By: Andrew Baumgartner
The Days of Miranda
She was a walking, talking compliment; tall, lithe, pert and round in all the right places and flat and sculpted in all the others. She was well-spoken and cognizant on all subjects fashionable. She could quote Tolstoy in one sentence and Nietzsche in the next. She could dissect Kierkegaard as well as she could evaluate Homer. She was, in short, the Helen of Troy of her age. She had the face and everything to go with it to launch a thousand ships. He, by contrast, was her Phemius, the lowly bard left to tell tales of other men gone seeking her. He was no Polyphemus, no Quasimodo, but neither was he blessed of Herculean form and face. His lanky frame, wisp of paunch, and slick dark hair paired well with his black horn-rim glasses and ivory skin, but paid no accolades when contrasted to the demigods of men normally in her keeping. Tell tales he might, but beside her his tongue was wooden, his jokes deflated, and his knowledge of Descartes nonexistent. Yet still he longed to sit across the table from her, bandying words for all he had. It was the closest to rapture he could manage. Miranda was ensconced in her usual throne, the mocha leather armchair near the back of Dark Horse Coffee & Tea that no man—or woman—dared usurp. Sitting in attendance across the low, round table was one of a thousand faceless men paying homage. This one was less Apollo and more Agamemnon, the type of man who would die at the hands of his spouse’s jealous lover. He was clearly more the boastful warrior than the savvy intellectual Miranda would have preferred as company. Yet still, she tolerated his presence until dismissing him with sweet words, sending him off mollified yet not necessarily satisfied.
Cautiously, he approached, hoping for a spare few moments before the next supplicant brashly intruded. She was as lovely as an early summer morning, her pale olive skin as flawless as ever, giving her a healthy glow that the ghostly pale or the overly tanned could never mimic. Dark, obsidian ringlets framed her high cheeks and subtle button nose, but left her deep azure eyes flashing out, piercing with their dark topaz gaze. “Benjamin!” Miranda called him by his full name. No one else could have, would have. He was Ben, but not to her. Her patrician London lilt left his legs locked in place. “How are you today? Come, sit down.” Her elocution was immaculate, which made her even more superlative. “I saw you alone and thought you might enjoy a match.” It was a small lie. One she could forgive. He extracted his portable chess board, the one he carried with him daily since learning that she enjoyed the game. “Of course,” she smiled, all honey and pearly whites. “I have some time.” He set up the board, the small metal figures of gold and granite adhering to their magnetic squares. Magnetic. Just like her. She waited with saintly patience, in silent observation. They began—ladies first, of course. He was no brute devoid of decorum. “What have you been up to since I last saw you, Benjamin?” she asked, as sincerely as anyone had ever inquired into his life. She truly cared. “Well… I created a song. The first one I’ve composed for a while.” “How lovely! May I hear it some time?” No one had ever asked to hear any song he’d written. Well… almost no one. “I have it, on my phone. Here.” He extracted his mobile, calling forth the relevant screen with precision.
Placing the phone and his over-ear headphones on the table, Miranda sat, listening with her eyes closed. Ben studied her for signs of a reaction. Her full lips pursed as she listened, but the corners turned upward in a faint smile. When it was done, she lifted the headphones off, her hair miraculously still perfectly arranged. “It is very pretty,” she announced. “It reminded me of The Decemberists. There is a similar sort of longing in the words.” “They’re just a touchstone,” Ben defended, shrinking in his seat. “No, I like it,” she assured him, holding out a delicate hand. “It was enchanting and graceful. Like something Alexandre Dumas would write.” Sitting up straighter, Ben grinned foolishly, pushing his glasses back up his long nose. “Thank you, Miranda. That’s really very nice to hear.” ⟡⟡ “Hey, Caroline,” Al asked his friend working behind the counter at Dark Horse. “Who’s the guy sitting in the back talking to himself?” Caroline’s face fell, a mask of sadness splayed across her features. “Ben? Oh, he’s a sweet guy. I don’t know much about him, but I do know he lost his girlfriend in a car accident last month. Drunk driver.” “The one they wrote about in The Advocate?” Al asked. “Oh… That’s terrible.” “Yeah, I feel bad for him,” Caroline agreed, handing over his caramel cappuccino. “But no one wants to interrupt whatever he’s doing. Coping, or something.” “Probably,” Al concurred. “Thanks.” He took his cup and walked to the back of the shop.
⟡⟡ “Do you mind if I sit?” Ben looked up in surprise, holding onto his rook. A blond man with a side-parting stood there. He had dark grey-green eyes, the color of a brackish sea. They were friendly, open wide in earnest. He was already starting to sit down in the chair across the table. “I’m Albert, but you can call me Al. Everyone does.” He took a sip of his cappuccino from the slate-colored cup. “Would you like to play a game? I love chess.” “Um,” Ben said hesitantly. He looked to the right, at Miranda. She was standing next to Al, who was in her seat. She smiled warmly, as radiant as the winter sun on a snowcapped mountain, and nodded encouragingly at him. “Uh… sure,” he finally replied. “Great,” Al smiled pleasantly. His hands quickly rearranged the board for a new game. “What’s your name?” Ben looked to Miranda again, into her shining blue eyes. She shifted her focus to Al, wordlessly telling him to reply. “I’m Ben,” he answered, and directed his attention to the newly arranged pieces. When he looked up again, Miranda was gone. “Ben…” Al repeated. “Nice to meet you.” He made his first move. A knight pawn. “Is that The Odyssey peeking out of your bag? That’s a great story; one of my favorite classics. I love the part when Odysseus…”