Page 59 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“And museums?”
He laughs; his chest is light against my back. “Of course.”
“And their parks and art?”
Lanston wraps his arms around me, pressing his lips to my temple. “All of it for you, my rose.”
Our first destination is a clothing shop. We agreed that we wanted to have the entire experience, so we must dress the part. Lanston finds tight black jeans with dress shoes and a collaredshirt matched with suspenders, while I manage to get my hands on a floral dress with a cream base and white lace over it with sewn flowers.
It’s a dress I could never afford. The fabric is unbelievably soft and looks ethereal in the light. I thought it might feel special wearing something so unobtainable, but I find that I only long for that fleeting feeling to be filled again by the next thing that’s out of reach. Isn’t that how it goes? It’s never truly enough.
Lanston leans against the brick wall of the dressing room. He hasn’t noticed my appearance yet, so I decide to tease him. I sneak out the other end of the dressing room and circle back, watching him from his right side, intending to scare him.
His hands sketch quickly over the page he’s marking up with black. The charcoal pencil flicks across the paper knowingly as his hands make the darkness in his mind come to life.
I abandon my idea of taking him by surprise and fold my hands behind my back instead, properly, how a woman in a dress such as this should behave according to social standards. My footsteps are light, and I approach his side in silence.
He doesn’t even glance up at me as he mutters, “Here I thought you were going to try and scare me.” My cheeks burn. When I don’t reply, he finally lifts his eyes to mine. Whimsy flickers through his features. “Want to see?”
I nod and lean over more to peek, but as I do so, Lanston shuts his notebook and shoots me a ridiculous grin. Light brown locks of hair drift over his forehead and in the next moment, he’s making a break for the shop’s doors, fleeing from me.
“Hey!” I shout, half flustered and partly laughing as I give chase.
Not one person on the crowded streets of Dublin looks our way. They cannot see us, but I’m as real as I ever was, taking in the crisp spring air and feeling the rush of emotions as I chase my cherished one down cobbled roads.
“Lanston, stop!” I laugh, breathing hard and trying to keep up with him.
He glances back at me and holds up his drawing notebook. “Come on, I’ve always wanted to be chased by a pretty girl,” he shouts back.
I’m not a phantom in this moment; I’m just a woman in an expensive dress running after a handsome, flirtatious man in a foreign country. The freshness of the air and buzz of the street lightens my heart.
Lanston can tell I’m starting to slow so he eventually stops at a vibrant park in the center of the city. Artwork lines the entire fence surrounding the park. Artists stand proudly next to their pieces and speak with people who’ve wandered close enough to listen, mesmerized by the creative minds the city has to offer. I’ve heard of this place, Merrion Square.
I find myself pulled in, unable to look away from all the lovely pieces from different walks of life, straight from each artist’s heart.
Lanston gives me a heartwarming smile, one that makes me ache for all the years I’ve not known him, all the lost smiles I didn’t get to see. His breaths are staggered, but the eagerness in his eyes shines so bright. He explains before I can even ask how he knew this was here.
“I overheard some ladies talking about the art here while I was waiting for you to get dressed,” he says through inhales.
A laugh escapes me. “So you made me chase you here, did you?”
“Wasn’t it fun? To run through the city and feel the cobblestones beneath your feet? To be free of eyes that would normally keep us from being our genuine selves?”
My gaze softens on him. I still can’t figure him out. He’s a wonder. I crave to see the world through his eyes and feeleverything as he does. “Yeah, it was,” I admit. The ache in my chest grows.
“Shall we?” He offers me his arm. I hook my arm through his, and we stroll through the park, taking in all the paintings and drawings with awe. We stop at a few, looking longer at some black-and-white paintings that bear endearing brush patterns.
Lanston leans in and studies the techniques, intrigued by the styles. Maybe he’ll try some of them himself later.
I wish I could’ve paid for some and told the artists how lovely their work is. It would be nice if they knew two phantoms were admiring their art. By the time we finish the loop, I’m sullen with reminiscent thoughts. Lanston untangles his arm from mine and goes to stand by the black fence that lines the park.
I’m entranced by an elderly couple walking slowly through the center path of the park. Their wrinkled hands are clasped tightly and the peace of their expressions as they silently traverse the park brings a small smile to my lips.
They know each other so entirely, it’s evident. The old man buys her a flower and a painting of trees, a vibrant green like the ones around us now. She smiles at him, joy so pure yet quiet—it touches me.
I watch them until they leave and then realize I’ve forgotten myself. Where did Lanston go? How long was I watching? I look from side to side. The sun is setting and I’m alone.
As panic dawns over me, I turn completely, looking back at the fence and finding Lanston sitting between two other artists—a weary smile lifting his lips as my eyes connect to his.
