15. Sasha

Sasha was back in the usual place at the coffee house. She sat expectantly with her Dr. Pepper in front of her. She eschewed coffee. It made her feel silly, the way she came to this place every week and never bought anything, talking to a man who was her teacher. And they never even talked about class. It all seemed so, well, desperate.
She didn’t know anyone else, and this seemed so much easier and more pleasant that trying to make friends out of her classmates. They were always too busy walking away from her. At least she recognized most of them from behind. Part of her wondered what she was doing here. She should be working on her music, not chatting it up with some professor. But Southern California had not been kind to her. This person was the only peek into what they were really like. She was miserable in this place. It was too dry, too expensive, too lonely. Not at all what she thought it was going to be. She took another swig from her soda and it fizzled against her tongue and cheeks.
She noticed the professor walking towards her and she smiled lightly and waved. Their meetings were becoming easier and more expected for both of them. They no longer asked if they could sit down; it was understood.
He sat across from her in the quick, quiet, catlike way she had come to know over the last few weeks. He never seemed to make any noise. She felt like she was always blundering around with her enormous backpack like one of those tourists at the airport who’d purchased too many souvenirs. He traveled light.
“I have something for you,” she said, digging through one of the pockets of her bag.
His eyes opened wide and caught a glint of sun in them as he answered, ”Really, what is it?” Sasha rifled through, down to the bottom and pulled out a green CD. She slid it across the table sheepishly.
“I seem to recall you saying you wanted to hear some of my work, so I brought this for you.”
“Is this you playing?”
“No. It’s a composition I wrote recently. I cheated and used computer generated instruments instead of real ones.” She looked at him. His eyes were asking the questions, so she continued. “It’s a trio of instruments, with three movements. I wanted to write something where the instruments kind of talk to each other and have a conversation without words. I wanted to see if I could do it. So here it is. I hope you like it.”
“I can’t wait,” he said. He sounded so sincere, she thought, but it was surely her imagination. No one really likes the esoteric music of the concert hall, especially when it came from an amateur like herself. Regardless, she had put it out there for him, and hopefully he would not hate it.
He placed the CD on top of his mini-stack of belongings, and their conversation continued in its usual ease for a while, until he said, “So tell me about your family. You haven’t really talked about them at all.”
She sat back in her chair and thought for a moment. “Well, they live in Wyoming. I have a younger brother and a married older sister. What else do you want to know?”
“Well, tell me about your parents. Are they retired? Do they work? What does your sister do? You know, the usual stuff.” He was teasing her now.
“Ok, fine. My dad is semi-retired, whatever that means. My mother was a stay-at-home mom for most of my life, then got a job when we all left the house. She works in an accountant’s office, and all I really know about her job is that she’s really busy around tax time. My sister is a pediatrician. Brother is a math genius. He’s getting a degree in engineering, or at least that’s the rumor.”
“Are you close to your family?”
“What about your family?” she dodged. “Tell me about them.”
“Well, they are insane and dysfunctional like every other family in the world,” he started with a wry laugh. “I have a younger brother. He’s a psychologist. My mother is also a psychologist, and she’s married to a scientist who does work that he doesn’t talk about, so I’m not really sure what he does. My father is retired and lives a couple of hours from here.”
“That doesn’t sound very dysfunctional,” Sasha accused.
“You don’t know my mother.” They both laughed, and Sasha looked towards him to see if there was any sign that he would continue or change the subject. When his face straightened out, he looked at her more seriously and said, “So you’re not very close with your family, right?”
Her voice caught in her throat. “Well, in a family of engineers, doctors, and accountants, I’m a musician. I believe the term for it is Black Sheep.”
“How often do you talk to them?”
Sasha looked to the side at the glass double doors that led to the patio outside. “Not very often. I’ve talked to them once since I moved here.”
“How come?”
It seemed like a perfectly legitimate question. A natural question. But there was no natural, simple answer. She hated her family at this moment, for making her explain to someone how weird they all were. “They just don’t understand me. It’s hard to talk to them sometimes.”
“What don’t they understand?”
“Well, they don’t understand why I would ever leave Wyoming, or why I want to study music, why I’m not married, why I’m so strange. It seems like it’s just easier to stay away from them and not give them the chance to make me feel small.” She paused, and then quickly restarted, “I still love my family and talk to them, but we’re just not very close. I guess you could say we’re functionally estranged. We check in every once in a while to make sure everyone’s still alive, but I don’t call them and tell them things about my life. They just wouldn’t understand.”
She was staring at her hand around the bottle of soda in front of her, a barrage of memories crowding her eyes. She blinked them away and looked at Wolf. He smiled quietly at her and said nothing. Sometimes it really made her nervous the way he looked at her and said nothing; she found it hard to return his gaze for very long before she had to look away. She didn’t want this person to discover how dysfunctional she was, and yet she couldn’t seem to hide things from him. He always knew which questions to ask and how to ask them so she couldn’t dodge them.
“So what about you? Have you ever been married? Any kids?”
“No. Never been married, and I don’t have any kids. It’s not because I don’t want them, because I love kids. It’s just that the women I’ve been with have never been interested in having children or getting married. So it never happened.”
Sasha nodded, both in understanding and disbelief. Wolf didn’t seem to have any shyness about himself or his past. It was weird. She couldn’t seem to find any part of his life that he didn’t want to talk about. It made her feel inept and silly to be so ashamed of the sensitive parts of her life. It made her feel like more of a freak than usual, but at the same time, it was also cathartic to be able to tell her most personal secrets to someone she trusted enough not to judge her for it.
He looked at the clock, then said, “I’ve got to go to class. See you next Thursday?”
“Sure,” she answered. He left in his usual quick way, and she tracked his movements until he was out of her view.

14. Jacob

Jacob’s hands and lower legs were stained a purplish red. He knew it would be there for a few days, of not more. He sat in front of the fire, with no other light on in the house. He was alone. He felt the loneliness of the house crushing him, just as he had done to the grapes that very afternoon. He could hear it settle; hear the echo of nothing bouncing through the tiled halls.
He took another sip of the wine beside him. It was beginning to warm him from under his skin, perfectly complementing the warmth of the fire on his skin. He felt guilty. He had never crushed the grapes without Amelia before. It felt like he was cheating on a cherished lover. He was enjoying the grapes without her, but not really. The pain in his chest grew heavier with every step, with every added gallon of juice they created. He had been brought to his knees by the memory of her, with Frank having to save him from the drunken mire of his emptiness.
Suddenly, the phone rang. It gave Jacob a start, jerking him from the haze of pain and numbness he had been swimming in all evening. He let it continue to ring until the answering machine picked up. A stab went through his heart as he remembered Amelia’s voice was still greeting callers. After the beep, there was an awkward pause, then Frank’s hesitant, yet gruff voice. “I’ll come in early tomorrow to take care of the sulfides and the yeast. We probably don’t need sugar; it looked pretty good before we harvested. Anyway, if you want to stay in, I just wanted to let you know that I’d take care of it. See you later.”
Frank. Jacob had always liked him. He could always be counted on to make sure things ran smoothly in the vineyard. He was ten or fifteen years younger than Jacob, and had started on as Jacob’s right hand man eight years before. He was a lean man, the kind of person one thought of when the word ‘cowboy’ was heard. He was dependable, and knew wine as well or better than most, and seemed to take honest enjoyment in every facet of winemaking. He was friendly and caring, and treated everyone with respect, from Jacob to the Spanish-speaking workers that harvested with them every year. He had a wife and a couple of kids, and was originally from Oregon. Aside from that, Jacob knew nothing about him. He’d never even met Frank’s family. Until now he’d never even thought of it. How selfish he suddenly felt. How self-absorbed.
Jacob finished the last swallow of wine in his glass, then made his way up to bed. He wanted to make sure to get to the barn before Frank started in the morning. He wanted to be there, even if Frank didn’t need him.

13. Lola

The sun filtered through the window, throwing yellow light across the room. As Lola opened her eyes, she could see little particles floating aimlessly through the light. She blinked quickly a couple of times as the rest of the bedroom came into clearer focus. She rolled her head to the side and felt that pang once again. The other side of the bed was empty. Vacant. Cold. She closed her eyes again and reached her hand over to the other side of the bed. She took a deep breath and let it out. At least morning smelled the same. How does one bridge a gap like this? She wanted to go back to sleep, but the sun was creeping underneath her eyelids, begging her to get up. It was a blinding light, even through her skin.
Lola went about her morning rituals of bathing, dressing, and coffee with painstaking attention. These tasks had recently become more important than ever, and more difficult to carry out than ever as well. She missed George. She missed the mornings they used to have, where he would wait for her to wake up by laying on his side and staring at her. She would open her eyes and look up at him, and he would kiss her forehead before making breakfast for them both. He always had time for her then. Now it seemed they only had time to argue. But she still loved him, as much now as ever.
Once she finished, she walked slowly out to the barn. The weight of the house left her as she stepped out into the sun. She stood briefly to let the warmth of spring seep into her skin. Lola continued into the dark must of the barn and waited for her eyes to adjust. She could just make out the glint of Vic’s black eyes against the dark fur of his head. His ears pricked up towards her, and he took a curious step in her direction. Lola’s heart lifted under his attention, and she reached out to him with a handful of oats. He blew into her hand, then picked the treat up greedily with his floppy lips. They made a funny sound when they slapped together that made her smile. The velvet of his nose gave way to the wetness of his tongue as he licked the remainder of the oats from her hand, along with the salty sweat underneath.
Lola took great care with Vic, brushing him, saddling and bridling him. She felt she could talk to him, even though she knew he didn’t understand. His ears constantly swiveled as she walked around him, tracking her movements, if not her words.
It made her feel silly, but she didn’t have anywhere else to turn; no one who would accept her attention. Vic was her only outlet. She led him out of the barn, and he followed closely behind her, with his head nearly touching the flat of her back. She led him to the end of the gravel driveway, then mounted. It felt good to be in the saddle again, to feel his energy underneath her. He turned down the road and engaged in his swinging walk that she loved so much. It was a smooth rocking motion that was almost hypnotic, and the sun heated her through her clothes, forming beads of sweat in the usual places. Lola released the reins and allowed Vic to walk as freely as he wished. Feeling the weight of the leather on his neck, he stalled for a moment, then continued in his gait. She pressed her calves against his side, and he swung into a lazy trot. Lola let him go for a few minutes, then pulled him back to a walk.
She turned in the saddle and looked back towards the house. She thought of George. She wished he could be here, alongside her. She wished she could make him understand. Their great dream of the house and the kids and the perfect life was gone, and she felt as though it were her fault. She wanted to explain things to him, and she didn’t know how. She wanted to explain why she had bought the horse, what it could do for her. She wanted him to look at her like he used to. She wanted him to look inside her like he used to.
She turned Vic back in the direction they had come. His walk had slowed, mirroring her pensive mood. She would try to talk to George tonight; try to make him understand.

12. Sasha

Sasha slipped her books into her backpack and zipped it shut. She was really looking forward to school again. She had been meeting Professor Wolf at the campus coffee house for a couple of Thursdays now, during his unofficial office hours he held before one of his classes. After talking, he would head to his class, and she would head to the music building to practice, or compose, or whatever she felt like doing that day.
Professor Wolf had brought this new warmth to her life; they talked about all kinds of things and she felt at ease with him, as if she had nothing to hide. It seemed like he would understand whatever drivel came from her on any given day.
She walked into the small food court and scanned the area for him. He was sitting alone at one of the small round table with a bit of reading in front of him. She approached slowly, still somewhat unsure if she should interrupt him. She was still a few feet from the table when he looked up and smiled at her. He closed the book he was reading as she got to the table and sat down.
“How are you?” he said jovially.
“Good.” She settled into the rigid wooden seat and laid her backpack on the floor. Conversation with him was so easy and fluid, there were never any of the awkward pauses that sprinkled most of her conversations with people. They talked about the things they liked to do, places they’d been, things they thought about. He asked her about college. She told him about all the classes she’d gone to, the great professors she’d had, the fun town, and all the friends she’d left behind to move to California.
“So was there the college boyfriend, too?” he asked expectantly. She stopped and looked at him. He shifted in his seat. “See, this is what I think. You had a fair number of boyfriends, with one or two long relationships, maybe you even got close to getting married. How close did I get?”
She swallowed nervously and looked around her, then back at him. “Well, actually, you’re way off. There was nothing like that.”
“You mean you never had the college boyfriend?” he asked with disbelief.
“No. Never. Not even close,” she scoffed. He could see the cynicism on her face and the tightening of her posture. He didn’t prod her, but she continued anyway. “Actually, the vast majority of my relationships last a week or two, with the longest being a whopping nine months. Second place comes in at six weeks.” She laughed self-consciously.
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Oh, I’m insane,” she was trying to keep things light.
He laughed and said, “Why, what makes you say that?”
“Well, it’s true. I might be ok to look at, but after a week or so, I’m not so much fun anymore. Then they see what a freak I am and just quit calling.” She had been looking sideways while she’d been talking, and they trailed back as she finished her sentence. She was waiting for him to agree with her, or to disagree, or to change the subject altogether.
“Why do you think you’re a freak? I can’t imagine anything that terrible about you that it would scare someone off like you say.”
“Well,” she was trying to think, “I have really funny eating habits, and I drink too much, and I work too much, and I spend all my time at school…” She trailed off into the noise of people behind her.
He shook his head. “That doesn’t sound freakish. It actually sounds like you’re pretty normal.”
“Tell that to them.” She laughed, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She felt weird talking to her professor about such a personal thing, but she wasn’t sorry or uncomfortable. Maybe it was just weird because no one had ever asked her that before. Someone was actually listening to the answers to their questions. It reminded her of the therapist she used to visit, but better, because she didn’t have to pay for him to listen. It seems like he really wanted to know everything there was to know about her. She liked it. It made her feel interesting.
She laughed again quietly and looked up at him. She was surprised to see him sitting back staring at her. He has a funny smirk on his face that showed just a bit of white teeth behind his lips. His gaze made her nervous; she didn’t know how to react. She wasn’t used to people looking at her either. Or rather, inside her.

11. Jacob

Jacob’s eyes opened early; the sun was just beginning to sprinkle light on the hills. He could see the clouds behind it, casting shadows up into the sky. He got up and closed the window; the curtains drifted softly to the sill. He shivered slightly. There was a slight chill that had settled in the air overnight. Autumn would soon be winter.
When Jacob got to the wine barn, it was filled with quiet. His skin prickled in the cool breeze. This was going to be a day. He didn’t know what kind yet. It had always been his favorite day of the year, and Amelia’s too. He remembered her bubbly laugh bouncing off the rafters of the barn; the way she seemed to lose herself like a kid on Christmas. He leaned against the wall of the barn and looked at the stillness before him. It wasn’t fair, he thought. Amelia should be here. This was what she loved. This was what she lived for. He was still for a while; thinking about her. Thinking about how she had been snatched from him before she should have been.
He remembered the way the wreckage looked, and how he could only stare at it; not comprehending what had happened. He remembered the police telling him it was a freak accident; that she had died instantly; that there was no way anyone could have ever survived an accident like that. He remembered wondering how long an instant was. She must have been terrified in that instant, and his heart hurt thinking about exactly how long that instant might have been. He remembered that Amelia was always a safe driver. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen to people who drove like she did. He remembered the numbing daze of disbelief and pain, and how the only relief from it was drunkenness, if only for a little while. He remembered cursing the weather, the curve in the road, and especially that truck she was driving. He remembered the last time they ever spoke. She had called from town. Instead of saying “Goodbye”, she always said, “I love you”. He knew other people thought it was hokey, but it was all he had to hold on to now. Because he knew she meant it, as much or more than he did.
He didn’t know how long the wall had held him up, but Frank came in and looked at him with a concerned eyebrow. He caught Frank’s eye briefly, then pushed his body away from the wall. “It’s about time,” he tried to joke. He slapped Frank on the back and they started getting ready for their day. Frank had already gotten many of the grapes in the day before, but Jacob wanted to wait until today to pick the Malbec and Petit Verdot. He was hoping to eke one more day of earth and sky out of them. He would let Frank take care of the Verdot, but he wanted to do the Malbec himself. This was the grape that Amelia had insisted they plant five years ago, and this was the first time it would be harvested for wine. She had taken such care with the vines; Jacob had even caught her talking to them a few times. She had been looking forward to harvesting the literal fruits of her labors for a long time. The least Jacob could do was get the most out of them as possible.
Jacob and Frank began picking, with an army of workers following close behind. Jacob knew they would have to work fast; the clouds were gaining on the sun, determined to blot it out. Bucket after bucket was filled. Jacob’s excitement grew with every bunch he pulled from the vine. He could almost taste the juice they would produce just by looking at them.
They got the bulk of the grapes in that morning. Jacob and Frank stayed in the barn to press the grapes, while the workers returned to the vines to get the remaining bunches in before the weather turned sour. Normally they stayed in the barn and finished harvesting the next day, but Jacob could feel the skin on the back of his neck tingling with the chill of rain. He couldn’t take the chance of losing the rest of the fruit. Besides, this was going to be the most difficult day in the barn he ever spent, and he didn’t want anyone around to see it.
While Frank dumped the grapes into the vat for crushing, Jacob scrubbed his legs and feet down thoroughly. Amelia had always done this. She said she liked the squishing between her toes when the skins popped, and how the juice ran over her ankles and feet. And Jacob had always liked watching her. It was like watching a kid splash around in the mud, jumping and laughing at each splatter of purple juice on her skin.
The vat was ready when Jacob returned. Frank looked at him, but said nothing. The air had a solemnity that had never been in the barn before. Jacob looked at Frank for a long moment, then said, “I’ll do this alone today. Why don’t you get started with the other vats.” Frank hesitated, and then walked out, closing the door behind him.
Jacob climbed up to the top of the vat and looked inside. He gingerly poked a foot through the clusters of berries, until it came to rest against the bottom, with carcasses of exploding grapes providing a thin barrier between his sole and the vat. His other foot followed. He stood there briefly, looking at the stumps of his legs disappearing into the sea of dark marbles.
He started stomping them, and tried to erase the nostalgia of the ritual with every step. He tried to think about how all the natural components of the berries would mix to create the kind of wine that would make the cover of the magazines. He thought about how he would blend the varieties to make good wines even better. He started to think about the wine that would make people stop to think about what they were tasting, the wine that people would save for their most special occasions. And then he was back to remembering the wine that Amelia had crushed with her own feet. No matter how hard he tried to make the wine without Amelia, he knew she would always be there.
Suddenly he heard Frank call his name. Jacob felt his head in his hands realized he had been sobbing. His hands were covered with the red stains, as was his face. He looked up and Frank was standing next to the vat. “Jacob,” he repeated. “I think you got most of it. I’ll take care of the stems. You go ahead and get cleaned up. Take your time.”
Frank handed him a towel, and Jacob climbed out of the crimson juice. It had stained his skin enough to last for at least a couple of days, but he didn’t mind. For some reason, it made him feel like Amelia was with him. He shuffled to his office and sat staring at his discolored hands while listening to the sounds of harvest outside.

10. Lola

It was late. Lola could hear the click of the clock inside. George had gone to bed, and the house had settled under the heaviness of the dark. She sat in a rocker on the porch, a quilt wrapped around her and hot tea in her hand. She didn’t really need it since it was such a hot summer night, but it was more for comforting her mind than anything else. She laid her head back and looked at the stars, wondering when things had gotten so hard.
George hadn’t been home much lately. It seemed like his work was keeping him in the office later and business trips took him away more often. But the distance between them was bigger than that; more difficult to close. He couldn’t understand her. Not that he didn’t try, but he just didn’t know what to do with her, what to say to her, how to comfort her.
She still loved him, but didn’t know how to save their ailing marriage. Their arguments were growing more frequent and more vehement. Arguments were starting to eclipse the understanding and empathy they felt for one another. And now there was the horse. George would never understand. Lola would never change her mind. She wanted the horse. She needed him.
Lola and George had been married for eight years. Eight years turned over and over in her mind. They had gotten married a year after George had finished his MBA. Lola had started out as a librarian, then opened a bookstore of her own two years later with George’s help. It had been successful enough to allow her the freedom to work whenever she wanted, and add significant income to George’s already healthy salary. Things seemed to be going perfectly. They bought their dream house just outside the city, complete with a wraparound porch, hundred-year-old trees lining the yard, and a small horse barn connected to a five-acre pasture. They had laid the groundwork for the life they had planned together, but it abruptly veered off course two years ago.
They wanted children filling the extra bedrooms of the house, and so far they’d had no luck. After a year without success, they turned to doctors. Lola had subjected herself to a myriad of tests and procedures and drugs. Each new treatment was more invasive and less reliable than the last. Still, she and George were willing to try anything. Her last attempt had been the last ditch effort. She had undergone treatment for in vitro fertilization just before George had gone on his last business trip. It had failed. She had picked up her results on the way to see Vic. She eyes began to water as she remembered to look on the doctor’s face; how he had struggled to look at her. It wasn’t fair. There were so many people having so many kids, and all she wanted was one. One. She hated herself; hated her body for spiting her like this. It made her feel like less of a woman. It had forced a wedge between she and George, and it was almost unbearable. George wanted to understand her, what she was going through, but he was grasping at straws. He was fighting a monster that didn’t fight fair. Lola knew that. And she couldn’t help him. She was fighting monsters of her own.

9. Sasha

Sasha had been at school all day. It was kind of depressing to be at school all day, but there was nothing better at home. She had ventured to the other side of campus for the first time, and it seemed like it was a completely different place. Perhaps it was the distance from the Business and Math buildings, or the Administration buildings, but this side of campus seemed to attract the artsy hipster crowd.
She found her way to the mini food court and spread her things out on a table just outside the half wall separating the corporate coffee joint from the rest of the area. She was looking over a piece she was supposed to be learning for her cello lessons. She wasn’t really interested in playing it, but she was willing to give it a fair shot. She laid the music out in front of her, and started at the beginning. She tried to hear the notes in her head, and transferred the note on the page to the place that it lived in her fingers. It was a strange sort of telegraph she had developed, but over the years she had found it to be the easiest way to memorize music. It wasn’t just about remembering what note came next, but about memorizing what the music felt like inside her. Then it would become more like second nature, like driving a car.
She went through the piece quickly a couple of times, then started over again, studying each black dot or squiggle as carefully as possible. It was like deciphering ancient code; she had to figure out why each note was there, and why notes had been left to silence elsewhere. The noise around her faded as she became more and more immersed in the intricacies of the work. She stared hard at the page as the notes moved around on the page, when she suddenly noticed a foreign pair of shoes below her table.
Her attention shifted sharply towards them as she realized they were pointed towards her, waiting patiently for notice. She jerked her head up, and Professor Wolf, her literature professor stood before her; a mischievous smirk smeared across his face.
“Hi!” she said in a too loud, too startled voice. She wondered how long he had been standing there, and was embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed him sooner. She felt her face flush and combed her physical memory to see if she had been doing anything stupid in the last few minutes. From the look on his face, she was sure she had, but she had no idea what.
“Hi. How are you?” he said between chuckles.
“I’m fine. You scared me.”
“Sorry. I know you were really into whatever you were doing. I just wanted to come and say hi since I saw you.”
She knew her face must have turned a telling shade of pink, and she forgot herself for a moment. She allowed an awkward pause to insert itself, then jerked it away. “Would you like to sit down?”
He bobbled in a way she couldn’t quite place, then said, “Are you sure you don’t mind? It looked like you were busy doing something.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I can get to it later.” She could feel her mother’s manners welling up inside her; the woman who would put off childbirth for a guest. She was secretly ecstatic though; this was the first person at the university to even attempt a conversation with her. It didn’t matter to her that he was her professor; she’d had an illustrious career as a teacher’s pet in junior high and high school, and she relished the idea of conversation that didn’t involve the amount of liquor one could consume on any given Friday night.
He pulled out the chair across from her and sat. She hadn’t really looked at him closely in the first two weeks of class, but now she regarded him more carefully. He had a casual air about him, as if he had wandered onto campus and someone handed him a job. Even his clothes exuded relaxation. He wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, with a t-shirt poking out from under it. His hair seemed to be swimming on his head, as though he had run his hands through it a couple of times and left it like that. She remembered his shoes, too. They were plain, white tennis shoes, with no logos, colors, or extras. They seemed like the most uptight piece of him, with their stark blankness contrasting the soft disarray that covered the rest of him.
He was kind of gangly as he sat in the rigid wooden chair, and Sasha realized she didn’t know what to say to him. She jerkily grabbed her papers and shoved everything into a pile so he could lay his small stack of papers on the table.
“So how are you?” she started.
“I’m good. You?”
“Good.” He smiled at her, putting her more at ease. She wondered where this conversation would go. What do you say to a professor? Should she talk about class? Would that be too obvious and boring? What else was there? She didn’t know anything about this man, and he didn’t know anything about her. There weren’t very many starts made from scratch in life, but this was definitely one of them.
“So how’ve you been lately? You seemed kind of listless in class the other day. Not your usual talkative self.”
Well, there went the clean slate. She smiled and lowered her eyes. She inwardly cursed this shyness that overtook her at the most inopportune moments.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I get that way a lot when it rains. Sorry. At least someone else got the chance to talk that day. You usually can’t shut me up.” She looked up at him, hoping she had succeeded in steering the conversation away from the subject of her periodic melancholy. She didn’t want him to know what a sad case she was.
“Actually, it’s a lot better when you talk. Sometimes it’s really hard to get things rolling unless you get started.”
“Well, I’m sure most of those people wish I would just shut up. I have this ugly tendency to run people over when they say stupid things. I don’t mean to; it just sort of happens.” She was smiling while she talked. This was the self-deprecating humor she had become so skilled at over the past several years, and it was working.
He was laughing.
“So, what’s your story?” he asked pointedly. She looked at him blankly, surprised by the question and unable to find a starting point in her mind.
“What do you want to know?” She’d always found the best way to avoid questions was to counter with one of her own.
“Well, like where are you from, how did you get here, what are you studying, stuff like that.” He said it as if telling one’s “life story” had a specific format, and it was common knowledge.
“Um,” she started hesitantly, “well I grew up in the Midwest, but I went to college in Georgia. I moved out here about a month ago to get a master’s degree in music composition.”
She halted. Goodbye clean slate. She hated telling people about herself. It always felt like bragging for some reason, even thought she didn’t feel as if her life had been all that special. Or interesting.
“And?” he said insistently. “That can’t be all. Where in the Midwest? What instrument do you play? Why did you come all the way to California? There’s all kinds of stuff you’re leaving out.”
She laughed at her own stubbornness and resigned herself to tell him all that stuff. She didn’t mind telling him. She just worried about boring him. But he seemed to really want to know. So she told him about her family in Wyoming, about her fun times in Georgia, her music, and her initial disappointment with Southern California.
He looked at her in a way that made her feel funny, not because it was uncomfortable, but because no one else ever had. It was like he was actually listening to her, rather than waiting for her to stop so he could talk. And he kept coming back with more questions whenever she stopped. It felt like a lighting round of “Getting To Know You”. But Sasha was enjoying it. She looked at the clock and realized her time was up.
“Sorry, I’ve got to get going.” She stood to go as she shoved her things into her backpack.
“We’ll continue this conversation later,” he said. “See you in class tomorrow.”
“Ok. See ya.” She walked away feeling better than she had in weeks. It felt a little weird that the only person she could connect with was her teacher, but she didn’t care. It was nice to actually talk to someone for a change.

8. Jacob

Frank was waiting for Jacob when he got to the barn. It was just after nine. By the jump in his step, Jacob could see Frank had been waiting for a while. He continued to his office and settled into his old chair. Frank followed and tried to lean against the door frame casually, but his anxious gargantuan frame gave him away. Jacob smiled inwardly, and realized it was the first time in a while. "Ok, Frank, how'd it go?"
Frank stepped inside the door frame eagerly. "Well, it's time. The pH levels are just right. The Brix is a little low, but not enough to worry about. It would be better to wait a day or two, but it's supposed to rain tonight. We should get the grapes in today."
Jacob smiled at Frank and saw a younger version of himself, excited with the prospects of every vintage. He also smiled at the words. It was so simple, yet so scientific, with its pH, and its Brix and acidity. And he laughed at the pretentiousness of Brix, which was just a fancy word for sugar content. No wonder people thought wine was for snobs. Jacob blamed the French, and he laughed at that, too. Jacob looked out the window and watched the tops of the trees swaying slowly, the wind tickling the leaves and making them chirp like excited schoolchildren. He could see a few gray clouds pushing towards the sun. A small dust devil circled the courtyard and dissolved into a row of vines.
"Tomorrow."
"Jake, I really think we should do it today. If it rains, we're screwed." Frank's concern was endearing.
"Get in the big ones. The Cab, the Merlot, the Zins, and all that. Leave the grapes for the meritage. We'll take a chance on them getting perfect."
Frank studied Jake's face for a moment. He looked sure of himself, and Frank was never one to second guess him. "Alright. We'll get started."
"Frank, we'll start the others first thing tomorrow morning. I'll be down earlier in case we need to hustle to beat the rain."
Frank nodded and left the office. Jacob was glad Frank was here. The harvest would be much easier with Frank to shoulder some of the responsibility.

7. Lola

Lola was sitting at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around the cup of tea. The sun was setting quickly, and she was watching the shadows slink across the table like a prowling cat. It was that time of day where one contemplated turning on the lights. It was possible to see without them, but turning them on would renew the shininess of the entire room. It was mostly quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the periodic whistle of a bird outside. Outside, she heard the car pull up and squeak to a stop. The door snapped shut and she listened to George's footsteps in the gravel outside. She heard them stop in the middle, then continue to the house. The screen door squeaked on its hinges and slammed behind him. He laid his briefcase on the bench next to the door and walked into the kitchen. "Whatcha doing?"
Lola blew across the top of her mug and looked at George. "Just having some tea," she said. "Want some?"
"No." He was visibly irritated, but trying not to start something. She had to give him that.
"How was Richmond?" she said, not really caring.
"Fine." He paused. She knew what was coming next. "I thought we decided against a horse."
"You did. You decided against a horse." She could feel the sharpness of the words as they pierced her tongue.
"Since when do you make decisions like that without me? A horse is a big decision, you know. We're supposed to do these things together.
"Why?" she shot back, "You're never here anyway. It's not like you'd ever have to do anything. This is my thing. Something that doesn't involve you. It's not yours. You're not paying for it." She was challenging him, baiting him. She could see the resistance living in his shoulders, but it was wearing thin in his face.
"You should have talked to me first, Lola." His voice was rising.
"Says who? I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself." Her decibels met his.
"That's not the point! The point is that we could have saved the money!"
"For who?!"
The words that had leapt from Lola's throat hung in the air like thick smoke, expanding to the corners of the room. It pushed against both of their bodies while pulling their insides out. George caught the breath in his throat and held it against the words still polluting the kitchen. He quieted his eyes to push the echo out to the trees. He had to ask, but he knew. "How was the doctor?"
She caught her breath for a second and looked at him. He was concerned, but it was veiled by his agitation. She was afraid for a second. Afraid of what she had to tell him, afraid of what she had already done, and afraid of what the two would add up to. She lowered her eyes and stared at her tea. She could feel her hands beginning to shake. This was going to be harder than she had anticipated. She had practiced in her mind all week, and now it was slipping out of her like a burglar out the back door. She felt her eyes start to tear, and she concentrated her gaze on the mug to make them stop. She shook her head.

George sighed, and his shoulders sighed with him, slipping down into his chest. The walls seemed to sigh with them, like a deflating balloon. He went to the cupboard and pulled out a mug to make himself some tea. He dipped the bag in the water and sat down in the chair next to Lola. He wanted to touch her, but he couldn't even look at her. He stared at the calendar on the refrigerator, with its x's and o's and numbers and scribbles underneath the picture of a Hawaiian waterfall. He sneaked his eyes sideways at her; she was still staring at her hands. He stared at his own hands and considered the distance from his mug to hers. He ran through the movement from here to there in his mind, rehearsing it beforehand to avoid stumbling somewhere. He took a deep breath and settled his hand on her wrist. She didn't move for a second; he couldn't even sense her breathing.
She heaved towards the table with a choke that made his chest tighten. She pushed her tea away and he put his other hand on hers. Her choke was followed by a sob, and the kitchen suddenly filled with the humidity of her grief.
"Sorry." George was never eloquent under pressure.

6. Jacob

He walked through the rows of plants slowly, not really thinking about anything except the movement of his feet. This was the time of year that he always loved, but it wasn't anymore. Now it only reminded him of the hole inside him that he couldn't fill. He used to walk through the rows with Amelia. She would walk in the next row over and occasionally glance coyly in his direction. It was their game; they couldn't walk together until the end of the row, and it was fun to wait. At the end of the row, they would compare the bunches they had chosen and then start again.
He had been walking all morning, and still had no bunches. His arms were clasped behind his back and his head was bent. He shuffled like a cuffed man on death row. It was time and he knew it. He couldn't put it off any longer. He stopped and looked at the bunches in front of him. They hung there heavily, bending under the weight of the fruit. He chose a stem from the middle of the bunch and flinched as he snapped it. He couldn't help but feel like he was snapping himself. He held the bunch in his hand and stared at it for a minute. He could feel something welling up inside him and he had to stop it. He took a deep breath and looked straight into the sun. It pierced his eyeballs and he closed them defensively. After a moment, he let his breath out and continued his death walk. He wandered from vine to vine, choosing small bunches here and there. He wandered like a searcher, but like one who didn't know what they were looking for. He shuffled through the rows for much of the afternoon, and eventually ended up back at the wine barn. His right-hand man Frank was there waiting for him. Frank took the bunches from him and handed him the stack of mail that had arrived a couple of hours before. Ordinarily, this was something Jacob did, but Frank knew he needed a break from the tyrannus ritual that had been obliterated by Amelia's sudden death. Jacob had to start over, and everyone knew it. But how does an old dog start over? Frank glimpsed wetness in the corner of Jake's eye and quickly looked away. He put the grapes in a bucket. "I'll take care of it, Mr. L." Jake nodded and headed toward the office with the stack of mail. Just before he reached the door he stopped and turned back to Frank.
"You'll let me know in the morning, right?"
"Course, Mr. L."
Jake raised his eyes to Frank. "Thanks." Frank knew it was for everything.

5. Lola

The heat was oppressive. Lola wiped her forehead with her arm and squinted into the sunlight. It was still a beautiful day. She liked the dry heat of summer. She watched the horse wander around his pen, inspecting the corners as if he were taking notes. She kept mouthing his name. Virtuoso. Vic. It rolled over and over her tongue and spilled through her teeth to her lips, only to be scooped up by her ears. She liked the way it felt. The soft vibration of the 'v', followed by the percussive 't', the twisting 'u' and 'o', and the sibilant 's'. She also liked the perfunctory ease of Vic. Both monikers seemed to match his personality. His careful examination and consideration of his new home echoed the many-sided character of his given name. His comfort and curiosity mirrored the nickname.
He casually walked to where she was standing and flipped his head over the railing. She returned the greeting with a friendly tickle to his nose. He flipped his lips towards her fingers. He was half playing, half searching for goodies. She laughed at his adolescent earnestness.
She slipped the gate open and stepped inside. He turned his head to her and she scratched the bottom of his jaw. She moved her hands up to his ears and he flipped his head away, but quickly came searching for her hands again. She smiled again and ran her hands down the top of his neck, running her fingers down his mane as she went. She loved the greasiness in his coat. He'd been rolling in the dirt, and it was beginning to accumulate underneath her fingernails. She moved further down to the curve in his back and circled her arm across it, pressing her side against his. He curled his neck back to regard her and swished his tail. The end of it whipped against her side, and she laughed again. She smelled his horse smell and closed her eyes. It was like a drug for her, doping her into a sleepiness that only heat and horses could bring. This was why she'd returned to horses. It wasn't for the shows or the adrenaline. It wasn't even for the companionship. It was for the drug. She felt that Vic could give her everything that the doctors couldn't.

4. Sasha

She'd always thought Southern California was sunny and warm. What a myth. It had been raining for three days now, and she'd been forced to buy a coat since hers were two thousand miles away at her parents' house. California was cold. Sasha was beginning to forget what the sun looked like. She was forgetting what warmth felt like.
But, she thought, she'd run in to so many obstacles, it was only fitting that the weather would be a disappointment as well. But now she would just have to buck up and get through it. She was used to doing things without help. She could do this.
She had gotten a stack of forms from the Graduate Office to get her courses approved. She had dropped her course load to the financial aid minimum. She had resigned herself to the idea of a wasted semester, at least in terms of getting credit. This semester would be for Sasha. She had decided to take courses that she would like, since no one would help her find courses she would need. If nothing else, she would have fun.
She was down to four classes, her cello lessons, composition lessons, an experimental music course, and a literature class. She was also being forced to attend a class in sixteenth century musical counterpoint, but the professor was nice enough to let her take it without registering. But the literature class was the candy of the semester. It was one of those classes that had just jumped out of the catalog and into her lap. It wasn't a serious literature class since it was just an intro to fiction course, but she thought it might be fun, and it would force her to read. She liked reading, but it seemed like life was always getting in the way of things that were fun. So far it was her favorite class. She looked forward to moving the desks into a circle so they look at each other while they had discussions. It reminded her of junior high for some reason. She liked getting glimpses of who people were by what they said about things.
Today she sat there at her desk, running her fingers across the grooves that someone had painstakingly carved into it. She stared at the greyness outside. She sighed and closed her eyes. She really wanted to be at home today, even though this was her favorite class. Even though she loved school. Even though this was what she wanted.
She would have loved to do the day in bed, where everything was soft and warm around her. Rain always did this to her. It made her lonely. Which was exactly how she had felt since moving here.
She had moved to Southern California over the Christmas holiday. She left her friends behind in Georgia in pursuit of graduate school, and in the past month she had often wondered why. She had been unable to make friends in the month she'd been in California. It seemed that everyone already had all the friends they wanted, and she was constantly stumbling over her shyness. She was that person in class who always had her homework done because she actually went home and did it. She didn't have any distractions to help her procrastinate. It was a bittersweet sensation to devote herself solely to school. She just had to keep telling herself that this was what she wanted. She wanted to compose music. That was all. It seemed simple. Somehow, it wasn't. But she knew that things never would be.