Real Life

The photograph of a Parisian flea market draws me in. The signature black New York Times website background gives a slick frame to the colorful kitsch on the skinny legged and weather-worn craft tables. Dome-topped, grit-covered cobblestone peeks through at the border. Unlike the pawner's perfectly squared selling surfaces, the cobbles are impossibly uneven and full of gaps. The centuries tread-upon stones battle a decades-loved cornflower colored rocking horse leaning against the larger table, propping it up for eternity in the photograph, and for the duration of the next proximate sneeze in real life.

Real life.
I look up.

Everyone sits in a row, either working or imitating dutifulness. Down the line, an arm reaches for a tissue. Houston, we've confirmed signs of life, but is it intelligent? The fingers pinch, and miss. The tissue is pristine and untouched. Pinch, and miss. The head turns. It directs the hand to take a tissue. I silently laud the closest thing to teamwork this office has known. The head blows its nose to the effect of sounding an airhorn, and though it is moderately sized, I understand why some noses are appropriately described as "honkers."

I consider the construction workers across the avenue. Over the weeks I've observed the complete renovation of the east face of a New York skyscraper. I am not behind on work.

I wonder how you would like Paris. We'd have to book a hostel rather than a hotel, as the plane tickets would eat most of our budget. "That's fine," I joke, nudging your elbow with mine. "That's what we do to our monthly budget. May as well give something else a chance to nosh on it." I even try to make you laugh in imaginary conversations I have with you. I don't know what this means.

I notice that Parisian Flea Market is a slideshow. There are 14 more pictures! I flip through them, then check airfares outbound from New York to places unfamiliar. Then I only search one-way fares to the same locations. 'This is more financially doable,' I think. I consider the one way aspect, imagining the end of a typical vacation period and the 'How do I get back?' question that would pop up, as I sat somewhere on a mattress not my own. I probably couldn't. We couldn't. I note mentally how different the thought of "my" vs. "we" being stuck feels...I don't know how much different, but different. Back to problem solving over there. Your big arm would grab me and crush my lungs in a hug that would send most of my air back towards New York, while I worried about us, still in Foreignia. "We have our soccer cleats, and we can both eat on a bare bones budget, fruit carts and whatnot. We haven't been living like kings this whole time, and this is pretty great." It's true. I smile at you in that polkadotted skate cap, wanting to snuggle up to your scruff. I turn back to the screen. Employment numbers are up, production is up.

I return to the most positive numbers I've seen all day, the one-way ticket screen, and close it.
Soon. 'But not soon enough to look for our suitcases,' I counter.

The airhorn honks again.

If you were here you'd already be making fun of her, while I cleaned up the water I spit out, laughing. 'Soon is relative when it is the beginning part of your forever,' I argue. 'And that's a plural 'your', ' I note, adding you into the conversation when I'm not even imaginarily interacting with you. It's not as if I don't see enough of you in real life.

Real life.
I look up.