I’ve struggled with writing anything serious as of late, Dust Tracks being my latest attempt. Mostly it’s been reviews of bed-and-breakfasts and restaurants or informational visits to obscure historical sites. After Winston, I stopped traveling and stopped collecting other people’s stories. But I couldn’tnotwrite, a habit centuries in the making. Now my notebooks hold only false starts of things I’d love to write, the messy drafts of my column, and mostly a smattering of memories—vignettes of the lives I’ve lived and people I’ve lost. My mother, my brother Silas, all the loves I’ve had along the way—little parts of the centuries leaking across the pages and sometimes feeling more like fantasy than reality. If someone ever got to read my scribblings, they’d never believe them.
Ruby nods sympathetically. “It’ll come. You have to have the best to write forThe Atlantic! Inspiration will strike soon, and you’ll have plenty more stories to tell,” she says, beaming.
“Some days, I’m not so sure,” I reply. Especially as I wait for Death and his latest assessment.
“You have all the time in the world to leave your mark. As my mama used to say, ‘You’re a spring chicken.’”
“Not hardly. More long in the tooth.”
Ruby laughs. “Sometimes you sound a hundred years old.”
I smile.If you only knew.I sip the coffee, a heady mix of espresso and lavender bloom, the honeyed deliciousness sliding over my tongue. “How much do I owe you?” I juggle the cup and riffle through my purse, realizing I’ve forgotten my wallet. “I don’t—”
“Allow me.” A hand appears with a fistful of dollars.
I glance up at a tall man. He’s wearing a white button-down that contrasts against his rich, dark-brown skin, and his square glasses give him the look of a Black Clark Kent. His hair, cut in a fade on the sides, the top a touch longer, forms tiny curls, the shadow of a beard along his jaw. In his early thirties, I’d guess, he’s in shape, the lines of his biceps visible through his shirt. He clutches a yellow legal pad and a red book. I wonder what he’s reading. A tendril of curiosity unfurls in me.
His arm grazes mine as he places the money on the counter.
I startle. Surprised at his gesture and how the feel of his skin sends a rush of heat through me. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched. It’s been so long since another person has had that effect on me.
“Th-thank you,” I say as Ruby’s eyes cut back and forth between us. “But I can’t—”
“You don’t have any money,” he teases as his intense gaze holds mine, and a small, hopeful smile grows on his lips.
My face flushes, leaving me mixed up inside as we stand there frozen, his eyes examining me and mine examining him. The glances ... the elevated pulse ... the heightened emotions ... I can almost hear the faint whir of destiny and wonderWhat if ?A tiny question I haven’t pondered for years, one I thought I might never ask again.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be seen and admired.
“Do we know each other?” His eyebrows lift. “I have the strangest feeling we’ve met.”
“No.” I finally find my words. “And I couldn’t possibly accept. Ruby, could—”
“You’ll just owe me.” He smiles. “Perhaps you can buy me one another time?”
I start to answer him when a thin edge of darkness snatches my attention away. A tall man with milklike skin and thinning auburn hair stands on the other side of the window, milling with the other tourists—his shadowed edges distinct, but only to me. Heat rushes through me as he passes, just out of sight of the windows, my breath coming in quick bursts.
It’shim.
Death.
“Are you okay?” The handsome man trying to buy my coffee looks concerned, his eyes kind. He reaches out but stops just short of touching me.
Ruby’s eyes narrow.
I swallow, struggling to breathe, blinking my eyes clear. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m sure you’re great, but I have to go ... I’m late.”
I jam my notebook in my bag before the man can respond.
The bell on the door jangles behind me as I run into the afternoon sunshine. I stop outside the shop entrance and scan the street, the air thick with dust and exhaust from the neighboring construction.
Tourists mill about, sitting at the wrought iron tables or admiring downtown Savannah’s architectural gems as traffic streams past the café. I search the crowds, anticipation humming inside me. I’m chilled despite the hot, humid sunshine, and hug my bag closer, my papers rustling, knowing what this means.
It’s time to find out if the world is about to end.
Two
Isearch for Death until it’s time to attend the lecture. I think about skipping it, the mix of expectancy and apprehension and curiosity about seeing him after all these years almost too much to bear. But I enter the jam-packed lecture hall, the hairs on my neck still prickling.
