Night Breeze
by Elaine Crauder
It had been easy to overlook the tree growing out of his head after he gave a blow-by-blow of riding on top of a train across India, hitching a ride at an intersection, clambering up the side ladder, ducking at overpasses and tunnels; and after several glasses of chardonnay. Bush, she could describe it as a bush to her sister, though the stem or trunk--she squinted discreetly but still wasn’t sure which--cleared a few inches before the branches ventured out, followed by leaves. Three that she could tell, with wide ridges, planted on his crown like a miniature oak that had lost its way.
She wondered if he’d taped it up there and if so, why she stayed. More importantly, she wondered what he was like, naked save for his leaves. Blind dates were always better than TV reruns, but not by much. At least this one had a long shelf life and the telling could get her through Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’d have to decide whether it was better to spill it over dinners or keep as a private prize, a gem to polish between the recesses of hope and desperation.
His story, now about feeding a tiger in Bangladesh, brought her to the notion of extinction, and of her kind. She reached for him and held onto his bicep, smiling as he pressed her hand between the warmth of his arm and side. It was crisp out with a perfectly formed crescent moon in the September sky, visible above the row houses between the restaurant and where she realized they were headed: the Art Museum. She thought if he wanted her to take a picture of him in front of the Rocky statue, she’d walk away. Then again, of the thousands of people who did the Rocky pose in front of the Philadelphia Art Museum, arms aloft in triumph, he’d probably be the only one with his own foliage.
He moved his arm around her shoulders. “Warm enough?”
“It’s nice out. Crisp.” She walked faster, out from under his arm and stood at the museum’s front steps. She said, “First one to the top has to run down and back up.”
“Deal.” He grinned and nodded. His thick brown hair swayed. The leaves remained steady.
Instead of running, they climbed as slow as old lovers beset by arthritis and tedium, her challenge providing a desired effect greater than she could have imagined, giving wide open space for conversation. He reached for her hand as they approached the top step and when she grabbed it they laughed and stepped across together. Neither would have to run the steps.
She purposefully forgot to ask about the tree, figuring she’d ask another time. If she wanted another time. They walked along the top of the steps, up high where the wind blew a steady night breeze. She smiled. His leaves had picked up a gust and fluttered like the Queen of England, waving from her balcony.
by Elaine Crauder
It had been easy to overlook the tree growing out of his head after he gave a blow-by-blow of riding on top of a train across India, hitching a ride at an intersection, clambering up the side ladder, ducking at overpasses and tunnels; and after several glasses of chardonnay. Bush, she could describe it as a bush to her sister, though the stem or trunk--she squinted discreetly but still wasn’t sure which--cleared a few inches before the branches ventured out, followed by leaves. Three that she could tell, with wide ridges, planted on his crown like a miniature oak that had lost its way.
She wondered if he’d taped it up there and if so, why she stayed. More importantly, she wondered what he was like, naked save for his leaves. Blind dates were always better than TV reruns, but not by much. At least this one had a long shelf life and the telling could get her through Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’d have to decide whether it was better to spill it over dinners or keep as a private prize, a gem to polish between the recesses of hope and desperation.
His story, now about feeding a tiger in Bangladesh, brought her to the notion of extinction, and of her kind. She reached for him and held onto his bicep, smiling as he pressed her hand between the warmth of his arm and side. It was crisp out with a perfectly formed crescent moon in the September sky, visible above the row houses between the restaurant and where she realized they were headed: the Art Museum. She thought if he wanted her to take a picture of him in front of the Rocky statue, she’d walk away. Then again, of the thousands of people who did the Rocky pose in front of the Philadelphia Art Museum, arms aloft in triumph, he’d probably be the only one with his own foliage.
He moved his arm around her shoulders. “Warm enough?”
“It’s nice out. Crisp.” She walked faster, out from under his arm and stood at the museum’s front steps. She said, “First one to the top has to run down and back up.”
“Deal.” He grinned and nodded. His thick brown hair swayed. The leaves remained steady.
Instead of running, they climbed as slow as old lovers beset by arthritis and tedium, her challenge providing a desired effect greater than she could have imagined, giving wide open space for conversation. He reached for her hand as they approached the top step and when she grabbed it they laughed and stepped across together. Neither would have to run the steps.
She purposefully forgot to ask about the tree, figuring she’d ask another time. If she wanted another time. They walked along the top of the steps, up high where the wind blew a steady night breeze. She smiled. His leaves had picked up a gust and fluttered like the Queen of England, waving from her balcony.
