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sendthembackReading the paper. Walking the streets. Genetics. Ralph Lauren. Damn punks.
Words required: 20,004
Words achieved: 22,036
Words of today: 1,997
Rachel tosses the Sports section back at him, because she knows it will keep him occupied for at least a few minutes, and starts flipping through the front pages, starting in the back and working her way forward. Keith catches the way her hand twitches briefly when she sees something interesting, highlighter reflex, he guesses, and he can't help but smile. When she looks back up at him, though, he's already burying himself in statistics and summaries, getting lost in the NFL Roundup.
She takes a sip of her coffee and starts scanning the articles again, stopping at a tiny piece about Malalai Joya's recent speech in California. The highlighter twitch returns, so she goes back to her coffee, finding it through groping as she keeps on reading. She's just moving on when the waitress appears with their breakfast.
They put away their paper sections and turn their attention to their food. Keith talks idly about passing and rushing yards, but Rachel only half-listens.
It's not that she minds; it's perfect really, the droning recitation of names and numbers, peppered with more animated periods of explanation and analysis and bites of food. It's comfortable. She doesn't have to really listen and he doesn't mind that she doesn't. He's speaking for practice almost, re-familiarizing himself with things he already knows.
Rachel nods when Keith starts up about Darren Sharper's last second interception against the Falcons, but she's thinking about the afternoon and whether she should actually tell Stephen about what happened the night before. She shakes her head and remembers the painkillers.
She waits for him to take another bite of scrambled eggs, then leans forward and scoops up her pills.
"Don't forget," she says, lifting her glass.
Keith nods. "Thanks."
"So," he says, when he's taken the pills and washed them down with the rest of his eggs.
Rachel takes one last bite of toast. "So?"
"When are you meeting Stephen?"
Rachel shrugs. "I have to text him at some point, but probably not until late afternoon."
"You left your bag in my apartment," he says. "I don't know if..."
"I'll get it eventually. But, hey, we're out of the house. We could take a walk or something first, if you don't have any plans."
"I'd like that," he answers. "Maybe a little cool air will finally kill my slowly dying head pain."
They fight over the check until Keith rolls up the newspaper and smacks Rachel's hand with it. Then, they return to the outside world.
The streets are weirdly populated, the crowd levels changing from block to block. They make their way down Lexington Avenue, crossing up toward East 72nd St., heading toward the park. It's cold, but the sun is shining and as long as they stay out of the shade, it's actually nice.
"It's supposed to be a little warmer this afternoon," Keith offers.
Rachel smirks over at him. "Are we really going to talk about the weather again?"
"Well, you know, as far as polite conversation goes, it's not the worst of topics."
"Who says I want to be polite?" Rachel asks, looking down at her shoes before grinning back up at him.
"I'm not really sure, actually. Not Hannity or Bill-O, I'm sure." He pretends to think. "Alan Colmes. I bet Alan Colmes thinks you're polite."
Rachel shakes her head. "That's not what I asked. No matter what Colmes may think about my politeness, it doesn't mean he thinks I want to be polite. Who thinks I want to be polite?"
"Good distinction," he answers, thinking for real this time. "How about your mom? I bet she raised you up to be a polite young lady."
"Again," Rachel says, "that's not quite it. She might expect me to be polite, but that's expectation, not..."
"But, if she raised you to be polite, and if she has any trust in her own child-rearing abilities, then she probably also raised you to want to be polite and, therefore, expects you to want to be polite. There, how's my argument now?"
Rachel leans into him, shoving her arm between Keith's arm and his coat. He shifts the newspaper to his other side. She smiles. "Not too bad."
They walk down the street like that until they turn onto East 72nd and the traffic picks up a little. Then, she has to let go of him to allow a falsely-important acting woman attempting to pull off the suit-and-cellphone look to shuffle past, and then to dodge around a young couple who are swinging their giggling toddler between them.
"All dressed up for business on a Saturday?" Keith whispers as Rachel returns to his side.
"Total poser," Rachel answers, looking over to see if Keith rolls his eyes, either at the woman or at Rachel's language use. He doesn't. Instead, he looks out into the street, randomly counting the non-taxis in the sea of yellow.
"It doesn't feel like a Saturday," he finally says. "It's too hectic."
"It's the city, Keith," Rachel smiles. "It's always hectic."
"Maybe," Keith answers.
He looks up the street for the park, but it's still too many blocks away to really make out. "But, there's something different about it."
"It's probably just winter finally coming around the corner." Rachel starts to reach for Keith's arm again, but then stuffs her hands into her pockets, instead. "I need gloves."
"We can stop and find you some. I've got my iPhone and I'm sure there's somewhere within a few blocks that--"
"I don't need them that badly," Rachel says. "Besides, I'm kind of picky about my gloves. I have to find the exact right pair or I won't wear them and, then, well, what's the point?"
"Good point." Keith grins stupidly when he hears the way his "point" echoes hers.
Rachel grins back. "At least there's a point in there somewhere."
"Oh, there's always a point," Keith answers.
Rachel shakes her head. "Now you're just saying things to say them."
"What?" Keith asks, narrowing his eyes even as he smiles. "I'd never do such a thing."
"Sure you would." Rachel pulls her hand out of her pocket, reaching out to touch his arm as they approach the intersection and the "Wait" light starts to blink.
Keith scans Park Avenue. "What, you think I'm going to just walk right out into the street without looking? Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mama Bear."
Rachel giggles. "You do realize you just insinuated that Bill O'Reilly and I have some sort of parental bond, right?"
"I did not," Keith grumbles.
"Did, too." She looks back at him, watching him shake his head. "Look, it's simple, Keith: if he's Papa Bear and I'm Mama Bear..."
"Does that make Stephen your son, then?" Keith asks, trying to redirect the conversation, already regretting getting it started. The light finally changes, and he reaches out, smacking Rachel's arm in a strange kind of parody of Rachel's mom gesture.
She smacks him right back, on the shoulder. "Do you not see the family resemblance? I mean, wonky ear aside..."
Keith cringes. Rachel takes it as the perfect green light and continues. "Let's think about it. Stephen's obviously got my hair and eyes... But where on earth did he get his height? A man of our combined stock should be at least six feet, maybe even..."
"I'm not helping you with this."
Rachel looks him over. He wishes they'd picked a more exciting street. There are plenty of cars, but fewer people now, and nothing of interest on the sidewalk, just plain brick and concrete.
"Yeah, sorry," Rachel finally says. "I don't know what I'm talking about."
The rest of the block is long and quiet. Rachel points out a fallout shelter sign over a blank metal door, but she doesn't say anything about it. Keith just nods.
Finally they hit the next intersection.
Rachel gestures at the giant blue-wrapped construction site across the street from them and Keith reads the text printed on the weather wrap out loud.
"RALPH LAUREN: Arriving Spring 2010."
"It's too bad it hasn't already arrived," Rachel jokes. "We could go get me some gloves."
Keith pushes himself into a smile. "You must be desperate. I mean, I'd pay for you to buy something from Ralph Lauren."
"Oh, make no mistake, we'd be making a direct line to the menswear section," Rachel says. "I don't even know if women's gloves would fit me."
"Well," Keith answers, directing her attention back toward the construction site. "We have been officially invited to VISIT THE TEMPORARY STORE AT 80TH AND MADISON."
"Sadly, I'm just not that interested, Keith."
There's a kid's store down the block. Keith almost mentions it, just as a joke, but common sense clicks in right as he opens his mouth. "You're sure? I don't want you to get frostbite."
"I've got pockets," Rachel answers. "Also, we missed our light."
Keith watches the red hand stop blinking and stand firm. He shrugs. "Luckily, we need to cross the other way, anyway."
"Why?" Rachel asks.
He nods back at the construction site. "Sidewalk's blocked."
"Ah, well, how observant of you." Rachel turns away from him and immediately laughs.
"What?"
"Or we could go into the Ralph Lauren store we're standing right next to."
Keith looks shakes his head. "Well, how convenient..." He looks into the dark storefront. "It's not open, though."
"Conspiracy," Rachel says. "They want my fingers to fall off." She looks back at the street. The light is going to change if they don't start moving.
"I thought you said you had pockets."
"I'm dithering."
Keith laughs. "Let's hurry and cross then, before the store opens and you have to dither some more."
Rachel nods. They check the intersection for homicidal cab drivers and then cross.
"Why the hell would you have a giant sign advertising your store 8 blocks down the road right next to another location of your store?" Rachel asks when the light changes again and they're finally crossing Madison.
"To make your potential customers feel as stupidly oblivious as possible?" Keith offers.
"I think all of our recent obliviousness was actually their fault, though. That big green advertisement made it impossible for us to see anything else, not the construction under it, and not the damn store we were standing right in front of."
"The conspiracy grows deeper." Keith raises his eyebrows at her, but Rachel is looking down the street. He follows her eyes and is glad to finally be able to make out the park, just another block away.
His eyes drop closer and he realizes she's grinning at a group of punked-out teenagers who are about to walk past. He wants to call out "Shouldn't you be in school?", even though it's Saturday, just to see what they do, just to see what Rachel does. Instead, he just waits until they and their blue and green hair and leather and wallet chains have passed. He looks over at Rachel and rolls his eyes as violently as he can.
Rachel snorts. "Ah, now there's my Keith. I was worried I'd lost you to your awkwardness forever."
"Awkwardness?" Keith asks. "I'm never awkward."
"Of course," Rachel says with an exaggerated frown. She steals a look back at the retreating kids. "You know, I used to kind of look like that once."
"Don't remind me."
"Why not?"
"You'll make me roll my eyes again," Keith warns.
"God forbid. They might get stuck!"
"You never know," Keith says. "And then, you'd feel so guilty, you'd be doomed to lead my roll-eyed blind self around for the rest of my days."
Rachel shakes her head, walking a little faster. Keith double steps to catch up. "You're not going to get away, Rach."
She grins, letting him take her arm this time. "I was a complete dork back then, anyway."
"The more things change..."
Words required: 20,004
Words achieved: 22,036
Words of today: 1,997
Rachel tosses the Sports section back at him, because she knows it will keep him occupied for at least a few minutes, and starts flipping through the front pages, starting in the back and working her way forward. Keith catches the way her hand twitches briefly when she sees something interesting, highlighter reflex, he guesses, and he can't help but smile. When she looks back up at him, though, he's already burying himself in statistics and summaries, getting lost in the NFL Roundup.
She takes a sip of her coffee and starts scanning the articles again, stopping at a tiny piece about Malalai Joya's recent speech in California. The highlighter twitch returns, so she goes back to her coffee, finding it through groping as she keeps on reading. She's just moving on when the waitress appears with their breakfast.
They put away their paper sections and turn their attention to their food. Keith talks idly about passing and rushing yards, but Rachel only half-listens.
It's not that she minds; it's perfect really, the droning recitation of names and numbers, peppered with more animated periods of explanation and analysis and bites of food. It's comfortable. She doesn't have to really listen and he doesn't mind that she doesn't. He's speaking for practice almost, re-familiarizing himself with things he already knows.
Rachel nods when Keith starts up about Darren Sharper's last second interception against the Falcons, but she's thinking about the afternoon and whether she should actually tell Stephen about what happened the night before. She shakes her head and remembers the painkillers.
She waits for him to take another bite of scrambled eggs, then leans forward and scoops up her pills.
"Don't forget," she says, lifting her glass.
Keith nods. "Thanks."
"So," he says, when he's taken the pills and washed them down with the rest of his eggs.
Rachel takes one last bite of toast. "So?"
"When are you meeting Stephen?"
Rachel shrugs. "I have to text him at some point, but probably not until late afternoon."
"You left your bag in my apartment," he says. "I don't know if..."
"I'll get it eventually. But, hey, we're out of the house. We could take a walk or something first, if you don't have any plans."
"I'd like that," he answers. "Maybe a little cool air will finally kill my slowly dying head pain."
They fight over the check until Keith rolls up the newspaper and smacks Rachel's hand with it. Then, they return to the outside world.
The streets are weirdly populated, the crowd levels changing from block to block. They make their way down Lexington Avenue, crossing up toward East 72nd St., heading toward the park. It's cold, but the sun is shining and as long as they stay out of the shade, it's actually nice.
"It's supposed to be a little warmer this afternoon," Keith offers.
Rachel smirks over at him. "Are we really going to talk about the weather again?"
"Well, you know, as far as polite conversation goes, it's not the worst of topics."
"Who says I want to be polite?" Rachel asks, looking down at her shoes before grinning back up at him.
"I'm not really sure, actually. Not Hannity or Bill-O, I'm sure." He pretends to think. "Alan Colmes. I bet Alan Colmes thinks you're polite."
Rachel shakes her head. "That's not what I asked. No matter what Colmes may think about my politeness, it doesn't mean he thinks I want to be polite. Who thinks I want to be polite?"
"Good distinction," he answers, thinking for real this time. "How about your mom? I bet she raised you up to be a polite young lady."
"Again," Rachel says, "that's not quite it. She might expect me to be polite, but that's expectation, not..."
"But, if she raised you to be polite, and if she has any trust in her own child-rearing abilities, then she probably also raised you to want to be polite and, therefore, expects you to want to be polite. There, how's my argument now?"
Rachel leans into him, shoving her arm between Keith's arm and his coat. He shifts the newspaper to his other side. She smiles. "Not too bad."
They walk down the street like that until they turn onto East 72nd and the traffic picks up a little. Then, she has to let go of him to allow a falsely-important acting woman attempting to pull off the suit-and-cellphone look to shuffle past, and then to dodge around a young couple who are swinging their giggling toddler between them.
"All dressed up for business on a Saturday?" Keith whispers as Rachel returns to his side.
"Total poser," Rachel answers, looking over to see if Keith rolls his eyes, either at the woman or at Rachel's language use. He doesn't. Instead, he looks out into the street, randomly counting the non-taxis in the sea of yellow.
"It doesn't feel like a Saturday," he finally says. "It's too hectic."
"It's the city, Keith," Rachel smiles. "It's always hectic."
"Maybe," Keith answers.
He looks up the street for the park, but it's still too many blocks away to really make out. "But, there's something different about it."
"It's probably just winter finally coming around the corner." Rachel starts to reach for Keith's arm again, but then stuffs her hands into her pockets, instead. "I need gloves."
"We can stop and find you some. I've got my iPhone and I'm sure there's somewhere within a few blocks that--"
"I don't need them that badly," Rachel says. "Besides, I'm kind of picky about my gloves. I have to find the exact right pair or I won't wear them and, then, well, what's the point?"
"Good point." Keith grins stupidly when he hears the way his "point" echoes hers.
Rachel grins back. "At least there's a point in there somewhere."
"Oh, there's always a point," Keith answers.
Rachel shakes her head. "Now you're just saying things to say them."
"What?" Keith asks, narrowing his eyes even as he smiles. "I'd never do such a thing."
"Sure you would." Rachel pulls her hand out of her pocket, reaching out to touch his arm as they approach the intersection and the "Wait" light starts to blink.
Keith scans Park Avenue. "What, you think I'm going to just walk right out into the street without looking? Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mama Bear."
Rachel giggles. "You do realize you just insinuated that Bill O'Reilly and I have some sort of parental bond, right?"
"I did not," Keith grumbles.
"Did, too." She looks back at him, watching him shake his head. "Look, it's simple, Keith: if he's Papa Bear and I'm Mama Bear..."
"Does that make Stephen your son, then?" Keith asks, trying to redirect the conversation, already regretting getting it started. The light finally changes, and he reaches out, smacking Rachel's arm in a strange kind of parody of Rachel's mom gesture.
She smacks him right back, on the shoulder. "Do you not see the family resemblance? I mean, wonky ear aside..."
Keith cringes. Rachel takes it as the perfect green light and continues. "Let's think about it. Stephen's obviously got my hair and eyes... But where on earth did he get his height? A man of our combined stock should be at least six feet, maybe even..."
"I'm not helping you with this."
Rachel looks him over. He wishes they'd picked a more exciting street. There are plenty of cars, but fewer people now, and nothing of interest on the sidewalk, just plain brick and concrete.
"Yeah, sorry," Rachel finally says. "I don't know what I'm talking about."
The rest of the block is long and quiet. Rachel points out a fallout shelter sign over a blank metal door, but she doesn't say anything about it. Keith just nods.
Finally they hit the next intersection.
Rachel gestures at the giant blue-wrapped construction site across the street from them and Keith reads the text printed on the weather wrap out loud.
"RALPH LAUREN: Arriving Spring 2010."
"It's too bad it hasn't already arrived," Rachel jokes. "We could go get me some gloves."
Keith pushes himself into a smile. "You must be desperate. I mean, I'd pay for you to buy something from Ralph Lauren."
"Oh, make no mistake, we'd be making a direct line to the menswear section," Rachel says. "I don't even know if women's gloves would fit me."
"Well," Keith answers, directing her attention back toward the construction site. "We have been officially invited to VISIT THE TEMPORARY STORE AT 80TH AND MADISON."
"Sadly, I'm just not that interested, Keith."
There's a kid's store down the block. Keith almost mentions it, just as a joke, but common sense clicks in right as he opens his mouth. "You're sure? I don't want you to get frostbite."
"I've got pockets," Rachel answers. "Also, we missed our light."
Keith watches the red hand stop blinking and stand firm. He shrugs. "Luckily, we need to cross the other way, anyway."
"Why?" Rachel asks.
He nods back at the construction site. "Sidewalk's blocked."
"Ah, well, how observant of you." Rachel turns away from him and immediately laughs.
"What?"
"Or we could go into the Ralph Lauren store we're standing right next to."
Keith looks shakes his head. "Well, how convenient..." He looks into the dark storefront. "It's not open, though."
"Conspiracy," Rachel says. "They want my fingers to fall off." She looks back at the street. The light is going to change if they don't start moving.
"I thought you said you had pockets."
"I'm dithering."
Keith laughs. "Let's hurry and cross then, before the store opens and you have to dither some more."
Rachel nods. They check the intersection for homicidal cab drivers and then cross.
"Why the hell would you have a giant sign advertising your store 8 blocks down the road right next to another location of your store?" Rachel asks when the light changes again and they're finally crossing Madison.
"To make your potential customers feel as stupidly oblivious as possible?" Keith offers.
"I think all of our recent obliviousness was actually their fault, though. That big green advertisement made it impossible for us to see anything else, not the construction under it, and not the damn store we were standing right in front of."
"The conspiracy grows deeper." Keith raises his eyebrows at her, but Rachel is looking down the street. He follows her eyes and is glad to finally be able to make out the park, just another block away.
His eyes drop closer and he realizes she's grinning at a group of punked-out teenagers who are about to walk past. He wants to call out "Shouldn't you be in school?", even though it's Saturday, just to see what they do, just to see what Rachel does. Instead, he just waits until they and their blue and green hair and leather and wallet chains have passed. He looks over at Rachel and rolls his eyes as violently as he can.
Rachel snorts. "Ah, now there's my Keith. I was worried I'd lost you to your awkwardness forever."
"Awkwardness?" Keith asks. "I'm never awkward."
"Of course," Rachel says with an exaggerated frown. She steals a look back at the retreating kids. "You know, I used to kind of look like that once."
"Don't remind me."
"Why not?"
"You'll make me roll my eyes again," Keith warns.
"God forbid. They might get stuck!"
"You never know," Keith says. "And then, you'd feel so guilty, you'd be doomed to lead my roll-eyed blind self around for the rest of my days."
Rachel shakes her head, walking a little faster. Keith double steps to catch up. "You're not going to get away, Rach."
She grins, letting him take her arm this time. "I was a complete dork back then, anyway."
"The more things change..."
