Canoe

It had been Cleo’s idea to get dinner. Just the three of them: Gemma and Ruby and her. Cleo called both of them individually and they each agreed. Gemma picked the diner; Ruby set the reservation. They had last met two months ago. That time, the occasion was also an evening meal. Dim room, shared plates, three rounds. That was usually their cadence together. It had always been that way. Dinner—it was the origin point of their friendship. The three women had first met at one several years ago. A mutual acquaintance with a penchant for elaborate parties was hosting a Gatsby-themed one stocked with fancy hors d'oeuvres and champagne. Cleo, having never read the text that inspired this whole soiree, felt a bit out of place. When she overheard Gemma and Ruby in the corner, admitting to each other that they’d never read the novel nor had the desire to, she impulsively introduced herself, letting out a sigh of relief after she exclaimed her name. The three women were rather apathetic about the party’s purpose, but their eagerness for friendship motivated them to be earnest with each other, each in their own way. By the end of the night, they were sharing a cigarette. By the end of the summer, they were dining together once a week.

The reservation was set for half past six. It was only four, but the bright hour of the afternoon enticed Cleo to leave her apartment a little early. She donned a scarlet blouse and a lipstick to match, hoping to conjure a sense of beauty and optimism. For the most part, this trick of vanity seemed to work. She felt pleased with the image reflected in the mirror. She pursed her lips, fingered the flakes of mascara on her brown cheeks, scanned her teeth for crumbs. The longer she went about this maintenance check, the more susceptible she was to self-critique. New lines and pimples, stubborn chin hairs. Before any negative feelings could materialize, she headed out the door.

Immediately, the spring day imposed on her. It was clear and warm, not a single crease in the sky, and the budding green arranged itself in every direction, on every lawn and on every tree. The neighbors seemed to sense this splendor too. People were out and about sprawling their bodies along the balconies and stoops of the street. The sun soaked their limbs and reflected dancing shadows upon the figures of their bodies. Each person Cleo passed on the street nodded hello. A vague eagerness bright in their eyes. One neighbor, an older Caribbean woman in her sixties, lounged on a lawn chair in front of her garden. This land was humble, barely a square, yet its vibrancy captured the attention of all who passed by. It was the neighborhood’s personal glory. At that moment, it was the budding tulips that struck Cleo. They were the ideal shade of gold.

“Hello dear,” the woman called out. A stray cat appeared and she started petting it. “The weather is getting better, isn’t it?”

They had exchanged names when Cleo first moved into the neighborhood, though they never uttered them again, likely because they had both forgotten.

“Yes, day by day. What a relief!”

The two women grinned politely. Mostly the relationship between them was one of cordial observation. Sometimes, Cleo desired to venture past these gestures of formality. She had a curiosity about the older woman’s story, but some sort of reflexive halt always prevented her from posing thoughtful questions, from letting any tender edges converge. Strange, Cleo thought, that you could be in such close proximity to someone, just a few feet away from the most intimate part of their lives—where they fed and bathed themselves, where they cared for their children and had sex—and not even know their names. Sometimes, before dashing off to their separate worlds, Cleo and her neighbors might exchange brief musings about the weekend, or complaints about the mail. And other times, they might walk past each other without even a glance. There wasn’t a science to it. In the evenings, she’d pass by her neighbors’ lit-up windows and study the still lives that animated each block surrounding her. Families preparing dinner, lovers making the bed, in rooms full of memories that ever so slightly intersected with her own. It was hard not to stare. These were the most consistent people in her life. “I’m heading off,” she said to her neighbor. “I’ll see you later.” The park was only a few blocks away.

She took the long way through, down the hill and around the man-made lake. Along the path, she noticed people in groups of twos, threes, fours lounging by the water and busying themselves with activities of all kinds: reading, chatting, playing cards, snacking on potato chips and fruit. There were families too, and small children flapping about. Their movements in perfect synchronicity with the geese who zipped around in energetic bursts while collecting seeds and chasing away dogs. She tried to discover the essence of those around her. Specific qualities and mannerisms gave away their whole story. From a distance, she took note and searched for clues. Some people were alone and quiet. Eyes to a book or thumbs to a phone, enjoying the soothing nature of being parallel to the strangers and to the birds. And some were engaged in engulfing spells of gossip and storytelling, leaning into their half-circles with perky expressions, their whispers alchemizing into fits of glee. There were plenty of things to find beautiful. The good weather eased the eyes. Her favorite strangers were a pair of men in orthopedic shoes who pointed out the names of trees as they roamed.

“English Elm, English Oak, Gingko,” one said.

“Maple, Hawthorn, Douglas Fir,” the other replied.

The men weren’t sentimental with this game of identification. They didn’t coo over the trees, nor did they comment on their features. They didn’t take a single photo. They expressed admiration by uttering what they saw to each other. For them, this seemed to be enough. Cleo followed their fingers across the landscape and tried to encounter the connection she imagined they felt.

“Birch, Magnolia, Yoshino Cherry.”

Tough to pinpoint the origin. She didn’t know how it began. The loneliness had gone rampant for so long. It pin-pricked every detail. There was a version of life Cleo could see clearly: a bond of care that enveloped her without any stipulations. Friends who weren’t too far, figures who didn’t leave, companionship that wasn’t temporary. She only wanted to discover her niche, a crack in the void that she could fit in, if not completely, then almost so.

When she ventured off into the world, and watched the rows of people in their distinct groups, she took on the role of anonymous voyeur and peeked into their stories. She knew it was naive to conclude that this loneliness was unique to her. The modern world was an isolating place. Yet as she moved through the public with its vast array of faces, she couldn’t help but feel the distinct sharpness of being alone. Even around friends like Gemma and Ruby, there was a subtle, but persistent disconnect.

The rhythm of the park went on. Small microcosms of life indulged in the bounties of the new season. She walked past the lilies and past the swans, past girls kissing and past boys playing basketball. Time was changing, it could be seen in the sky. People assumed their positions anyway. As Cleo went on, a group of three women began walking behind her. She turned her neck to get a flash of them. Gold stars and hoops hung from their earlobes and noses, and multicolored bags draped over their slender shoulders. One of them was recalling a dream she’d had the night before. Cleo slowed down to catch the conversation.

“A red canoe was in a lake. There was no one in the canoe, so it felt sad to be alone,” the woman said. As she spoke, she looked off into the distance and idly gazed at the field of grass. “Then all of a sudden, the canoe split into two halves. Though these halves were not broken, they were two perfect canoes. The second canoe looked exactly like the first. They remained in the lake together, just the two of them until a group of people came and sailed the second canoe away. And the first canoe was once again alone.”

“Do you think this meant anything?” the woman beside her asked. “I’m not sure. I’ve been having lots of weird dreams lately—maybe because of my new medication. This dream, though, when I woke up from it, made me feel really sad. It took me all morning to shake it.”

“Sounds more profound than my dreams. Last night, I dreamt that I got into a fight with a pack of kangaroos! I was completely naked, but the kangaroos were clothed,” the third friend said.

The other two laughed.

“It was crazy,” she snorted. “When I woke up, my sheets were drenched in sweat.”

The three girls laughed together. One grasped for her friend’s hand as she tried to catch her breath. Cleo smiled to herself. She was tempted to chime in about the strange dreams she’d been having too. There was the one about the clowns, and another about her skin becoming scaly all over. She almost spoke before deciding against it and instead turned to a different part of the path. As she walked away, the women could still be heard from a distance, their cackles trailing off with the bees.

Cleo missed her friends, yes—but she also sensed that the longer they went without seeing each other, the more likely they would feel like strangers when they did eventually meet. Nothing obvious had changed. The common affection they had was still present, yet it flickered. One moment, sure of itself. Another moment, weak. And as time passed, a foreign feeling increasingly replaced the familiarity the three women once shared. This dinner was, perhaps, an effort on Cleo’s part to close the gap. If they could just get together, face to face, then maybe continuity would once again surface.

The time for dinner neared. Cleo drifted away from the loop and away from the crowd toward the bus stop at the edge of the park. Just then, the sun was beginning to set over the avenue. She hopped on the bus and found her place. The route cut through the park where she once again glimpsed the crowd she had been part of, now from a different angle. This time, she couldn’t make out any faces in particular. The speed of the moving vehicle muddled the mass through the window. Everything before her was an ambiguous blur of shape and color. She caught herself in the reflection and realized she was a blur too. The bus driver began to make his stops through the city. People entered the bus and got off. And in the distance, a cathedral bell rang, marking the start of another hour.

Time slipped, it didn’t stop. Cleo would see her friends soon, this was all certain. As the bus approached the next destination, Cleo noticed an older woman dressed completely in white. She was leaning on the bus stop bench alone with her eyes closed and her palms turned upward, as if the sun were anointing her entire body, and her hair swayed in complete chaos with the wind. When the driver slowed down to pick the woman up, Cleo expected that the woman would hurry out of this peaceful stance and ready herself to get on. But she sat in the same position at the bench: eyes closed, palms up, keen to receive the sun. The bus doors opened and stalled for a brief moment. Without opening her eyes, the woman waved him to move along.