The Jenni Bradshaw

“Hi Liz.”

“Hey Dawn! Did you hear about the company’s holiday party yet? Do you know what you’re gonna wear?”

“Ah, no. I haven’t checked my emails yet. I just got home.”

Balancing my luggage and take-out Chinese food in one hand with my phone lodged between ear and shoulder, I dig through my purse for my apartment keys. It’s been a month since I haven’t had to think of this place, or work.

I traded my mediocre reality for a fairytale life traveling throughout Italy, which has been a bucket list item for me for quite some time now. I’m glad I finally went. I delayed the trip multiple times, waiting for my ex to get his shit together but instead, he got his shit and got out. It took me too long to break up with him, but the thought of being alone scared me for the longest time. I had never lived alone. Then again, I guess I wasn’t completely alone with someone living a few feet from me in all directions of this over-populated apartment complex.

“Well, if you don’t have anything to wear, I have this beautiful dress I bought from that online boutique shop we love. You should wear it.” Liz says over the phone.

I drop my bags at the door, grab a drink from the fridge, and head for my comfy sofa that I missed so much.

“That’s incredibly kind of you, Liz, but I don’t think I’ll go anyway.”

“What do you mean? You have to go. They’re raffling off stuff – gift cards, all-inclusive trips, electric cars… I know you need a car.”

Liz wasn’t entirely wrong, but she wasn’t entirely right either. I didn’t need a car. I used to think that, but now I just want a car, so I can escape the rat race of New York City. But I can’t drive it across the Atlantic Ocean so if any of those raffles were of my interest, I’d put in for the all-inclusive trips.

I fill my mouth with an overflowing pile of chicken lo mein on a cheap plastic fork that is bound to break but doesn’t get its chance to. The noodles taste so divine I can’t even speak.

Italy’s food is amazing, but they don’t have Chinese food like Chinatown does here in NYC.

“Hello? You there?” Liz says.

“Yeah, I’m here.” I answer back between chews.

“I can come by tomorrow for you to try it on. We could go into Chinatown and grab a bite after. I know how much you like your Chinese food.”

Liz knows me well, almost too well, but if she really knew me, she would know I’m already eating Chinese food. That doesn’t mean I won’t eat it again tomorrow.

“Yeah, let’s plan for tomorrow then. I’ll text you.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you then. Glad you’re back.”

I let her hang up so I don’t have to touch the phone with my greasy fingers as I devour the last egg roll, thinking of the times I used to give my ex the last one when I actually wanted it.

After letting out a relaxed sigh, I sit in silence except it’s not the same silence as in Italy. Sirens and honking cars down below echo through the streets, but I don’t feel like turning on the TV to tune them out. Instead, I slump back into the sofa with a full belly and stare at the wall across the room.

A small light in my peripheral turns on and my attention detours to focus on it.

Through the window across the courtyard just a few levels below, I see a tattooed, half-naked man pacing through his apartment, picking up clothes from the floor and smelling them. He’s a good-looking man from this distance, with a lean muscular build and thick, dark locks he has to brush back with his fingers every time he leans over to pick up an article of clothing.

I watch as he puts on a black shirt, black socks, and a black leather jacket. He must like the color. He then grabs an all-black helmet, walks out of the window frame of my entertainment, and the light goes out.

***

The lights must’ve gone out behind my eyelids, too, because I wake to a sudden loud horn that lingers for a few seconds before a rolling mumble of profanity echoes from the street below. Even from the fifth floor, the street noise is loud in the “Big Apple.”

I look out the window to see sunlight gently awakening the night sky as a flash of light catches my eye. It’s him again, and he’s going through the same motions as before but in reverse. And this time he looks exhausted, like he’s had a rough night. It isn’t long before he disappears and the light goes out again, which cues me to get up off the sofa and get my shit together.

After a hot shower, I clean up the half-eaten Chinese food I left out and put away the clothes from my suitcase while Christmas music plays in the background.

Around midday I text Liz to come over, knowing it’ll take her about an hour to get ready and get here by subway. ‘See you soon’ is the response I get from her.

Attempting to get into the holiday spirit, I decide to whip up some homemade gingersnap cookies that I know Liz will love. The aroma fills the apartment with holiday cheer.

“Oh my gosh, it smells so good in here,” Liz says as she walks through the door without knocking. She’s lucky I love her. “What is it?”

“Gingersnap cookies… Just for you.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have, but I’m so glad you did,” she says as she grabs one from the first batch and her eyes roll to the back of her head as she sinks her teeth into it. “Oh, Dawn… these are lovely.”

“I knew you’d like them,” I say. Seeing her happy always makes me happy.

Draped over her right arm is a large garment bag that instantly reminded me of a wedding dress for some odd reason. “What’s that?” I point at the bag.

“The dress!” She cries out as she throws the last bite of her cookie into her mouth and brushes her hands into the kitchen sink. “Here. Try it on.” She hands the bag to me then grabs another cookie.

I unzip it just enough to see the contents inside, “Oh my.”

“Huh! Huh! It’s hot, isn’t it?” Liz nudges me with her elbow; her eyebrows raised with excitement.

The velvety, sapphire gown enriched the blue in my eyes the longer I stared, but it has a deep V neckline and all I can think about is how my big chest is going to fit in it.

“There’s no way my boobs are gonna fit in this.”

Liz waves her hand at me as she indulges in another cookie, “Oh, give it a try before you knock it down.”

I go into the other room to try it on and step out to show her. Its plunging cut is gorgeous and revealing at the same time, but the open back makes it so worth the reveal, with a rhinestone strap stretching across my shoulder blades. The elegant, soft fabric drapes over me perfectly, down to my toes, and I feel like a movie star.

“You look amazing, but I knew you would,” Liz says after her jaw drops, with another cookie in hand. “These things are almost as dangerous as you look” —she shakes a gingersnap at me—“and it looks like you like it, too!” She gives me tantalizing wide eyes, “Hello headlights!”

I cover my chest from slight embarrassment, “There’s no way I can wear a bra with this neckline and open back.”

“No need to worry. I have something to cover those high beams up. But… you are definitely wearing that to the holiday party.”

“It’s too sexy.”

“Exactly the point! It’s time you get your sexy self out there. It’s been half a year, Dawn. You deserve to be loved, and WOWZA will you be loved in this dress. Give me a twirl.”

I do a gingerly twirl with my arms covering my chest, “I will be hit on, not loved. There’s a difference.”

“Psh. You’ll be noticed, which leads to love so yes, you’re wearing it,” she says as she finishes the gingersnap in her hand and walks away from the plate. “Plus, I know you don’t have anything else to wear so…” She looks at me with a scrunched-up nose, “Now go take the sexy dress off, and let’s go get lunch before I eat all those cookies. I’m starving!”

***

We take a short walk to Chinatown, eat, talk about my travels through Italy, share a hug and our fortunes with another kind of cookie before she catches a taxi back to her and her fiancé’s place across town.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow. We have a meeting bright and early so be ready to be a zombie for most the morning,” she says, then smiles with one eye open and sticks out her tongue.

“See you tomorrow,” I giggle back. “Oh! And Liz… Thank you.”

“You know I love you, girl,” she winks and the taxi takes off.

There are only a few blocks between me and my apartment, so I walk with a smile on my face after a good day with a good friend, which is oddly difficult to have both in a city full of people.

Usually when I walk the city, I’m in my own world with earbuds in, but this time my mind is dancing elegantly in that sapphire dress… until it’s interrupted with an abrupt roar.

I jump like I’ve just seen a rat run across my path but instead I see a man straddling a motorcycle he’s just ignited. He must’ve seen me jump because a smile is creeping across his right cheek as he stares me down with eyes more dazzling than the rhinestones on the sapphire dress in my mind.

I’m glad he breaks eye contact to shake his hair back and fit his black helmet on, so I don’t feel like a complete lunatic. He’s no knight in shining armor but a dark knight he is, in all black on his dark horse.

He catches me staring and opens his face shield to reveal his hazel eyes that remind me of Tiger Eye gemstones. My anxiety wants me to turn away, but my heart can’t break the gaze. He’s a dream.

His eyes smile as he signals with his head for me to come take a ride, and something within me jumps.

I’ve never been on a motorcycle, let alone with a stranger.

I shake my head and wave my hand like there’s no way I would cross that threshold, but I’m oddly reminded of Italy and the fearless woman within me who embraced the unknown there.

After a split second, I breathe the words ‘fuck it’ and walk towards the dark knight. His eyes squint from a bigger smile as he unstraps the extra helmet he has attached to the back of his motorcycle and hands it to me without any words spoken.

I must be fucking crazy to get on a bike with a guy I don’t even know, but I recognize he’s the half-naked man from my apartment complex, and something tells me to trust my intuition instead of my instinct on this one.

We ride through the city during rush hour, stopping briefly at traffic lights, to then take off again. Each freshly-green light ignites a thrust within him as he rips at the throttle, jolting me, but I think he’s doing it purposefully so that I’m forced to tighten my arms around his muscular torso.

He feels strong, steady, and smells like a fragrant man should smell… musky and mysterious.

He eventually pulls over at a place with the name “Ferrara” displayed across the storefront and on one giant sign reading vertically on the outside of its brick exterior. I’ve seen it before but have never ventured in.

He hits the kill switch to his motorcycle, guides me off, then helps me remove my helmet after he removes his own.

A rush of thrill fills me, and I can’t help but smile, “That was exhilarating.”

He smiles and I see a light brighten within his eyes, “What is your name, love? Zaffiro?”

“What did you just call me?” I spit out without giving my brain a chance to recognize the familiarity in his voice; that he sounds like an Italian, or at least is able to speak it fluently by the way that last word elegantly flowed off his tongue. But then it would make stopping at an Italian bakery in Little Italy very coincidental, and nothing happens by coincidence.

He laughs, making the Adam’s apple in his throat dance, “You flashed me.”

“What?” I say quickly, as I start to ask myself the same question after coming to the realization that I just rode on a motorcycle for the first time, with a hot stranger.

“Your dress,” he giggles. “You stay at the Saranac, yes? Your spark hit my eye, like the moon.” He points at his back as he explains, then continues after noticing my awkward pause, “You know… like a pizza pie?”

“Oh, um…”

I’m at a loss for words as I feel his velvety accent pet my ears, while wondering if he saw my bosoms in that dress or not.

I envision the rhinestone strap on the upper back of the dress reinforcing the security of my chest, and the odds of its tiny particles refracting light in his direction. Then I realize he’s referencing Dean Martin through his words, which I find rather funny coming from an Italian man.

“Forgive me. I saw you through the window. You were the only light I saw.”

The way he said those simple words sounded so poetic, like it was a pickup line in a movie and he was Dean Martin. Or maybe I was just smitten over his Italian accent.

A part of me wanted to freak out about the invasion of my privacy, while another part of me felt the confession as a sign of fate because I, too, was being a Peeping Tom.

“Yeah, the blue dress. That was me,” I say plainly.

He smiles as his head drops for a moment like he just watched his heart hit the pavement. He bites his lower lip on the way back up to look at me, “I’m Crepuscolo, but you can just call me Cres.” He holds out his hand like he’s some Prince Charming about to sweep me off my feet into the sunset.

“Cres?” I ask. He nods with a slow blink of his eyes. “I’m Dawn,” I reach my hand out to meet his and he grabs mine like a gentleman, raising it up to his lips to kiss it softly.

“Very nice to meet you, Dawn,” he says, as he looks at me with an intensity I feel like I can’t handle but somehow do. “I would ask you out tonight, but I have to work so another time, if you’ll have me? For now, I will buy you the closest thing to my heart.”

“You move fast, don’t you?” I ask in a joking manner.

He laughs inside his throat, “Come on.” He winks and gestures for me to grab the inside of his bent elbow to walk inside the bakery together.

I’m overwhelmed by the familiar fragrance of fresh Italian pastries and suddenly get transported back in time.

After hearing him order in Italian while I attempt to inhale every scent of this place without looking like an addict, we hop back on the bike, riding through the city, dodging traffic left and right. When we get to the Saranac, he parks the bike on the street but doesn’t cut it off. Instead, he helps me off like a prince would his princess and walks me to the front of our building with a bag of cannoli.

I’m more concerned for his bike about to be stolen, running free like that, than my helmet hair but he doesn’t seem bothered at all.

“I have to work now, but may I see you tomorrow?” He asks while holding onto my hand with a gentle touch, awaiting my answer.

“I suppose, but I have to work tomorrow.”

“When will you be free?”

I think poetically to myself what he means by the question, because I felt free in Italy just a few days ago. But I snap back to reality and answer, “I’m free after five.”

He smiles and I swear I see a twinkling light in his Tiger Eyes.

“I’ll meet you right here tomorrow, at dusk,” he says.

I thought it was strange how he mentions dusk as a time, but we meet up the next day and venture into Little Italy again to enjoy pizza and cannoli. It’s almost as good as it is in Italy, but not the same.

Days go by where we don’t see each other but for brief moments in the evening. I find out he works security at a bar over in Brooklyn practically every night, and takes acting classes during the day when he’s not sleeping.

I’m not exactly interested in a relationship right now, but I enjoy his presence when I’m granted his valuable free time. We never take our flirtatious rendezvous to each other’s apartments or even get to first base.

It’s not until the evening of the company holiday event that he sees me again, in our apartment lobby, dressed in that sapphire gown Liz got me. He doesn’t say a word, but I can see the fire in his eyes intensifying as they elevate to meet mine.

As gorgeous as he is, I feel a slight insecurity. Then I get the same reaction Liz gave me when I first put on the dress.

“Wowza,” he says, then kisses me for the first time with a passion so deep it ignites me on the inside.

I’m glad Liz not only gave me something new and blue, but also gave me something to cover up the high beams.

The sun sparkled across the ocean with each rippling wave as a whispering roar tumbled over tiny toes burrowing in the sand. Distant giggles from seagulls and our sweet grandchildren swam through the air as a golden glow engulfed us all. I have always loved the fresh scent of a salty breeze and cherished every detail of our annual family vacation to this exact spot, wishing summer would never end.

Sixty-two years had passed in the blink of an eye. Sixty-two wonderful years since our first kiss on this beach, in this specific lifeguard stand. We knew it was the same one because our initials were still carved into the raw wood on the underside of the seat where layers of paint couldn’t erase it. It was like a romantic love scene directly from a movie, but it was real life, and it was my life.

Back then, most people thought we would fall out of love after high school. All of those people were wrong, every single one of them, because after two kids and six grandkids later, we are still so madly in love. We had a spark then that only grew brighter with time because we didn’t dim each other’s light. We celebrated a remembrance of that special kind of love by having our wedding on this beach and making it a point to visit every year since, no matter where life took us. But this year was particularly significant – we were celebrating our sixtieth wedding anniversary.

Back then, I knew we weren’t just a summer fling falling short of surviving the future seasons. Back then, I knew he was the one.

Of course, there’s been some highs and lows in our lives just like everyone else experiences, but this year was the lowest I have ever felt knowing my high school sweetheart had been given a proposed death sentence from his medical doctors of just a few more weeks to live after his condition had rapidly progressed in such a short period of time.

To say devastation flipped my world upside down would be the understatement of the year.

Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease, wiping memories clean and sometimes without warning. Our entire family had been crushed by the news. With any disease, there are good days and bad days, and luckily today was a good day – the last day of our family vacation all together.

As I sat on the lifeguard stand, holding my husband’s hand, watching the sun kiss his wrinkled lips, all I wanted more than anything was to have him remember who I am and kiss me like he did when we were sixteen. The nostalgia gripped me every year, but this year, more than ever, I longed for reliving that exact moment.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the last day of summer, September 1, 1961, and my best friends surprised me for my sixteenth birthday by inviting my high school crush to the beach with us. I remember feeling extremely embarrassed because we had never spoken a word to each other before. Little did I know then, he had his eye on me ever since we shared geometry class together freshman year. I never thought the hottest guy in school would go for a nerdy girl like me. I was quiet, timid, and frail, and he was outgoing, bold, and strong – just like Noah Calhoun in The Notebook.

If only I could turn back the clock, back to that movie moment.

I’ll never forget the way he looked at me, with a depth not even the Challenger Deep could reach. We got lost in a moment of silence as soon as our eyes locked onto one another, and I remember seeing his soul sparkle in love through his bright blue eyes when he said, “You are a rare beauty.” I swear in that moment he had synchronized his thoughts with mine because those were the exact words I thought when looking at him. Instead of melting from the heat of the sun that day, I could’ve melted by the emotions I felt deep in my soul. Even though he has forgotten after sixty-two years, I still feel the powerful resonance of those words.

***

As the last day of our family vacation was coming to an end, we all watched the sun begin to set, deepening its orange hue across the sky as it slowly sunk below the horizon. My husband was in a daze with the sun’s reflection lighting up his eyes.

“What a special moment to share with you, my love, after sixty-two years.”

The words trembled out of me as I looked at him with a weakening smile. His soul must’ve been somewhere else because he gave no response, not even a blink of the eye or a twitch of his dull smile.

A tear bounced off my cheek, landing on the beach towel covering our legs. It took every bit of my energy to hold off another one from dropping. I wanted to cherish this moment in happiness rather than dwell in sadness, but my heartache intensified as the silence continued.

The salty air got heavy with a chill as the darkness began to take over. Only a sliver of the sun was left, reminding me that summer was ending along with the reminder of it being our last family vacation all together.

Our kids and their families sat on the sand nearby with a towel bundling them all together. The view of them made me think I was watching a movie, as their giggles warmed my soul and erased my heartache. I was grateful to have raised two human beings in a doubtful world with a love that was transcending into future generations.

My four-year-old grandson, the youngest of them all, squealed with excitement as the last of the sun disappeared. I followed his finger pointing out to the horizon and noticed a pod of dolphins surfacing together in synchronized waves. First, there were two, then two more, and on the third resurfacing of the next two, the sun began to come back up over the horizon.

I stared in a daze at the glowing ball of fire as a little boy ran up to the lifeguard stand I was on and screamed, “Happy birthday, Grandma!”

His exclamation startled me, and I gave him an angry look of confusion.

“After sixty-two wonderful years, you are still a rare beauty, my love. What a special moment to share with you.”

I remained quiet as the man next to me kissed me on the lips after saying these words. I didn’t recognize him, but I was too timid and frail to fight him off. He had a scruffy white beard that scratched my face and wrinkly blue eyes that smiled back at me. A sickening feeling dropped in the pit of my stomach as I thought about how old this man was, kissing a teenager. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out.

Then, other kids and adults were coming up to me, wishing me happy birthday and telling me how much they loved me. Even though it was precious to know I was loved; I didn’t recognize them at all.

I looked around for my best friends, Judy and Sally, but they were nowhere to be found.

What a strange moment to experience on my sixteenth birthday, the beginning of the last day of summer.

***

Alzheimer’s Disease International has declared September as World Alzheimer’s Month to raise awareness.

The doorbell rang.

I was busy escaping the dark world outside. My eyes controlled by the media radiating from the TV; shaking my head at the strange behavior of people – differencing of opinions disrespected, leading to personal attacks. Disagreements turning into war – into war!

I look at my phone for the fourth time in the last few minutes, checking for notifications of any kind.

It’s 11:11pm. I make a wish.

Wait, didn’t the doorbell ring? I create a wrinkle between my brows. Who is at my door this late?

I don’t feel like getting up. I’m half asleep, in a sort of daze, but maybe it’s important.

Ughhh…

I thrash myself off the sofa and stomp over to the door in my matching pajamas, fluffy slippers, and fuzzy blanket; my hair untidy and face completely exposed – no make-up, the real outside of me.

I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

The differing thought to my action makes me irritable, and I can feel the outside darkness seeping within. But I reach for the doorknob anyway, before taking a peep, deciding if it was safe to open. Not smart but desperate to get the moment over with so I can go back to the entertainment of distraction. Forget the curiosity of unfamiliarity, I rather have my mind zombified by the ones in control, the media.

Too late. The door is open.

I look around and see no one. It’s actually kind of quiet out. Too quiet.

Oh.

There’s a letter on my doorstep – thick and leather wrapped. The odor of it reeked with a stench I’ve never smelled before, like a pig had just been skinned alive and its curing time disregarded. It was red, and had a weight to it, a heaviness that pulled away from me as I tried to pick it up.

Maybe there’s money in here. My curiosity sparked. I wonder how much.

Money would be the answer to my problems. I wished for it. But my 11:11 wishes never come true.

Maybe it’s something more valuable than money. The thought flashed across my mind. I snicker as I flip over the package. What could be more valuable than money?

There’s no address. No sign of penmanship anywhere. Just a leather skin folded into an envelope.

My curiosity is on fire now.

There’s gotta be a message inside, beyond the package.

I’m nervous to see what’s under the flap.

What if it’s not meant to be addressed to me? Maybe someone made a mistake.

I look up again to see if anyone’s watching. No one. Just me.

Well, it’s right in front of my face. I have to know now.

I let out a held-in sigh as I lift the heavy flap of skin. It easily bent over backwards, releasing a flap beneath it, exposing the entire rawhide.

No notepaper, banknote, or even love letter fell out. Instead, chiseled marks were inscribed on its entirety – burned into the flesh, like a statement being branded into a wild animal. Someone clearly wanted this message preserved without the manipulation of modification. I felt its intensity. It was powerful.

I release another sigh as I search for the beginning. The message reads:

To Whom It May Concern:

Nobody talks about the grey sheep. The one that has white wool with black, dirty filth hiding underneath. No. They only pay attention to the white part. But since I have black wool, I’m seen as the black sheep. Maybe because I’m different, and it’s obvious.

Since I am a rarity, I’m not likeable. Unlike the grey one, who is agreeable to the white ones – walks like, talks like, and acts like them. But one thing is obviously different to me, he doesn’t think like them, no. I see right through his thick, white wool skull. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. The ugly vicious cycle – pretending, while premeditating. It’s disgusting.

At least I’m obvious with my unagreeable self. At least I value my rarity and speak my true feelings. If I don’t agree, I’m allowed to voice my opinion – and it should be respected. But the white ones don’t like that – using your own voice – and the grey one notices the dislike. Instead of him being different too, he chooses to be fake. What a disgrace. A disgrace to one’s self. To be a liar in your own skin. Black and white – Grey.

I wish they saw both colors as one, instead of them separately. A space between the lines they’ve created in their own matter, grey matter that is. Instead, they rather choose a side and completely ignore the other. Even ignore the fact that the other is a sheep at all, just like them! It’s disheartening!

But I’m not like them, even if I am a sheep. I think differently. I see differently. I know differently. Because I am different. And I’ll be damned to lighten my wool just to be seen as white or even grey – that would make me fake. I don’t want to blend in when I was born to stand out. But the grey one wants to blend in. He wants to be noticed, for his likeness, and he’ll fake it because he’s in sheep’s clothing. Dirty. Absolute filth. Ignorant to his own truth. Ignorant to the facts.

They all are sheep, yes, but they are liars too. Not lions, LIARS. And I’m not a liar, but I could be a lion in sheep’s clothing. Yet, my difference of opinion affects their black and white vision so much that they only see me as black, when I am in fact a sheep, just like them – or am I? Maybe on the outside, but underneath my clothing and skin is the truth, and I’m not afraid to show it like the grey one is.

Maybe if he was sheared off, stripped of his falsity, they would all see. Oh, yes, justice in due time. Then the white ones will see the truth. Then they’ll see the white-looking sheep was actually black. Then they’ll see his volatile self. His differencing of opinion. And when he’s immediately disowned by the flock, he’ll look to me for a helping hoof but will completely forget that he once acted like a white sheep and disowned me.

But I am different. I’m not like the white ones, and I was born to stand out. Because instead of me walking like, talking like, and acting like them by disowning the grey or white ones, I owe it to myself to accept them for who they really are. Because I think differently, see differently, and know differently. And the truth is, I am a sheep just like them. Or maybe we all are something else underneath our skin, beyond the grey matter.

Sincerely,

The Lion of a Sheep