My love she speaks softly, She knows there's no success like failure And that failure's no success at all. - “Love Minus Zero/No Limit”

It’s been a good day, I think, and I’m lying flat on my bed when I think
it, splayed out on my back with my hands placed on my stomach so Ican feel my ribs push through my t-shirt and into my fingertips. When I’ve had a good day, I like to run it over in my mind to remind myself why it was good, so it sticks in my memory for solidified reasons, ones Ican go back to when I forget what a good day feels like. It’s been a good day, I think, because the sky was clear and blue, stretching off of the edge of

the skyline; because I saw aprinted picture of a Jan van Eyck painting sitting on a park bench; because I listened to a Stevie Wonder album start to finish on my walk home; be- cause it was a warm day for March; because I’ve made it to the end of the day, and I’m only now starting to think about you.

I raise my head. The sun is setting,
a burning pink streaking across the sky, interrupt ed by the jagged edge s of apartment buildings and highways overpasses and fast food chain restaurants and ancient houses. So many people outside, still: throwing footballs on the soccer field, biking around the edge of the running track, holding hands as they walk down the pathway that lines the edges of the apartment buildings, swinging their arms in between each othe r. They look like bees from my eighth story window, a collective buzz of youn g life, the false promi se of an early spring zapping life into each person. I must be the only still perso n for
a mile, I think. Still and alone and stuck inside. But then I see them .

Two lone figures, hiding under the stadium lights. They’re fighting — I can’t hear what they’re saying, but real fights don’t need noise. From the way he’s moving his hands around his head and from the shy bend of her neck I can tell that they’re on the precipice of something and don’t know which direction they’re headed towards. Been there, done that, I think. The setting sun is illuminating their faces, breaks in the clouds casting golden shadows across their faces, two lone statues in an English spring garden. What could they possibly be fighting about, I think, on a day

like today, where the weather alone is reason enough to gut it out without causing yourself any problems?

Just a few hours earlier I was sitting on that same bench where I found the van Eyck painting. You know the one — it might be his most famous, with the woman in the beautiful emerald green dress, looking directly through you, like she’s peering right through your body. It was the same one you used to keep a copy of in your room, and I started thinking about you but stopped myself. My mother used to tell me that misery is a choice — that we are only as miserable as we want to be. And I don’t want to be miserable anymore.

I’m intruding on their private moment, but I can’t seem to stop myself. The guy keeps reaching for the girl’s arms and even though she isn't stepping back, he can't seem to grab her. Who’s in the wrong, I think, and what are they possibly going to do about it? When you and I fought you’d tell me that I liked to make problems out of nothing, that I took pleasure in fighting because it gave us something to do. I never knew what to say to that, but I secretly used to think: well, we’re finally doing something, aren’t we?

I wonder — what are their names? How long have they known each other? How long have they really known each other? Do they love each other? Do they just think they love each other? Is this their first fight? Will it be their last? And do they know how lucky they are to have someone to fight with?

The sun is gone now, tucked behind the grocery store a quarter mile away. They’ve turned blurry, my two shadowy figures in the dark, just fuzzy shapes blending into a day that has grown cold. They’re walking in the same direction, shoulders brushing flirtatiously. That’s a good sign, I think. Maybe they’ve made up, found themselves stuck together by an invisible glue, binded by this moment that they’ll never be able to get rid of. Someone should be, I think. It’s a good day for it.

There is a spot on the wall of my bedroom where your picture used to hang. I replaced it with the van Eyck painting, and what’s worse, I think, wishing it weren’t empty now, or wishing it always was?

-Addison Schmidt