The Green Paper

She was too busy rushing to catch the bus to pay any mind to the wind that seemed to carry leaves, bits of candy wrappers, and an assortment of potpourri.

Her heels clicked on the well-walked sidewalk, and she held onto her purse with a vengeance.

“Ach,” she cried out to the sudden shift of wind, which blew a chunk of newspaper onto her coat. 

She pushed it off, but behind it, a stray light green piece still clung to her.

It got shoved into her pocket to be forgotten as she boarded the bus and found a seat near the front.

Later that evening, the wind still scoured everything, and she was buttoned to the top, her coat collar raised to keep her neck warm.

She stood at the bus stop with four other people and, once on the bus, saw there were no seats toward the front, so with a sigh of defeat, she sat in the middle, opened her coat, and looked out the window as the bus pulled away.

It would be good to be in her apartment, take her shoes off, eat the last huge salad she made last night, and —.

That was the problem.

There was nothing after that.

Unthinkingly, her right hand dived into her pocket, and she touched — what?

She drew out the green fragment of paper that she — why did she— dropped into that pocket that morning.

Upon closer inspection, it looked as though it had been torn from a larger piece, and as she spread it open, it read —it was only about four by six—- words — in red ink, ‘I’ll be —  Howard House tomo— yours — Bo—’

Now, there was a mystery, if ever there was one!

And she adored mysteries!

She read with a voraciousness that stunned her friend Margie.

Hmm, she thought as the bus jerked to a halt, and she realized it was her getting off point.

Afraid to lose this precious piece of interest, she set it back into her pocket, stepped off the bus, walked the fourteen steps— she had counted them long ago — into the lobby, up the elevator, and keyed open her door.

Once inside, the automatic part of her brain kicked in, and the shoes came off, the coat hung in the closet, and she walked to the kitchen.

But then, she stopped — midway — and turned.

She emptied the pocket, and as she held the green paper in her hand, she sat on the sofa, her feet curled under her.

So let’s see, as she unthinkingly tapped a finger on her front teeth, a habit she had had since her braces had gone years ago.

The name Howard House was all too familiar.

She had used it as a calming point between her work and apartment.

A glass of white wine and a few moments quiet.

She shifted and managed to push her laptop toward her without getting off the sofa.

The light aqua sheers she had only hung last week billowed at the sudden gust of wind.

What had the wind brought?

It may have been a month ago when she sat down at the bar next to a man, ordered a glass of white wine, and a discussion began between the two of them.

She had excused herself in order to go to the ladies' room with the thought that this man and she might —.

Not one to rush into anything, and just like the wind she had blown free so far, to let nothing entangle her.

His relaxed laugh and his anxious finger-stroking of his curly hair were two things she thought were so cute.

On her return, she discovered that the man had vanished.

She didn't want to bother the bartender, who was now busy at the opposite end of the bar.

they had not exchanged phone numbers, and all she knew was his first name — Bob

No!

Her heart raced as her thoughts turned to—.

No, no!

She was reading too much into this—this little slip of paper.

Tomorrow was Saturday, and what with laundry and food shopping she couldn’t get away until the evening.

She was determined to find out more, and with the wind never letting up, she stood at the bus stop.

At first, she held the paper in one gloved hand, but she feared a current would sweep it away.

Why she held this so tightly, she didn’t know.

She planted it with care in her coat pocket, and with a determination that bordered on stupid, she took the bus and was let off two doors from Howard House.

There was nothing outstanding about the interior. 

It looked like any other American eatery that had been around for years.

And it had!

But it wasn’t the restaurant her sneakers took her to — it was the bar.

A brass foot rail ran along the bottom and surrounded the dark wood counter.

The top showed its years by the rings of long-gone glasses of liquor that had dribbled over the rims.

It was her luck that the same bulked-up bartender that had tended to them was there, and it was just beginning to get crowded.

But the man didn’t seem to be busy right at this moment so she took out the paper and approached him.

He looked up, stopped cleaning, smiled at knowing her, and said, “Surprised to see you here. White wine?”

She took out the paper and laid it on the surface, which he had just wiped.

He stared momentarily at the torn piece and produced a pad from under — the same coloration. 

His exclamations were —wow— good gosh— what a coincidence!

At first, she was irritated because he wasn’t forthcoming with any information— other than the colors were the same.

He had a clear recollection of that evening due to the fact that he was familiar with both of them.

He took pleasure in that they had, by chance, found themselves seated next to one another.

He observed their interactions and could see that they were getting along well.

The bartender, who finally introduced himself as Georgie, knew Bob from other visits and was informed that his mother was sickly.

Bob visited her frequently and provided her with anything she required.

That evening, though, he had been delayed because the buses were running late and decided to stop first for a drink.

Georgie remembered how he complained bitterly that he couldn’t remember wind this strong other than hurricanes.

After she had gone to the bathroom, his phone rang.

He looked worried, and when he hung up he asked Georgie for something to write on. 

He wrote something, tore the paper off the pad, and informed Georgie that he was to give it to the young lady he had been talking to.

Georgie hung his head and admitted that he had gotten distracted, and when he went back to pick it up, it was gone.

She thanked him and, disappointed, left and was startled to feel that wind again pushing, pulling at her.

Oh!

She forgot the note!

It was a piece of paper that no longer held any significance, so why did she need to turn around and face the gusts head-on?

She naively recalled it was Saturday night, and naturally, the venue was bustling with people. 

With patience and purposefulness, she gained a space at the bar.

And his voice— his voice saying hello.

She didn’t need that paper and couldn’t have cared if a hurricane was brewing outside or not.