Blue Hour

Violet sleeps with him, on their second date.
Violet lies on the top of Frank. Her arms around him, his breath against her neck. She thinks about their first date. In the dim izakaya, beef tongue sizzles on a warm iron plate. He talks about Mozart, childhood orange popsicles, a gray stone wall in his hometown, the yellow cat at his parents’ house, mistakes he made in adolescence. They talk until five in the morning, as the sky starts to lighten when Vi must leave for her 8:30 a.m. shift. She wishes she could unfold her twenty-two years like a movie for him to watch. That night, they both hold back, not even a hug happens. But Vi can’t say she doesn’t feel anything.
Now. Frank says: “I have something to tell you.”
“Go ahead,” Vi doesn’t bother to open her eyes.
“I’m in a relationship.”
Vi stiffens. She raises her head, forcing a smile, “You are quite popular with women, huh?”
Frank doesn’t answer but reaches out to touch Vi’s hair. “Let’s do this again.”
She can feel him enter her. This time she doesn’t look at him but stares at the blank wall behind him.
Frank leaves. Vi locks the door.
When Vi was fourteen, in a blue hour, the first boy she loved told her love is a process, not a result, and the most important thing for two people is not to define their relationship but to have each other in the present moment. A person’s choice of lover tells how much they love themselves. Since then Vi has been stuck as the little girl from 2015.
She is addicted to pain, she knows.

The next Saturday, Vi and Frank go for brunch like a normal couple.
Chicago is just starting to warm up. The morning breeze still has a chill, but the red tulips on Millennium Ave are already in full bloom. Frank feeds Vi the first bite of the lobster roll. The lobster wrapped in mayo, the buttered bread perfectly toasted. They share a slice of lemon cake with one fork. Sweet whipped cream balances the sour lemon.
“So you don’t mind me having a girlfriend?”
“Maybe…… I just need someone to be with me, listen to my boring recipes, give me a shoulder when I’m sad. I guess relationships are always fluid today because that’s where vitality comes from.”
Sipping her tea, she thinks, if only her heart could be as tough as her speech.
In the afternoon, they go to the movies, holding hands.
In the elevator, she stares at the mahjong symbol on his Apple watch, and the moral question flashes, but then quickly disappears. Overcoming the desire to be loved is her lifelong lesson. A toxic cycle, exchanging brief companionship with compromise.
A man saves a woman from an accident. The old-fashioned romance movie almost puts Vi to sleep. To get rid of two old chairs and a coffee table, she posted in her apartment’s Facebook group. He was the first to respond. The other day she was going to give a speech about her latest art project. She was so anxious that she kept biting her nails. He grabbed her hand and sat down: “You’re already doing well enough. Remember, you’re not a native speaker of English.” In his black pupil, she saw herself.

He presses her down, leaving a faint red handprint on her pale skin. He kisses her forcefully as if he won’t stop until she suffocates. His hands slide over her stomach.
Then he leaves. She is alone in the empty apartment. He’s four years older. She wonders if a young body can keep him around a bit longer. Skinny, skinny enough to feel her bones. She’d fall apart with a gust of wind.
His ocean-scented cologne is still lingering. She folds his sweater and puts it on the top of the closet. She is getting used to the blurry role of her lover. A text appears on her phone screen: Come to my place tonight. 22 Roosevelt Road. I’ll introduce you as a work friend.

6 p.m., Vi sits down at her makeup table. Introduce me to whom? She paints thick blue eyeshadow and glues false eyelashes on her pale eyelids. At Target yesterday, she picked a box of chocolate when he looked for honey yogurt in the freezer as if they were living together. Do they walk to Target too? Does he hold her hand when they cross the street? Does he tell her a joke every day before bed? Is he just as happy when he’s with her?
8 p.m., Vi stands in front of Frank’s apartment.
8:15 p.m., Vi knocks on the door. The door opens. A woman stands next to Frank. She must be Helena, Frank’s girlfriend. A beige sweater, shoulder-length dark brown hair, a pair of white Ugg slippers. Though she has been in Vi’s mind for two months, Vi freezes when the real person stands there.
8:30 p.m., Vi sits on their gray cotton sofa and looks at them smiling in a photo taken at Disneyland. They have the same scented candle in the living room that she has in hers. Helena turns on the radio: “What music do you like? Oh, Frankie, can you make us girls two strawberry Martini?”
10 p.m., Helena finishes her fourth Martini and kisses Frank on his cheek for the third time. Vi feels she must breathe some fresh air before she passes out in front of them. She stands up and excuses herself to the bathroom. “Wait.” Frank stands up. He walks to Vi and kisses her forehead. Vi shrinks, then checks Helena, who doesn’t seem to be surprised. “You like Frankie? Oh, I should have known he has no colleague who’s such a beauty like you.”
Vi pushes Frank away. “Wait, I’m confused…… Aren’t you two in a relationship?”
Helena answers: “Yes. But I will leave the States in three weeks. I have a new job in Tokyo, and I’ll never come back. He can be all yours after I leave if that’s what you want.”
“Do you?” Franks asks. In his black pupil, she sees a fog. She picks up her jacket on the sofa. “Sorry, it’s late. I should go home to sleep.”

After the night, Vi hasn’t heard from Frank for two weeks. From photos on Instagram, he is traveling along the West Coast. Giant trees in the canyon, waves crashing on the beach, unmelted snow on the mountains. Vi still has one of his photos in the gap between her phone and her phone case. She never figures out what to do now with the face.
Vi is waiting for the green line on a rainy day. A banana peel lying on the ground, a metal train door, gray pigeons fighting over bread crumbs. A man in a black jacket reading a newspaper, a woman in a red dot dress eating a blueberry donut. Maybe she would never know what a healthy relationship is.
Vi walks five blocks south from her apartment without a destination. An unrepaired pothole in the middle of the road, branches on the roadside blocking the stop sign, a woman with a black Labrador and a man pushing a baby stroller crossing the road. Maybe Vi is the problem herself.

One more week passes. Helena must be packing. A text comes to Vi: How’s your day? I’m back in the town. Vi doesn’t reply. At least not in the first few hours.
Six hours after reading the text, Vi opens the door of Frank’s apartment. A few cardboard boxes are left on the floor. Three large black suitcases are tilted against the wall. The black coffee table and the gray sofa are in the reverse position. Amid the chaos, Frank stands there, naked.
Vi raises her voice: “Frank! What are you doing!”
As if it is the most normal situation, Frank says, “I feel more comfortable naked at home. Do you want coffee?” His bare feet move across the living room to the kitchen.
“No, I’m good.” Vi sits on the gray sofa, which now faces the blank wall. Still, two white mugs with national park logos come filled with hot lattes. Frank sits down next to Vi and shows her the sunburn on his shoulder and a bruise on his knee. There is some West Coast sunshine left in his hair. Vi can see nothing in his eyes. He never explains why he disappears for two weeks. But.
Violet lies on the top of Frank. Her arms around him, his breath against her neck. She feels happy.

-
Violet lies on the edge of Frank’s mattress, so low without a bed frame that she almost touches the floor. Her hands grip the quilt tightly. Why am I here, she asks herself.

Two days ago. Violet is sitting by the window on a plane back to Chicago. The faint smell of coffee lingers in the air as she pokes at the pasta in the foil tray, then pushes it aside. She glances at the seat next to her—a young girl is playing Candy Crunch on her iPad. The cold air from the vent blows against her legs, she wraps herself in a blue blanket and turns up the volume on her headphones, trying to drown out the nausea. Outside the window, a sliver of orange light from the rising sun breaks through the layered clouds. She whispers, “Wait for me.”

Two weeks ago. A call from Frank wakes Violet from a nap. She’s dozing in an old armchair on her parents’ balcony, enjoying the summer vacation. “Isn't it midnight in Chicago?”
Frank’s voice comes through the line. “I have something to tell you…… I might have to leave Chicago and go back to my hometown. Some family emergencies.”
“Wait. When are you leaving? Are you coming back?” Violet stands abruptly, scaring away her cat.
“I might leave as early as next week. I can’t say if I’ll return.”
What about us? Violet wants to ask, but the word doesn’t come.
“Can you come back to Chicago sooner?” Franks asks before hanging up.

Violet lies on the edge of Frank’s mattress. The bedroom remains silent. Frank can be heard talking on the phone in the bathroom. Who is he talking to? Violet imagines a woman, whose figure is vague. Then Frank walks out of the bathroom, and sits down at the edge of the mattress, as if nothing happened. He tries to touch her, she turns.
A few movie scenes come to Violet’s mind: a woman boarding a yellow taxi on a rainy night street. A flower pot falling from the building. A couple in love one second, separating the next. Broken dishes.

After the call from Frank two weeks ago, Violet goes to the church. She isn’t a Christian, but she prays anyway—not for herself, but for Frank. She clasps her hands together: No matter what the family emergency is, let my lover be safe. Light spills across the wooden pews, the air is thick with the vanilla scent of burning candles. Before her, stands a statue of the Virgin Mary, framed by a veil, eyes cast downward. Violet gazes into the statue’s eyes, then closes her own.

Suddenly, Violet rises from Frank’s mattress. She rushes into the bathroom and hurriedly stuffs her cosmetics into her bag—blue eyeshadow, orange lipstick, bronzer, false eyelashes—all jumbled together. Throwing a coat over her yellow-striped pajamas, she grabs a suitcase in each hand, walks up to Frank, and announces, “I’m leaving.”
“You are being crazy.”
“You lied to me. There is no family emergency.”

The door slams shut. Violet walks out of the front porch without looking back.
As the end of every romance movie.