Ruby

           Night falls early tonight and I relate to mother natures need for rest. The office stands over me as I make my ten hour escape from it. What an eyesore. Ugly, though reflective, it is one of many buildings in the city that are yet to enjoy the pleasure of refurbishment, if ever. It soars skyward and breaks through the gloomy clouds, sticking out like a block of marble waiting to be chiselled to beauty.

           The street is always quiet at this hour, save for a few bodies dotted around here and there; In front of me is the woman who lives in the apartment beside Lydia’s bakery, walking her two Pomeranians. An elderly man who owns a convenience store in the city rushes down the pavement opposite to us and shields his head from the rain with a rucksack. I suddenly become aware of the rain and am already half-soaked by the time I clutch my umbrella. Whatever, I’m already wet. Part of me wishes to let the rain engulf me, to let it wash away the thought of you. How silly.

 My body grows heavier with each step, its only fuel is the thought of Lydia’s freshly baked pastries. She bought her bakery over from Mrs. Baxter a few months ago, who kept the bakery thriving as a hotspot for years, now time has caught up with her and she decided to pass the torch. The bakery is on the corner just short of five minutes from the office, Lydia awaits me each night, welcoming me as her final customer – I never have time to eat at work. My shoes slap against the cracked, dampened pavement and my nose picks up hints of cinnamon and vanilla as I reach the perfectly carved wooden doors of the bakery, a beautiful building that contrasts its miserable peers. Two marble columns mark the entrance and above it is a classic red and white striped awning that spans the entire building. The large glass windows showcase a warm selection of cakes and pastries, a temptation that no passer-by can resist.

           A bell sounds as I push through the door and the bakery coats me in warmth, I shake away the excess rain from myself before fully stepping in. Lydias head peaks up from below the counter and she brings herself to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron before removing it and pulling me into a warm embrace.

‘Try baking yourself today, Lydia?’ I tease. My eyes point to her hair and she playfully pushes me away as she shakes her head backwards, sending particles of flour flying from her chestnut coils. She retreats back behind the counter and glances quickly at the oven, then to me.

‘Sorry Ruben, busy day. Have a seat, be ready in a second.’  

I slide out a chair and tense at the abhorrent sound of the floor tiles grating the legs. By the time I remove my jacket and sink into the chair, Lydia is setting a plate down in front of me. I close my eyes and appreciate the aroma brought by the steaming croissant topped with honey and berries. I push the opposing chair outwards with my foot and Lydia fills the space.

‘Well then, how was your day?’ She sighs, indicating a demanding day of work, although her smile still looks as wide as it did this morning when I was passing by. She always has something to smile about, I envy that about her.

‘My day was good, Lydia.’ I raise a spoonful to my mouth and avoid eye contact, hoping she won’t detect the falseness in my tone. Burdening Lydia with the adversities of my life feels like an assault on her positivity and so I prefer to omit certain feelings from our conversations. She dismisses my poor reply and begins to tell me how her day unfolded. There was a woman who came in and asked for fourteen baguettes, I try and feign attentiveness. A man smashed something, a glass maybe. Not even my food eases my lethargy and eventually I lose grip of her words, something about a clogged sink. My face almost lands in my croissant, until I hear it:

‘Are you listening, Ruby?’

Those two syllables ring through my ears. Ru-by. My head jolts upwards at Lydia, she has never called me that. My chest tightens and a flow of memories begin to run through me like water of a dam finally breaking through the cracks.

‘Ruby! Look!’ I lowered my book, welcoming you and the throbbing sun into my eyes, both shining as bright as the other. The smell of salt hung thick in the air and I sought calmness in the gentle crashing of the waves. The Gulls spanned their wings, gliding across the clear sky as I examined your elegance, how your chest was carved out with muscle, the way your tendons appeared when you leaped from one leg to the other, how smoothly and effortlessly you moved. I watched as you flipped over repeatedly on the sand, landing perfectly on your feet each time. I could not resist the impressed expression forming on my face, and so I raised my book to conceal it.

‘And at what age does one stop demanding an audience for everything he does?’ I questioned with an amusing grin, you pouted at me and pondered for a moment.

 ‘Eighteen!’

‘Eighteen?’

‘Yes!’

‘Why Eighteen?’

You closed the distance between us and I let out a grunt as you dropped yourself onto me,

‘Because that gives me one final year to keep demanding an audience.’

I held your eyes for a moment, bold and inviting, my face went hot and I gripped a handful of sand, smudging it in your face to break the tension. You shook your head and spat the sand from your mouth, grinding the remaining grains on your teeth. I clocked your hand reaching for a pile of sand and I bolted up, sprinting across the beach.

‘Get back here!’ You demanded.

‘Am I too fast for you, Enzo?’ I called back at you. We both knew that I was not too fast, my feet were of little luck against yours. You dived for me and sent both of us tumbling into the water, our limbs tangled and my core flushed with heat from the feeling of your skin against mine.

           Afterwards, we settled ourselves at the beach bar and quenched our thirst with two iced glasses of lemonade. Every Saturday we did this, and every Saturday felt just as electric as the last. You pleased and thanked the young girl working the bar, simple manners that held more charm coming from your beaming smile. The ocean was still in sight and we positioned our chairs beside each other, watching the sky bleed crimson on the horizon as the sun descended. We rested our feet on the dark oak table, then you spoke:

‘Sometimes,’ you began, seemingly unsure of yourself,

‘sometimes I wish I could stop time, so we could stay like this, forever.’

Your eyes turned to mine, a pool of honey that spoke what words could not. My neck ran hot and my body stiffened as you reached for me. I closed my eyes and felt our lips connect, a yearning inside me had settled, we breathed each other in and suddenly, just for a moment, everything else was silenced. We retracted from the kiss and already my lips felt bare, the sun was almost completely submerged below the horizon now and we watched its final dance of light, your head resting on my shoulder. An overwhelming feeling of emotion pressed on me and I forced back tears, praying to god or the universe or to whatever may be out there, to let me keep you with me forever.

           Days faded into months, then into a year, then two. We didn’t go to the beach as often as we used to, you worked most weekends at a restaurant, I had my studies. Business wasn’t a field I was particularly interested in, but my parents encouraged me to pursue it. You won’t ever have to struggle, Ruben. That’s what they said. Women want a man who can provide. Women. My father would sip the word like a threat.

Some days we were lucky and could free ourselves from the world. We ran the span of the beach, chasing each other and throwing handfuls of sand back and forth, a break from reality. Our iced lemonades aged into iced lemonades with vodka and we laughed at how your face flushed red after drinking them. The radio spoke of conflict between our country and another, I did not pay attention to it, there was almost always some sort of political conflict and it was impossible to pay attention to anything else in your presence. I rested my head on the table and took you in, you looked older, mature. Your jaw was lined with stubble and your muscles were bulkier and more defined. You noticed my gaze and sighed a chuckle, messing my deep brown hair with your hand.

‘What?’ you asked.

‘Nothing.’ I smiled. You set your glass down on the table and rose from your chair.

‘Come with me.’ I took your hand, accepting its invitation, and followed you downwards to the beach.

The sun was at rest and a waning moon radiated over us. Millions of stars stretched across the endless sky and we sank ourselves into the sand, pointing out the ones that shone the brightest. That one! I would say, and I would wait for you to turn to me and see my finger pointing back at you. the constellations entertained us for hours and my eyes began to tire, I buried myself into you, craving every part of your being.

‘The winds are getting strong, we better get home before the sea swallows us.’ You were joking, but now, looking back, I wish it did swallow us, holding us in that moment forever.

           Winter marked its presence with the thick white layers of snow that accumulated on cars and roofs. I would wake to the sound of my father cursing at the frost on his windshield that had no intention of leaving. Conflicts escalated and the threat of war hung over us like a fog that wouldn’t clear. I made my mother turn the radio off when it became the topic of discussion, it reduced me to a state of nausea. I needed a distraction and you proved most effective, I took myself downtown and waited for you to get off of work. I contemplated the hundreds of footsteps in the snow, moving in all directions. It made me think about all the people walked these streets, people whose lives would be uprooted if war occurred. I shook the dooming thoughts from my mind and continued walking.

I turned the corner and you were already making your way up the street, wearing a thick, black coat and a scarf to hide the uniform you hated so much. Your eyes squinted to distinguish me within the heavy snow and we both transitioned into a light jog, one reaching the other and exchanging an embrace. The warmth you brought me could have melted the frost on my fathers windshield three times over.

           Baxters bakery welcomed us into its heat and walking through its doors felt like entering a whole other world. The air was rich with coffee, voices laughed and sang stories about their children and careers and anything that came to mind. The threat of danger felt so out of reach there.

We found ourselves a table in the back corner of the bakery and Mrs Baxter came to greet us.

‘Hello boys, what are we feeling tonight?’ She gave you the kind of look a mother has when looking at her child, all love and joy.

‘Hi, Mrs Baxter. It’s nice to see you. We’ll take two cappuccinos, thank you.’ I flashed her a smile and she waddled from our table, repeating our order out loud. Two cappuccinos.

I turned to you, intending to ask you about your day, but I paused at the troubled look on your face. You hunched into yourself, picking at the skin of your nails, like something was pressing heavy on your mind. It crossed my mind back at the restaurant that you seemed off, but I dismissed it as stress from work.

‘What’s wrong?’ I pleaded. You looked up at me, your face a picture of anguish.

‘My father,’ you cleared your throat, ‘my father says when the war comes, I must enlist. He says we must honour the country and fight for the cause.’

When the war comes, it was no longer a question. His father was a patriotic man and spent much of his youth in the military. My middle caved in on itself and I thought I might vomit. My world began to shatter. Our country had a large military and it was not required for men to enlist, I had never imagined this possibility until now.

‘What!? You’re not going to though, are you?’ My voice was a trembling mess and, to no avail, i tried to keep myself from crumbling.

‘I don’t think the choice is mine,’ your now ashen face was avoiding mine, unable to look into my eyes, ‘I’m Scared, Ruby.’

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that I could have said to ease the terror. I reached for your hand, cold and shaking, and held it close to me.

           The war came early in the spring, we had one final meeting before you left. Late at night, under the cover of dark, I brought myself to the beach where we had spent so many days loving each other. I found you on the sand with your chin buried in your arms, watching the harsh waves crashing against the shore. I called on you gently and you motioned for me to take a place beside you. I rested my head on your shoulder and couldn’t cease the flow of tears that escaped from me. I began to weep and you raised your hand to my face.

‘Don’t worry, everything will be okay.’ You seemed hollow, like devastation had consumed you whole. I looked into your eyes, heavy with despair.

‘Promise me you’ll come back to me’ I begged, as though it was something in your control. You did not answer, instead, you wrapped me in your arms and held me, whispering sweet melodies of reassurance until the early hours.

           You left, and I remained a shell of a human in your absence. Although, the first months were more bearable than I prophesied. The letters you wrote me every week offered some degree of ease on my straining heart. Your letters were short, but I understood why, and I was grateful to receive anything at all:

Dear Ruby,

           I hope your well. The war is moving slower than they’re letting on, we’ve came into virtually zero combat. Just training. I miss you, a lot.

      Enzo.

    After a year, the war began to escalate. We were hearing of fatalities more often and other countries began to take interest. Picking sides as though the young men fighting were pawns for them to play. Your letters reduced to once every fortnight:

Dear Ruby,

           It’s becoming dangerous on the fields. We’re in combat every week. Sorry I cant write as often. I hope everything is okay back home. Keep studying.

                                  Love, Enzo

           One year melted into two. Despite the size of our arsnel, we were losing the war and more men were dying every day. Blood began to spill in civilian areas as well due to enemy raids in our cities, it was no longer safe, anywhere. Letters from you were rare. Once a month maybe, if lucky. My heart ached and I craved you like a drug. Sometimes I’d sit alone on the beach, closing my eyes and holding myself, pretending it’s you. It was the last evening of summer when I received your final letter:

Ruby,

           It’s a struggle to keep the fight going. Every night, I dream that I am back home, warm and tightly wrapped in your arms. I miss you, I miss you so much I can hardly tolerate it. Wait for me, Ruby. Wait for me so we can watch the sun dance below the horizon again.                                                                   Enzo

           I never heard from him again after that. I can only hope his death was fast, painless. Some may say that is wishful thinking, perhaps it is. I haven’t stopped thinking about him really, fifteen years and the wound he left in me still feels raw and open. I’m unable to visit that beach again, or the restaurant where he worked. I avoided the bakery until Lydia had it refurbished, but even then I can still smell hints of coffee from that day when I visit. I think what hurts me most is that he died in vain. The war was lost and it left our country on its knees. The economy never recovered and living conditions took a nosedive. I’ve considered leaving, several times. But the guilt would be too much. I cannot leave him, cold and alone, wandering with no destination. Sometimes, on nights where sleep does not come to me easily, I can still hear him, calling on me through the winds. I tell him to come to me, to take me with him, I wonder if someday he will answer.