heart’s pace speeding along like hers. What captivated him? What was he contemplating, if anything at all?

In the midst of the mystery, Vivian knew what captivated her thoughts. It had been playing in the back of her mind for the last four years, two months, six days, seven hours, and twelve minutes. The dinner conversation that resulted in her leaving halfway through the second course. And never returning.

Now, as narrator, I could define the course of Vivian and Peter’s relationship by two conversations, one being their first and the other being their second to last (the one Vivian was meditating on in that very moment). Why the second to last, you may ask? Well, you’ll find out soon enough.

As Vivian remained frozen, stewing in the dialogue of so long ago, Peter had been pulled away from what lay before him by his very first encounter with the girl with emeralds for eyes.

Much like this night, he saw her from afar. She was admiring a Monet painting as the people around her meandered like little mice from one section of the gallery to the next. Vivian stood there, purse clutched in one hand while the other was playing with the string of pearls around her neck. Peter was mesmerized, as he often was with Vivian after this evening. Before he could chicken out, he walked right up to her, stood beside her, and tried to see the painting through her eyes.

“What do you see that everyone else doesn’t?” Peter asked as nonchalantly as he could, but admiration seeped through in spite of his efforts. He knew he would hang on her every word, no matter what she said.

Vivian swiveled on her heel to look at him, as if pulled out of a dream by the sound of his voice.

“What? Oh…um…” she began, finding her words, then turned her attention back to the painting. “The colors that Monet chose, with the style of his strokes…it’s just fairy-like. Makes you feel like a child and an old soul at the same time. It’s so innocent, yet so rich. One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, ever experienced.” Vivian looked back at the stranger so close to her, her eyes wide with wonderment. Though, in that instant, he didn’t seem like a stranger at all.

“You got all that from this painting?” Peter took a step forward to get a closer look at the art piece. Maybe he missed something. It was surely beautiful, with its whites and purples and blues all mixed together to make up the flowers and the pond. The label below the painting reads, Garden at Giverny. Fairy-like? Maybe. Innocent yet rich? Yes, indeed. But what did he feel? Not much at all, if he was being honest with himself. It was safe to say, and he already knew this, that art wasn’t his fancy, it didn’t make him whole. It peaked moderate interest at best. Music was what resonated with him most. But he wasn’t going to bare his soul in an art gallery, even if it was half empty.

“Well, what do you get out of it?” Vivian questioned, curiosity lifting her brows.

“A conversation with you…” He smiled candidly at her; she smiled back. “I’m Peter by the way.” Extending his hand, he tried not to look nervous.

“Vivian,” The girl introduced herself, an elegant charm to her voice.

The handshake was like a hug to them, carrying a familiarity with it that both Peter and Vivian found bizarre, but not bad or unsettling. Obviously not, because this handshake led to dinner after the gallery’s closing. This dinner then led to another dinner, which led to yet another, and so on. For nearly eight months, Vivian and Peter were together, and not just together, but inseparable. The most fitting word a person could use would be soulmates. It was around week four that they said ‘I love you,’ and month three that they seriously discussed eloping, and they almost did it, if it wasn’t for their friends making a fuss about a traditional ceremony and the timing of it all. So, in their dreaming and in their planning, the two lovers danced through the mundane that had become romantic. They visited art galleries on the weekends and jazz clubs on Friday nights. Walks in the park, laughter over home cooked meals, heart-to-hearts on the subway. For nearly eight months, Peter and Vivian felt like they were floating.

But then the drop came.

In the course of a week, Vivian’s life took a nosedive. She lost her job due to overstaffing; a pipe broke in her downstairs bathroom, flooding the entire first floor of her home (leaving her to move in with her sister); she got into a fenderbender on the highway; her best friend got married and moved to Spain; and on Saturday night, she received word that her grandfather, the one who blazed the trail for her love of art, had passed away. In the course of a week, Vivian’s life took a nosedive, and she feared she would never reach the surface again.

Peter was there, however, for all of it, yet there was a distance growing between them. He held Vivian in her tears and frustration, but with each sob, there was an echo and a coldness. As the weeks went by, he noticed that she wouldn’t hold his hand nearly as long when they walked in the park, or would return his gaze as they dined at their favorite restaurant. Peter made it a point to assure and reassure Vivian that he was there for her, that he loved her and wanted to marry her. That he would make their lives sweet in spite of hardship. He proposed, officially, in the first week of October, and Vivian seemed happy. She even showed off her ring, to anyone who would look, at the supermarket. He felt relieved at the sight of her smile and the warmth in her voice as she spoke about what kind of wedding dress she always dreamed of wearing.

It was over dinner on November the 7th that the sweetness of their lives turned bitter. It happened one month before their wedding day, exactly. As narrator, I will skip the fluff of the evening and get right down to it–the defining moment, the second to last conversation that resurrected once again in the mind of Vivian at the sight of her long lost love.

She and Peter both ordered steak for their first course and an herbed souffle for their second. Peter’s came out first. Vivian’s came out next, but it was not an herbed souffle, rather the chef’s envied mushroom soup. It seems trivial, but to Vivian, it was the very last thing she needed. And it wasn’t so much that the wrong meal was delivered, but that for the first time, Peter didn’t seem to notice the mistake. He carried on with his own meal, preoccupied with his own thoughts, displaying how Vivian perceived his life to be in full. Just carrying on, untouched, unbothered.

To her, what encircled Peter was not misfortune or disappointment, but ease and color. He carried on, while she remained still, shellshocked by every encumbrance and grief that sideswiped her rather viciously. Vivian felt Murphy’s Law only applied to her, and it was being poured out on top of her like sulfur and vinegar.

She waited, though.

Waited to see if Peter would notice the soup, notice that tears were spilling from her eyes; notice that everything was falling apart, notice that he was carrying on without her, in spite of their togetherness.

“What do you say we check out that new music store that just opened? Maybe we could go this weekend, since I’m off.” Peter suggested, mid-chew, eyes locked on his plate.

“I don’t want to…” Vivian answered softly, quickly wiping a tear from her chin.

“But you’re the one who pointed it out last we–”

“I said I don’t want to, Peter!” Vivian banged her hand against the table, sending a hush across the entire restaurant floor. Thankfully, they were seated in the back corner, but still, sound travels.

“Viv…what’s the matter?” Peter reached over for her hand, his voice lowered with concern.

Vivian looked up, her bottom lip quivering. “I need to leave.”

“What?”

“I need to…I need to lea-” Vivian stood to her feet, her hand still in Peter’s.

Peter rose swiftly, pulling Vivian toward him. “Wait, hold on…baby, what’s wrong? You were fine when we got here.”

“Fine?” Vivian spat the word out in a shout, yanking her hand away. “How am I fine? How is anything from the last two months fine? I am not fine, Peter! I am barely hanging on and you don’t see it! My life has been completely turned upside down! Nearly everything has been stripped away from me, and I don’t know who I am anymore!” Vivian buried her face in her hands, shaking.

“I don’t know how to fix this.” She added in a whisper, then she grabbed at her own chest, almost violently, as if she were trying to get a hold of her own heart. “I’ve never felt so irreparable…I-I-I can’t undo it, any of it…can’t stop my grandfather from dying, my home from flooding, my boss from being incompetent…” Vivian froze, then snapped around, eyes boring painfully into Peter’s. “And you’re just carrying on, Peter. I don’t know how you do it, and I don’t know whether to admire or hate you for it.”

Peter’s eyes bore back, pained tears of his own trickling out. “I wish…I wish I could fix it all for you, Vivian, I really do. I want to. I thought I was. I thought…” Peter grew silent, not knowing what else to say. Slipping his eyes shut, he tried to regain his composure. But when he opened them back up, Vivian was gone.

And now, here she was again, a ghost materializing in his living room.

What should he do?

Everything that came to mind seemed unworthy or insensitive. Peter wanted desperately to just glide over and pull Vivian into his arms, but he also wanted to simply walk away, leaving the whole thing alone. Her words still pierced deep hurt into him, but he knew she was injured, too, by his actions, no matter how well-intentioned they may have been at the time. Still, he didn’t understand what he could have done, and he hated the feeling. Maybe there was nothing sufficient, in the end, that could have changed things for the better. Maybe that was the honest truth. There was nothing he could have done or said that would have consoled or mended Vivian’s heart, that would have carried her up from the bottom. Or, maybe, it wasn’t the action or lack there of, after all. Maybe it was the person behind it. Maybe Vivian needed someone that wasn’t Peter…to hold her hand, to hold her heart, to stand beside her in a half empty gallery, mesmerized by a fairy-like Monet, understanding its gravity.

Maybe she already had him.

Peter was lost in wondering about these things when Vivian made across the room, closing the space between them. Tears glistened in her eyes as she held her head high, facing him with all the strength she could muster.

Holding out her hand, she uttered the beginnings of their very last conversation. “I’m Vivian…and I know it may seem very forward of me, but there’s an art gallery open late tonight, featuring the very best of Jackson Pollock. Would you be interested in joining me? Maybe we can grab dinner afterwards.”

Peter peered down at her, his heart breaking at the desperation and sorrow in those once cherished emerald eyes. Not being able to help himself, he clicked his tongue and asked, “What do I get out of it?”

Vivian’s mouth coiled up in a smile of relief. “A conversation…” She answered. “An explanation…” she went on, “...an apology…and a proper goodbye.”

“I would have said yes to just a conversation.”

Choking back a sob, Vivian collapsed into Peter’s chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

Peter returned her embrace, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

As the strangers and friends around them enjoyed their appetizers and champagne, Peter and Vivian made for the door, disappearing undetected, like the ghosts they were.

As the narrator, I’m big into poetic and unfinished endings, so…

THE END