Ruby Red Wishes

“Life would be simpler if people behaved the way they do in books,” I lament, hiding behind my hands. This afternoon’s “meet up” turned out to be a “meet not”, and rejection letter #2 for the week greeted me when I returned home. I peel back one finger and rail at the sunny kitchen window. “The weather could be more sympathetic, too. Instead of gouging my eyes, the sky today could gush in one interminable sob.” My aunt walks over and drops my messenger bag onto my foot. “Be careful what you wish for, Ruby,” she parries tartly. “Someone might actually listen to you.” Compassion dispensed, she returns to the kitchen sink. I eyeball my bag for makeup, deodorant, and my hardback Jane Austen collection for the bus ride. “Shut the door securely when you leave,” she calls from the sink without turning around. “Last time, you let a chill in.”

Today’s audition is a long shot, but if I don’t secure this role, I’m doomed. In the last year, I’ve been dropped by two employers and one just-friend-then-maybe-now-definitely-isn’t boyfriend. I suppose I just don’t know when to quit. What should stop is the sunshine. It’s a poor juxtaposition for my mood. I transfer my bag to my other shoulder. How did Austen's Marianne Dashwood rate two glamorous drenchings in a twelve-month period? Get a grip, Ruby. There are no noble Colonel Brandons in real life, scooping up distressed Mariannes, carrying them to safety. For that matter, there aren’t any knavish Willoughbys, doing the same a few chapters earlier. Not even villains are sophisticated, anymore. I bet Willoughby at least smelled good.

Hm. Somewhere between Colonel Brandon and body odor, I’ve floundered three yards from the bus stop. Three and a half yards, technically. The math is easy (unlike securing directors’ appreciation): the concrete here was poured in three-foot squares. A sentimental fool once pressed two leaves into the drying cement, leaving the essence of a heart (probably the only one in this city). The once-heart would be looking up at me from the center of the fourth square from the curb. Except, I’m standing on it. At least it’s too hard to feel, anymore.

“Therapy.” He says, flatly.

I've been thinking through my mouth, again! He’s locking up a storefront. Or he was until an idiot stalled on the sidewalk in front of his shop. Maybe he’ll just finish and go home. Of course he doesn’t.

“Huh?” I return. Brilliant. Today’s humiliation was supposed to let up until after the audition. At least it’s starting to rain.

“I’m told most people could benefit from therapy.” He is ruthlessly polite.

My mouth is still open. Might as well push some verbiage through it. I shrug, “Why would I go to therapy? I don’t need to pay someone to tell me I’m a loser.” Dear God, why can’t I form normal phrases like, “Thanks”? I keep trying, if only on autopilot. “You’re a new lease in this strip.” Mercifully, he takes over.

“We’ve been in for thirteen weeks. Seven, if you count from opening day.” He pauses. “Seven weeks and two days, technically.”

Is he offering a lifeline? Is it my turn to say something? Is there something less damning I could try? I look over his shoulder at the window. The glass is tinted. The golden letters dance over its surface like amber set in obsidian.

LEVY A. THONE, ANTIQUE JEWELRY

I can see us both, mirrored in the inkiness. Me in my dripping parka and muted slacks. His crisp collar and sport coat, bleeding into its own reflection. Well now, if he isn’t wearing jeans. Likely the $300 kind of jeans, but who’s asking? I almost laugh with relief, but my brain is reaching into cobwebbed storage for where I’ve seen the style of writing, before. I’m left with my mouth open. Again.

“Eleventh-century.” He’s amused. I think. “The script is inspired by an eleventh-century manuscript.”

Ok, I can get on the bus, now. This audition is my last chance. His shop door is still ajar. I’ve got this far and can’t help myself. I try to peer inside. Darkness. “Would you like to step into the store?” He says. “You can survey it much more accurately with the lights on.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and leads the sheep through the gate. All the light bulbs inside are tapered and perched in candelabras and wall sconces. The brass fixtures glare disapprovingly at my soggy shoes.

“Pardon me a moment.” He disappears behind another door. Just a quick peek at the display cases, and then I’ll skip out. I start with the rings, eschewing the diamonds in favor of the marbled stones.

“You have an artist’s sensibilities. Those are the rarest in the collection.” He’s at my elbow already, holding a steaming china cup. I didn’t realize my hand was on the glass.

“Here,” he hands me the beverage. “You’ll get a more accurate fit if you warm your fingers, first.”

I take a sip and cough. Warm like lava. “Thank you, but I was just looking.”

“Of course. That’s how it usually starts, until something looks back.”

“I really appreciate your time, but…” but what? I can’t afford the mop to clean what I’ve tracked onto his floor, let alone something in a locked case? “I really need to catch the bus.”

“It left four minutes ago.” He holds out his wrist. Of course it’s an analog watch. I squint, counting the tick marks. He motions to a wing-backed chair. “You can wait in here until the deluge lets up. I’ve rarely seen one this intense since Noah managed to escape.”

At least he has a sense of humor. “You’re a great salesman, but I’m not in the market for a ring just now.”

“I don’t do the selling, not of those, anyway.” He assists me to the chair and I obediently sit. When he turns his back to unlock the case, I steal a glance at the front door. He’s still talking. “These haven’t chosen someone in close to two hundred years.” He lifts one from the velvet. The one I had been eyeing. I need to stall him before he tries to put it on my finger.

“So, Mr, um, how do you pronounce your name, again? Leh-vee? Like a tax levy?” My quip falls unnoticed. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a card. “It’s Lehv-eye,” he pronounces. My thumb follows the textured weave of the paper. “Ah, the peculiar English language,” I ramble, grateful for something to study other than his face. “So, it’s probably not th-own, either, is it?”

“It’s Th-on.” He extends his hand.

“I’m Ruby,” I offer. I thought he was still holding the ring, but all I can feel is his hand swallowing mine.

“Leh-veye A. Th-on.” The grip. “At your service.”