Forty-Nine Cents

         I wrote you a postcard because I missed you.  It was from the stand outside the downstairs jewelry store, and in the process of writing it, I accidentally smudged black bean paste from a moon cake on the "write your [impersonally brief] message here" section.  I skirted the edges of the purply smear with my note, somehow managing to write "I miss you" thirty-six times in different handwriting before closing with "oh, yeah, I also miss you," and "love, me."  I felt silly.  You only been gone for two days, so I decided to wait another week  to send it off.  I placed the card on the table by my front door and passed by it three times as I left for work, then three more times when I returned each evening.  I dropped it into the mailbox early on Saturday morning after not waiting an entire week, guessing that it would take about three days to reach you in St. Louis.  I also resolved to write you a postcard every day, because a daily forty-nine cents (touristy postcard plus postage) seemed a very reasonable rate for maintaining my status as your ridiculous yet charming boyfriend.
         I knew you were perfect for me as soon as I saw you.  Maybe it wasn't quite love at first sight, but it was awfully close.  Like all Chinatowns, Los Angeles' smells like fish, and in June, it smells like fish and puzzled tourists.  You were in a fish market with another girl (Emily, I think), and I caught sight of you, olive-skinned, tousle-haired, and decidedly out of place, out of the corner of my eye.  There you stood, triumphantly hoisting a squid above your head, grinning as though you'd captured it yourself in a long and vicious battle.  Inexplicably, you, the Greek Amazon, looked at home in the sea of tiny Asian women, as though tangling with marine life was a typical daytime activity of yours.  I followed you discreetly for a bit, then watched happily as your friend walked down a subway staircase while you continued into a bakery.  I walked in behind you, picked up an egg custard and bubble tea, then sat down at the table you were at, directly across from you.  You blinked once, twice, in confusion.
         "Should I remember you?" you asked, head cocked to one side, brow knit, arm still in mid-air from rolling up a lime green shirt sleeve.
         I shook my head.
         "No, I don't think so.  I just saw your, uh, victory over the sea earlier and couldn't help but notice."
         "Oh.  I see."  My stomach lurched -- had I frightened you? -- but you quickly calmed my fears.
         "I'm glad you decided to join me.  My friend just went home, and I was wondering how I was going to waste time before my meeting at seven.  Would you like to share snackes, or are you concerned about the possibility of catching The Ick?"  You crossed your arms on the table and leaned in towards me, smiling.  I waved a hand in the direction of my food.
         "By all means, be my guest.  Trust me, were I concerned about The Ick, I wouldn't be eating egg custard in a Chinatown bakery."
         You laughed.  Loudly.  Everyone turned to stare, and I was elated.  We ate slowly, splitting my custard and your moon cake.  I learned you had a chemistry internship at UCLA after having graduated from there in May.  I told you about my unpleasant office job designing logos for companies and non-profits that neither of us had ever heard of.  We rented Clerks and walked to the closer of our two apartments (mine, which was five blocks as opposed to the fifteen for yours) and watched it while making lists of our favorite movies and drinking tea.  At 6:13, you glanced at your watch, did a double-take, and leaped from the couch.
         "Oh, mother of God!  I'm going to be late late late if I don't leave now now now!"  you scrambled about the room, putting on the shoes and socks you had discarded when you entered the apartment and finding the back you'd tossed behind the couch when we sat down.
         "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go!  Wait, what's your name?  I have no idea what your name is.  Can I come back sometime?"
         You ripped a corner from a page in the notebook on the glass coffee table and scribbled your (almost illegible) name and (mostly readable, except for the 4 and 9) number on it, thrust it in my hands, and briskly strode towards the door.
         "I'm Marcus," I said.  "You should absolutely come back.  We can watch Doctor Zhivago and pretend that my air conditioning works."
         You turned around in the door frame, one hand holding the strap to your bag, the other on the back of your neck, elbow stretched above your head.  You smiled. 
         "Good.  You're cute and I like you.  I'm Helen.  Call me soon, but not before 8:30, or else my phone will buzz during my meeting and I'll be embarrassed.  Bye!"
         The door slammed behind you, and I watched out the front window as you dashed down the street to the subway station.  For several minutes, I stared at the opening to the subway, hoping I would see you again.
         I called four times during the upcoming week, but heard only your voicemail each time:
         "Hi, this is Helen's phone.  I'm either in the lab or sleeping or doing something else where I can't pick up the phone, so leave me a message and I'll hopefully get a chance to call you back at some point.  Thanks!"
         I left a message each time, but gave up after five days, assuming that you'd accidentally given me an old number or decided that you weren't that fond of me, after all.
         Friday night, I got home from work and flopped onto the couch for a long nap.  I turned on the TV for the infomercials and drifted off to sleep as Ron Popeil graciously lowered the price of his Showtime Rotisserie (only 3 easy payments of $33.33?  Such a philanthropist.).  I woke up the next morning to your uproarious laughter.  You were sitting cross-legged in the armchair adjacent to me watching the episode where Wile E. Coyote finally catches Roadrunner.  Clasped onto the giant Roadrunner's leg, mini Wile. E. had just held up the sign that says, "All right, wise guys, you always wanted me to catch him -- now what do I do?", and you were momentarily so overcome with unmitigated childish glee that you forgot that you were trying not to wake me.  Your hands flew to your mouth, and your bright green eyes widened.  A billion words of apology tumbled out rapid-fire.
         "I'm sorry!  I know it's early.  I should have watched the Discovery Channel so I wouldn't wake you up.  I hope you don't mind that I'm here.  You left you door open and I was walking past here on my way back from an errand so I thought I'd stop up and I thought you'd still be asleep so I just sat down and was waiting for you to wake up and it's only 9:30 and if you called, I'm sorry, because I dropped my phone in a puddle, and, and, and... yeah.  I'm sorry.  Go back to sleep.  I'll still be here when you wake up."
         The room was silent for a few seconds as I adjusted simultaneously to the unexpected morning light, my sore and sweat-covered back, and the fact that you had returned of your own volition to see me.  You watched and waited quietly as I sat up, twisted around a bit, then flopped back onto the cushions while peeking out from underneath my arm.
         "Nnngh.  Good idea," I said.  "Wake me up at 11?"
         "Okay!  I'll watch TV more quietly in the meantime."
         I swung my legs down to the floor.
         "Silly girl, I'm teasing!  Come sit over here with me."
         Three cartoons later, you were cuddled up to me despite the heat (but not without complaining about the lack of air conditioning).  I wrapped an arm around your shoulder and played with the ruffled lace sewn to the edges of your tank top.  Summer disappeared.
         It was suddenly September.  You had finished your internship and secured some chemical engineering job with a materials company in St. Louis.  Little reminders of you were scattered about the apartment, intentionally left and not.  A flip flop; a notebook full of calculations; a perfume bottle; an embroidery kit; a white pillow with our names crookedly stitched on it in green, blue, yellow, and red.  You'd only been gone for two days, but I missed you.

         So I wrote a postcard.  We spoke to each other over the phone frequently, but I hope that postcards would make you feel as though our being apart was because of vacation instead of relocation and you would come see me sooner.  I bought a new postcard on Monday, Tuesday, and every day after.  Thirty dollars and eighty-seven cents passed before I convinced you to visit, and another fifteen dollars and nineteen cents passed before you arrived.
         I picked you up from the airport and rode the train with you back to the apartment.  You were bright and sunny and warm, dressed in yellow, orange, and gold.  The cold drizzle couldn't compete, and the sun broke through as we walked up the stairs to the front door.  We spent the days watching black-and-white movies and the evenings walking through Chinatown, browing the bootleg DVDs and pet turtles and "100% Cashmere" scarves with glued-on tags.  On Saturday, before you left, we went to the bakery and split a sesame ball and litchi tea.  We went back to the airport and joked en route about pretending that you needed a wheelchair so I could get a concourse pass to escort you to your gate.  Instead, I walked to the security checkpoint with you and watched as you (salty-eyed) turned around six times to wave at me, then disappeared around a corner.
         I wrote you a postcard when I got home.
         Fifty dollars and forty-seven cents later, you called.  You'd been secretly looking for transfer opportunities and had found one.  Within the next one hundred seventy-eight dollars and eighty-five cents, you would be coming back.

         You've had a very long vacation, but I think the postcards kept you good company while you were gone.  I sent my last one this morning.  You're coming home on Saturday, and it only cost me five hundred and seventy days to bring you back.