The Quarter

Arthur stared at himself in the mirror, amazed that his leather jacket still fit. Residue of the years streaked caramel strands in the deep clay color. His fingers pinched the patinated bronze zipper. It slid just as smoothly as it had the day he had bought it. He looked on, reading the lines in his face, stories written in his wrinkles, and a gray, thinning scalp. His breath fogged the mirror, shoulders slumped. An ache in his chest bid him, urged him to reconsider. Arthur shook his head and waved his hand at the thoughts that swarmed like gnats. 

“No, no. It’s alright,” he said, as he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. Lint tangled around his stiff fingers, catching in his fingernails. The man in the mirror stared at him, residual hair slicked to the side, glistening. His heart spoke again. Through stolen breath. A flitted rhythm tapping within his ribs. Arthur’s head shook. 

It felt smooth, like river stone, as it drank the warmth from his hand. He turned his eyes to his palm, looking at the token of a lifetime. Washington’s face, now no more than a shiny blob, Arthur noted just how heavy the quarter was. It had to be, afterall, with the amount of memories it contained. More than thoughts and feelings. Yes, memories had weight, substance. As a stone remembers the rain, and heat, and snow, so this quarter murmured. It whispered of wide smiles, lipstick, and the sweet scent of lilac perfume and sunbaked sand. It spoke of how a thousand words could be contained in the curl of his fingers. Upon its slick, worn edges, it sang a name. 

Naomi.

Arthur’s smile lied to him. It quivered the longer he tried to hold it. His eyes grew slick, and the scent of fresh cut grass tickled his nostrils. He was there, suddenly, within the quarter. Back when it was shiny and distinct. It jingled with its brothers in his pocket as his heart fluttered with a different pain. Excitement. 

God, her walk, a warm breeze under a starlit sky. He had watched her, coming down the paved stones to the street, her smile a gospel of love itself. He leaned back against a candy apple door, arms crossed across his new button-down shirt. His hair was brown, then, thick as a horse’s mane, and his teeth had not yet known the years of coffee and cigarettes. 

“You look beautiful,” He had said, and she, Naomi, had given him a playful smirk over the gentle curve of her shoulder. He got the door for her, watching her slide in no harsher than a dove. 

The quarter lilted a tune.  A chorus of long roads under a beating sun. His foot pressed the accelerator, making wine with gasoline and a cavalier grin. She watched him, his smile more exciting than anything a desert road at one-hundred miles an hour had to offer. The dice dangled, his jacket was crisp, a blank page for the stories they would yet live. 

Arthur had never danced before, well he hadn't danced with a woman. The roadhouse had been dark inside. The sunlight peeked in through its tinted windows, hands and nose squashed against the glass as it watched two souls intermingle. He held her, fingers intermixed, hand on the silk curve of her hip. Elvis spilled his heart out of the jukebox speakers. They twirled, threading through the smell of beer and cigarettes, his eyes on hers as he felt the tug of her rosebud lips. A lure no man could resist, and so the quarter reminded him. 

"Another tune, Mr. Presley," he had said, comforted by the drumroll clink of another quarter falling through the slot. Naomi had giggled at that, arms open, eager for yet another dance. They pressed together. The music started. Arthur's lips mouthed I can't help falling in love with you, as he drank in her warm smile. 

As the music ended, something caught his eye. A machine sat in the corner, bleeding crimson light on its stained wood and gold trim. Gaudy letters blistered the air. 

Love Tester, it screamed. 

He nudged his head. Her eyes narrowed. Curiosity won out and they stood before it, quarter-- his last quarter-- pinched between his fingers. The dark hall of the coin slot waited. Arthur's heart had forgotten how to beat properly. Her hand stayed his, a touch like butterfly wings but warm as sun rays. She shook her head. 

"No?" Arthur had said. 

"No. I already know."

And so, the quarter had returned to his jacket pocket, and there it would stay. Every date, dance, and countless kiss, the quarter witnessed and remembered. 

There, in front of his mirror, Arthur listened as the coin told him their stories. It whispered of picnics on warm park grass, of her in glowing white, crimson smile behind a spider silk veil. It screamed with the memories of their son pressed in his arms, the hole that had been torn in his soul. As with everything, life and death is often like the fickle spin of a coin. 

He rubbed the quarter, remembering the years after. The countless nights in front of the park fountain. Had he thrown it in, would his wish have been granted? He had always wondered, but was never brave enough to try. And so, he held on to it, worn smooth as glass through his pain and tears. 

The clock ticked on, tapping as if to say, make up your mind. Arthur let out another long breath, placing the quarter back in his pocket, he nodded. 

"I am sorry, Mary," he said. Her breath hitched through the phone. He heard her swallow. "You're a lovely person, but I just can't. I.. I'm not ready." Though hurt, she understood. He hung up the phone, receiver as heavy as his heart, and left for the park. Before the fountain, he thumbed the quarter as loneliness pressed upon his shoulders. The coin spoke again, in her rose petal words.

"No?" he said.

"No," the quarter whispered.