With the skies being gray and the humidity oppressive, I didn’t bother with them today.Too hot for a hat, and wearing sunglasses would probably call more attention to me.
I glance down at the list.It’s a photocopy of a piece of notebook paper.I can see the faint lines that I know are blue, though they appear light gray.There’s a swirly handwriting that starts off neat but is visibly shaky by the bottom of the page.
The first line says, "Dear Rachel, If you’re reading this, I’m dead, and you’re probably crying.It’s time to knock that shit off and put on real pants.Don’t even try to lie to me and tell me you’re wearing hard pants.I’ll haunt your ass."
Before I can read more, the paper disappears from my hands.I look up."Hey, I was reading that."
Rachel is clutching the paper against her chest."I changed my mind.I’m not ready to share it yet."
I look at her for a minute before nodding.Again, I can’t imagine what it’d be like to lose one of my brothers.I’d probably be a little nutso too.While the curious part of me wants to know what’s in the letter, there’s a burning need to have something else explained.
"What are hard pants?"
Rachel’s face breaks into a momentary smile."You know, pants that are hard.Jeans.Khakis.Dress pants.Pants you wear to be professional and a functional human being.The opposite of soft pants.Sweatpants.Yoga pants.Pajama pants.One has a high content of Lycra and spandex, while the other doesn’t."
I bend over to look under the table and then sit back up.She’s wearing loose-fitting shorts over her thin legs."Those are soft pants."
"Yes, but it’s a Sunday morning, and I was out for a walk.You don’t exercise in hard pants."
She has a valid point.
Rachel continues."And furthermore, I don’t need dressy pants for my job, and Richie knew that.I can be a completely functional human beingandbe comfortable.The two are not mutually exclusive."She punctuates her rant with a small fist pound on the table.
I put my hands up."Easy there, killer.I didn’t mean to get you all riled up.I wear soft pants for my job too."I want her to know I’m on her side.
"I’m just sick and tired of everyone thinking they know what’s best for me.I can make my own decisions.Am I sad?Yes.Terribly so.My sister was my best friend.Watching her suffer and die was the worst thing I could possibly imagine.I’m allowed to grieve.I’m allowed to process it the way I want to process it.I don’t need everyone up my grill all the time about how I’m grieving."
There’s obviously a lot more going on here than just the list.It’s probably time for me to leave.And maybe move so I don’t have any more accidental run-ins.That’s too bad, because I really like my apartment.
Awareness dawns on Rachel’s face, her eyes huge and her mouth forming an "O."She quickly covers it with her hand.I’m embarrassed for her."I’m sorry," she adds, practically jumping to her feet.In the process, she almost flips the table.The jolt is enough to send my half-full smoothie toppling over.It hits the table with enough force that the lid disengages, and I’m left with a lapful of almond, avocado, and oat milk.
Awesome.
Rachel lurches forward, grabbing a handful of napkins as they’re skittering toward the edge of the table.Immediately, she begins blotting.
She’s blotting the smoothie that landed on my lap.
Right there.
Now it’s my turn to jump up, using my hands to block hers, otherwise I’ll be the mortified one.After a split second, she realizes where she’s been rubbing.She lets out a squeak and then proceeds to run toward the door.She didn’t even grab her coffee.
I look from the entrance to my soaking black shorts and back, the bell jangling in her wake.Almost immediately, two cafe workers with mops and towels appear and begin cleaning up the mess.I mumble a quick, "Sorry," dropping a few bills on the table, and then I head for the door myself, grabbing Rachel’s iced mocha for her.
The cafe is located on the corner, so she could have gone in one of four directions.I do a quick scan and see her bright pink T-shirt.She’s crossed Chauncey Street and is heading up North Main toward Oakland.
There’s not much traffic on this Sunday morning, so I sprint across all four lanes of Chauncey, not paying any attention to the walk signal.Rachel’s walking at a good clip, but I can run a hell of a lot faster than she can move.
"Rachel, wait!Rachel!"
She slows and then stops as I run up beside her.She turns and looks at me like I’ve got three heads.Or a crotchful of smoothie and a half woody.
Then, the tears start."What do you want?Can’t you just let this end?"Her hands drop to her knees, and she bends over trying to catch her breath.
I hold out her cup."You forgot your coffee."
Her head pops up, her eyebrows arched."You chased after me to give me my coffee?"She straightens, hands on her hips, chest still heaving."And how did you catch me so fast, and why aren’t you out of breath?"she asks between gasps of air.
"You were only walking."
