"You will lose someone you can't live without,
and your heart will be badly broken, and
 the bad news is that you never completely get
over the loss of your beloved (...)"
 ― Anne Lamott

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.      APRIL 14TH, 1959.

WARNING: Depiction of a panic attack/anxiety attack
 (I'm aware that for some people reading about a
 panic attack can trigger one so I just wanted to be
super cautious with this even though it's a
 major aspect of the final scene)

☆

      The morning felt normal.

      Sharp bickering rushed into the four-walled confines of her bedroom, a muffled yet typical argument from the next door neighbors that seemingly started always the minute a new day commenced. Sunlight dripped from beneath her lace curtains, golden and in small splinters of brightness. She could hear the galloping charge of Brooklyn traffic from below her fire-escape, a cacophony of impatient drivers manning automobiles, bustling workers opting to walk, and owners pushing open the security bars on the windows of their businesses.

      The solid six-hour-long sleep from the previous night pleasantly swaddled her waking mind as Valerie blearily opened her eyes and rolled onto her back. With the monotonous canvas of her simple room greeting her, not to mention the bonus hours of sleep, the young comedian would have assumed it was just like any other day. If only the calendar would stop acting as a daunting reminder that actually, it was the exact opposite.

      Bushy haired and chilled from the unexpected drop in temperature, Valerie slipped into a thin robe before heading down the hallway. Her feet arched while walking across the hardwood panels, mimicking mouse-like steps in trepidation, as if she was in a house filled with people and she was nervous about waking someone else. An avalanche might unexpectedly erupt if she stepped out of line or announced herself too loudly, she unconsciously felt.

      Nothing out of sorts marked the kitchen. The bright red kettle sat next to the gas stove, boxes containing cereal and sugar lined on top of the counters, a round clock hung high above the refrigerator. It looked just as it did yesterday evening after her and David collectively cleaned the area after finishing dinner. Meeting the point where the kitchen and living room shared the same space, Valerie couldn't help but abruptly freeze. She expected ― well, she didn't actually know what she expected. Maybe for the walls to be contorted in irregular and mind-bending shapes with clocks liquefied over the surfaces, like a Salvador Dali painting. Maybe for the fridge to be turned over, the microwave and toaster torn into scattered metal pieces, the oven pumping hot and dangerous fumes from its open casket. Something to display the utter despair of today.

      But that was not the case.

      Her alarm lasted a measly one second. Once she processed what was actually in front of her with only a small bit of confusion, the blonde swept into the room with ease, flicking on a flame of one of the stove burners with the turn of a knob. She turned on the tap of the sink and began filling the boiler with warm water. After that was settled, she tossed two slices of rye bread into the toaster and then started searching for extra packets of Irish Breakfast leaves. Her mind danced with everything that she had (and could) do today. A work shift at The Morningside Herald was off-limits as Herb had very forcibly given her the day off, implying in his own way that she wasn't to come within twenty feet of the building. Around noon, she had a lunch date with Susie and Midge at The Stage Deli with the intention of discussing their careers, and to take advantage of the sandwich-soup-combo deal. Much later in the evening, she had a joint gig at a club in Greenwich Village that was worth the house basket and a complimentary, on-the-house spaghetti dinner.

      It was like any other day ― loosely scheduled and relatively busy.

      Involuntarily, her entire being paused just as her hand was halfway towards the silverware drawer. Her mental checklist of what was to be done today, while also planning out enough time beforehand to catch decent cabs, came to a broken halt. For a moment, she was profoundly bewildered with herself. How was her mind working? Shouldn't she not be focusing on anything? Wasn't there only supposed to be one thing ― one singular, devastatingly important thing ― to be thinking about today?

      She should still be wrapped in the confines of her duvet, cradling herself while on top of her mattress, enveloped in the dark and ignoring the world outside. That was what was supposed to happen today. That's what these types of anniversaries are supposed to be. A sense of self-disgust twisted in her stomach. How could she ―?

      Her roommate emerged from his bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment, brown hair uncaringly tousled, sulking in his pajamas, white shirt worn backwards. It was startling enough to yank Valerie out of her darkening thoughts. She took a sharp, quiet breath, privately pacing herself, before returning to her makeshift breakfast.

      "Morning." The blonde softly greeted, offering a small yet kind smile. David didn't say anything as he opened the top freezer and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Due to how cheap the particular brands the pair were drawn to, the cigarettes didn't last long. Keeping them in the cold, however, helped them last longer. "You want some coffee, I can..."

      She trailed off quietly. David remained silent, and didn't so much as glance at her as he stalked back off to his room, the line of his back rigid. Valerie watched as he left, concern curdling unpleasantly in her chest. The last thing she saw before he slammed the door shut was the tip of his cigarette turning a bright red after he lifted up a lighter.

      The loudness of the door assembling with the hinge startled the hushed atmosphere of the apartment. Valerie dug her teeth into her bottom lip, staring at the door her roommate retreated into, silently debating, before making her choice. He wasn't going to talk to her, and if she attempted to coax him out to join the living, a fight would brew. He can handle himself, she thought to herself, trying to calm the newfound anxiousness coating her mood, whatever he needs to do, let him.

      Last night, neither of them broached the subject, choosing to ignore the elephant-sized tension between them. Still, both of them acted relatively normal, providing Valerie with a glimmer of hope that perhaps today wouldn't be so brutal for David. Alas, she clearly stood corrected.

      A couple of minutes later, her tea was freshly made and her toast was perfectly slathered with butter. Valerie sat at the table while she ate, nibbling on pieces of rye while her eyes skimmed the news from today's The Washington Post. Her brain felt a little muddled, but not enough to stop her from reading about Congress' latest legislative wins, from finishing her food and half-heartedly cleaning off her silverware, from drinking the last couple of ounces of her tea.

      Once everything was put back and the kitchen once again looked like how it did this morning, Valerie stopped to survey the room, pressing her lower back against the sink railing until it began to pinch at her skin. She stared at the calendar hanging on the empty wall next to the line of cabinets. April, the headline of the page read, and every square box had been x-ed out with a red pen besides the current date.

      April 14th.

      It's been a year. One whole fucking year since Mark died; since a car accident ruined her life and spun her into what felt like a different universe, since her entire future was turned upside down in a wreckage, since she's been a widow. The significance of today stood in the room with her like an invisible ghost, only accepting coldness, and bitterness, and memories into the space.

      And yet, she made breakfast. She got up this morning. She was going to have lunch. She was going to live.

      Valerie stared at the calendar with narrowed eyes, defiant while taking one last sip from her mug. She turned to drop the cup at the bottom of the sink, before walking away, intent on taking a bath, doing her hair as usual, and getting dressed for the day.

      She could look at the calendar, but she could not cross out the day.

☆

      The calls poured in almost from the moment Valerie stepped out of the bath, the shrill ring from the landline calling to her just as she wrapped a towel around herself. She ignored it as she dried herself off and rung out her hair. She ignored the proceeding one as she shrouded bulks of her blondeness in curlers and picked out a daytime outfit. She ignored the third one as she sat on the corner of the sink in the bathroom, applying a layer of mascara to her lashes and plumping her lips with faint redness. Eventually, it became too frequent and the writer ended up yanking the cord out of the wall in an unforeseen rush of fury.

      It was the anniversary of her husband's passing. She could ignore anyone she wanted, her family included. She would allow herself that small pleasure.

      With time to kill (ironic, isn't it?) Valerie impulsively decided to venture to Manhattan early, opting for the subway instead of a cab, needing the unrelenting scurry of howling metal and endless chatter to keep her mind loaded. She had practically shoved her notebook, some pens, her coin purse, and a slim copy of Poetry Magazine into her bag. Immediately afterwards, she hurried out of her housing complex with enough speed for it to be considered leaping.

      She loved David, she truly did, whether or not she would ever admit it out loud. One of the greatest gifts Mark ever gave her was exposing her to different types of people, different forms of friendships that would soon become her own. Mark had inadvertently given her almost another best friend by being willing to share his own. None of that changed the fact that Valerie couldn't be in the same home as David, not right now, not today. Being shut within the bleakness of his room, taking notes from Charles Bukowski on how to act as a depressed low-life, chain smoking and filled with depression, Valerie could not tolerate being around him. This was for the simple fact that eventually his grief would slither out from the constraints of his room and invade their shared capacity. His grief, which decided to manifest itself as isolationist and stagnant, would wrap around her like a tightening vice until she fell into the same gloom. It would be undoing the past twelve months of work she's put into being able to walk outside and act as a functioning human being.

      So, Riverside Park would have to do. A picturesque waterfront that ran alongside some of the west-side neighborhoods, the stretch of greenery and cobblestone tunnels acted as a quaint paradise for the lonely, the bird watchers, and those who hated Central Park. Valerie could relate to two out of three of those.

      Finding herself alongside one of the cement trails near the Upper West Side, the blonde stationed herself on a sturdy bench that faced the Hudson River. There were plenty of parks in the city of New York, some of which had delicate ponds with swans and monitored grass cuts, while others functioned as public garbage disposals. Despite the influx of forestry, Riverside Park remained one of Valerie's favorites. The fact that it was cushioned around the mouth of a river was the biggest appeal. She had always enjoyed being around the water, and weirdly enough, smelling the salt and listening to the soft crashes of the waves reminded her of home, the whole of Massachusetts. Vividly, she could recall riding her bike with her siblings in toll along the Boston Harbor's waterfront, surrounded by the cluster of nearby Paper Mills polluting the air with cabbage-scented odors and roars of transport boats. In the summer, the Donovans would travel to Singing Beach in Manchester-by-the-Sea, about forty minutes from the southside. It was a coastal town that spoke of the native residents' humble upbringings, nestled around cold waters and rocky reservoirs, charmingly shy in that perfectly New England way. A pleasant warmth squirmed in Valerie's stomach as she remembered those childhood memories of hot weather and sparkling sand, of being chased by her older brothers and stuffing her mouth with crisp fish fry at an outdoor restaurant while still wearing her dripping wet swimsuit.

      Valerie made herself comfortable against the bench, reclining her back against the white wood, one pant-clad leg tossed over the other, her notebook displayed across her thighs. It was easy to write. She wrote down snippets of Dear Margo responses, a little disjointed due to the fact that she forgot to bring some letters with her, but a cohesive enough starting point. A few stray punchlines slipped into her thoughts in between crafting her advice column. She wrote those jokes in the margins of the paper, ink bleeding into the paper in impulsive scribbles, acting as miniscule reminders that she could laugh in between the busy work. She had that capacity. She was not broken.

      After a while, she ditched work for reading. John Berryman, the aging Oklahoma poet that has slowly begun to win over Valerie's heart with repeated issues in Poetry Magazine, welcomed her with an old publication of Surviving Love. The blonde's eyes threaded across every word and fracture in the lines with carefulness as the air quieted around her.

The clapper hovers, but why run so hard?

What he wants, has, ― more than will make him ease;

No god calls down, ― he's not been on his knees

This man, for years, and he is off his guard.

What then does he dream of

Sweating through the day? ― Surviving love.

Cold he knows he comes, once to the dark,

All that waste of cold, leaving all cold

Behind him hearts, forgotten when he's tolled,

His books are split and sold, the pencil mark

He made erased, his wife

Gone brave and quick to her new life

And so he spins to find out something warm

To think on when the glaze fastens his eyes

And he begins to freeze. He slows and tries

To heart a promise: 'After, after your storm

I will grieve and remember,

Miss you and be warm and remember.'

But really nothing replies to the poor man,

He never hears this, or the voice he hears

(He thinks) he loses ah when next appears

The hood of the bell, seeing which he began.

His skull rings with his end,

He runs on, love for love.

      The young comedian's attention drifted even as her fingers instinctively itched to turn to the next short form of prose. She stared at the blank corner of the page, white and ordinary, in contemplation. Her eyes began to blur with how out of focus her stare became. Finally, without thinking too much about it, she firmly closed the magazine and rolled it into a vertical pole-shape, shoving it back into her purse.

      She gazed out to the water again, blue against blue. Why wasn't it all gray, all devoid of color and light? Why hadn't the Earth stopped spinning? Why did cars still drive down the busy streets of New York, and why were people returning to work, and why did she have a show tonight at some downtrodden club in lower Manhattan?

      Mark King was dead. Her husband had been gone for a year. Did nobody hear the news?

      Valerie's face scrunched in frustration, her body slumping forward as she dug her elbows into the legs and reached to pinch the bridge of her nose. She was being ridiculous. She felt silly. Why wouldn't life go on as ordinary for everyone else? For the billions of people that populated the world, only a tiny and insignificant handful of people had been torn apart by Mark's death. God didn't steer the direction of the day based on her irrational and ever changing feelings. Besides, she was moving on. She was convinced of that. She had to be in order to get out of bed. If she could push herself to move through the events of the day, business as usual, how could she expect anyone else to be stuck in their place until the day turned to tomorrow?

      She didn't want to think about her hypocrisies.

      She wanted to remember Mark's arms around her. Valerie used to hate being touched unless it came to sex and the contact of skin on skin felt detached. But Mark corrupted her, ruined the distance she put between her and affection. She would lie in their bed, face down against the mattress and pillow, when she would feel his arm wrap around her randomly in the middle of the night. He would either pull her close, seeking her warmth, or use her as a guide in the dark to get closer to her side. When he was gone on tour or working overnight at the studio, her feet would gravitate towards his side, wanting to feel the curve of his heel and the scrap of his bony ankle, mildly disappointed when she unconsciously realized he wasn't there. It was as if she was anguished not to feel his warmth all the time.

      Sometimes Valerie would stand in the kitchen of their old Brooklyn apartment, tiny but perfect for them. She would face the sink as she did dishes, humming aimlessly to herself as she stuffed her hands in soapy water, thinking of this or that. He would walk into the room without being heard. He was always like that, quiet and unannounced when he wasn't on stage. No other man was like him. Every man she had known in her life wanted to be noticed when they walked into a room, wanting their presence acknowledged in some way. Not Mark.

      His arms would wrap around her waist slowly as his chest touched her back, smothering their clothes together, bodies molding into one. His mouth would skim the crown of her head, mussing up her honey hair, then move downward to feel the slope of her neck. Finally, his nose would press against her shoulder, forehead tilted down, breathing her in as if she was his favorite smell. Flowery perfume, fruity shampoo, and pencil led. He would stabilize himself to the Earth when he grasped her, a discreet nudge to himself to relax, to not stress about making the music perfect or making sure his bandmates were in good places. In return, she felt safe within the scope of his arms, content in a way she never thought she would ever feel. She held security. She was loved. She was cared for. She could breathe easily. For all those reasons, it was never hard for her to move her soap-studded hands up to grip his hands, equally silent as they hugged each other, not needing to speak.

      Valerie wanted to feel that now. She wanted to feel his body against her. But more than that, she wanted to gaze out at the river and shared tidbits of her childhood days of spending time with her family at the beach, giving him a part of herself no one else had the privilege of knowing or understanding. She wanted to talk and to watch him listen, to see him carry that soft smile reserved only for her, to see his head tilted to the side, to see as his brown eyes scanned the features of her face, drafting a map in his mind of her face as a reminder when he was away. It was amazing how even if they were feet away, she would still feel that sense of certainty, because even when they weren't touching, they were touching.

      But she couldn't have that, and it ached painfully. All Valerie had was the ocean and she was staring at it alone. She was all alone, after being promised she wouldn't be for the rest of her life. How could that happen? How could vows and promises be shattered so simply?

      The intricate strum of a guitar broke her out of her despair.

      At first, Valerie could have sworn she imagined it, feeling crazier than she had previously. But some of the birds that had curled their talons on the barrier to the river sharply bent their necks past her presence after hearing it as well. Soon enough, the plucking got louder, before abruptly stopping harshly. Brows furrowing together in both confusion and curiosity, Valerie slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and deliberately headed off the path. She was sick of looking at the water anyway. Nothing in front of her was going to change anyway.

      Thankfully, she had chosen to wear flats with her black cigarette pants and pale pink blouse, because as soon as she drifted from the path made of cement, she was met with rough ground. She followed the subdued music quietly. There weren't many trees in this particular area of Riverside, but their staggering height and sprawling branches hovered over the park as a giant umbrella, only allowing slivers of pure light sporadically in random spots.

      Not far from where she was originally at, lying on top of a jacket spread out across the green grass, in the perfect place underneath the shade, was a young man with his back turned against her. A guitar was angled across his lap, fingers curled around the neck and his arm slung across the body. From what she could tell from her vantage point, he was a short and skinny guy, his mop of tousled, dark hair too big for his small head.

      For a second, she watched as he struggled over his instrument, puffing out groans of frustration, adjusting his grip, singing too softly for her to hear. Truly, she doesn't know what called her to approach him. She also didn't have a single clue as to why she blurted out something so arbitrary either as her initial greeting.

      "My husband played guitar."

      Startled, the man jumped a little and turned his body to face her, eyes widening a little with realization that he had caught someone's attention. Now that she could actually see him, Valerie quickly surmised that this wasn't a young man, but a boy. He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old. He also, interestingly enough, didn't look from New York either. After spending so many years as a resident in the city, she picked up that skill over time, who's local and who's not. He was wearing plaid on top of a button-up, his babyish face framed by those unkept curls. She could see that in his guitar case with the flap open, there was a freshly bought map of the city. Yep, definitely not from here. Midwest, probably.

      "Sorry?" He questioned, stuttering a little. His voice didn't at all match his innocent expression, deeper than she originally anticipated. It was a bit nasally as well.

      "My husband played the guitar." Valerie repeated, sounding more confident about starting a conversation with a stranger than she should be. Alone in a park, nonetheless. "He begged his parents for lessons until they relented. He owned a bunch, but his favorite was an acoustic fender strat. It was blue like yours."

      The boy glanced down at his own instrument, as if just recognizing that it was indeed a dark shade of blue. His wasn't state-of-the-art by any means and it had clearly been well-used, but it looked in relatively good condition. Nevertheless, it looked like a beginner's guitar. "That's pretty cool." A pause. "Did he teach you?"

      Unexpectedly, Valerie barked a laugh, face brightening as she snorted into the back of her hand. Memories streamed into her mind of Mark trying to teach her the guitar over the years, from the beginning of their friendship when they were just sleeping together to being married with a mutually shared home. "He tried, but I never really caught on. I never had the discipline for it. Plus, I didn't like the calluses. I think I managed to get through Three O'Clock Blues alright."

      It was the kid's turn to chuckle light-heartedly, "That's B.B. King. That's a twelve-bar blues. That's not easy."

      "Well, Mark was a professional." grinned Valerie, as if sharing a story with an old friend. "I'm sure he thought he was starting me off with something simple."

      The stranger looked down at his guitar, briefly caressing the rounded bend of the build, before lifting it slightly off his lap and towards her. "You wanna try?"

      Valerie's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but his offer did the opposite of alarming her. A few seconds passed, before she shrugged and gripped the guitar, lifting it as she sat across from him, shifting until she was comfortable on top of his sprawled out coat. She nestled the apparatus closely, her right fingers closing over the neck, each individual pad finding its spot on the strings. Her left arm curled over the body, finding the fingerboard. She took a deep breath, her chest knocking into the hollow wood, before she trepidatiously stumbled into playing. It was clear from her fragmented playing that she was an amateur at best, but she could remember the progression of the harmony and didn't move at a pain-staking slow pace.

      Bb7, Eb7, Bb7, F7...

      After the introduction and a few verses, the blonde stopped to mild applause, glancing back at the boy with a light-feathered blush across her cheeks. "Did I make your ears bleed?"

      "Not at all." He shook his head, transferring his spidery grip on her knees to the guitar as she gestured to return it. "I'm pretty impressed, actually."

      "It sounds better on electric." Valerie added, dismissing the compliment. She leaned back against the grass, propped up by her elbows, feeling the heat of the sun gently shine down on her. "Why aren't you in Central Park? Isn't that where most of you tourists go?"

      His face twisted, "How do you know I'm not from around here?"

      "Because I can just tell." She chuckled, even more so at the unfavorable look that crossed his face. "No need to feel any shame. Believe it or not, even people from New York don't like to admit they're from New York. It's not a badge of honor."

      "Central Park was too loud." He finally answered, "And it's too crowded. I felt like I was surrounded by a million people."

      Valerie hummed and nodded in agreement. "Are you lost?"

      The teenager huffed, "Yeah, kind of. I swiped this map from a street-stand when the guy wasn't looking, but I still don't know where I'm at or how far from where I originally was. All I can tell is that I'm in Manhattan."

      "You would be correct with that observation." She quipped. "And you're in the Upper West Side in Riverside Park. Before you start to sweat, you're in the obnoxiously good part of town."

      "That's a relief." He shuffled a little in his spot, avoiding her stare. "My folks took me to White Plains for the weekend, because my cousin's getting married. This entire morning, all anyone cared about was the fitting of the tuxes, and the arrangement of the flowers, and making sure the rabbi showed up on time. There was nothing for me to do. I hopped on a bus to the city before anyone could notice."

      "Hmm, a real rebel without a cause, aren't you?" commented Valerie. Now would probably be the time to call the police to escort him back to the Upstate, or to angrily chastise him for running away. That's what a responsible adult would do, right? "I can't say I blame you. Weddings are incredibly boring and stuffy. I barely managed to get through my own."

      Her eyes narrowed, "How old are you?"

      "Seventeen. But I turn eighteen next month."

      "Are you going to college?" She asked, "Pursuing a degree when you're not singing in random parks?"

      "Yeah, for liberal arts. I'm going to the University of Minnesota in September." He sighed, unexcited. "My parents are pretty thrilled that I got accepted."

      "I imagine they would be. Congratulations, by the way. You must be pretty good in school."

      "I'm alright." He cocked his head, shuffling his shoulders. "Was your husband in a band?"

      "Yeah, he was. Founder, actually. They were pretty fantastic." Valerie smiled to herself, a ruddy heat flushing her cheeks in pleasure. She tilted her head towards one of the revealing splinters of sunlight peeking from the leaves, illuminating her pale skin, eyelids fluttering shut. "He used to play me songs in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. Folk, rock, love songs ― anything to make me either laugh or to make me less anxious. I loved listening to him sing almost as much as I loved hearing him talk."

      She glanced back at him, raising an inquisitive brow, "Did you get into music, because you love playing, or because you wanted to get laid?"

      The boy barked a loud, surprised laugh. "Not much of that going on in Minnesota. All there is are prairies, and endless mountains, and ― six packs of Budweiser's, and nowhere to go." He grinned cheekily. "Plus my folks are Jewish and I think they'd cast a kitten if they ever caught me with a chick."

      "So, no girls then."

      "No girls." His fingers reached to scratch the back of his overgrown ears, a little self-conscious. "I just picked up a guitar one day when I was a kid and played. Turned out to be pretty good. I listened to Elvis and Little Richard on the radio, and couldn't get them out of my head until I played."

      Valerie nodded, pausing for a moment. She felt an odd sense of affection for this kid, a motherly impulse that probably wouldn't have spawned if she was watching Mark talk to him instead of her. Mark would have been fascinated by this young boy. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but you're never gonna make it in the Midwest. Sun Records doesn't exactly recruit people from nowhere."

      "Yeah, I figured that much." He began picking at some of the grass, "Any chance of making it big in New York?"

      It felt like an impactful question. The comedian blew out a puff of air and contemplated, "Sure, there's always a chance. But everyone's trying to make it in this city, musician or not. Nobody's special." Briefly, she worried she was being too cynical in front of this innocent-eyed teenager. A part of her didn't want to crush whatever dreams he had shamefully hid away, frightened by the rejection from his family and peers. "But it's also the greatest city in the world and some of the best people get their starts here. Ella Fitzgerald, Bobby Darin, Andy Warhol, Franz Kline, Bea Arthur, Lenny Bruce ― my husband ― some of the most incredible people found their way here, because they understood this city like the back of their hand and knew where to go to be seen. This city's a science and you have to study it in order to master it."

      Much to her muted astonishment, he was seemingly caught onto every single word that left her mouth, inhaling her knowledge like it was something precious. His sluggish gaze easily brightened while listening to her. The genetic makeup of this kid suddenly became very clear to Valerie. He wasn't going to finish college, or at the very least he would finish the standard four years with a useless degree and zeros in his bank account. In spite of whatever resistance was aggressively spewed towards him, by his parents, teachers, or uncomprehending friends, he would be called back to New York, the same as if he was hooked by a fishing line and the casting reel was stationed back in Manhattan. He would wander around both fascinated and terrified by the uncaring hustle of the streets, lost in his identify and direction, until he eventually found his people, either in a shady bar, or an illegally run club, or an apartment complex filled to the brim with beat knits and a lack of fire codes.

      The idea both delighted and saddened her. A part of her, instinctually and more than a little pessimistic, thought the scenario was purely horrific. This boy was going to be chewed up and spat back out, a voice scoffed in her head. That could be true one day. She had known enough people who whisked off to the city, aspirational, only to find out the world had different plans for them. Another part of her that had been melted down by an unexpected burst of tenderness enjoyed the idea of New York welcoming another fresh artist. It reminded her of Mark, of an unwaveringly sunny and immensely talented singer who carved his own path despite the criticisms of his parents and the judgment from recording companies who all told him he would never make it for more reasons than one.

      For that reason, or maybe she was just feeling like helping out a member of the youth, Valerie wanted him to succeed. She was confident he could, nevermind the fact that she barely heard him play a couple of chords. "Have you ever heard of The Gaslight?"

      "No," He shook his head, eyes still trained on her. "Can't say I have."

      "It's a club in Greenwich Village." She elaborated upon his momentary confusion. "That's a neighborhood in Manhattan on the east side. It's a basket house where people sign up for slots to perform whatever the hell they want and people get to watch you for free. Some of the greatest artists have started there. When you get older and you stop reducing yourself to playing in the middle of a park where you think no one can hear you, and you ditch normalcy, you go there. You show off your skills again and again every night. It will be one of the most humiliating and naked things you'll ever do in your life, but also the most exhilarating."

      Valerie glanced at his guitar case. On the back of the black cover was a white cloth that had been stitched into the fabric, boasting bold black words that said: "THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS!" Vaguely, the writer could remember a hyperactive activist at some leftist party she attended years ago that handed her an old copy of the Daily Worker. A photo had been featured somewhere between the declarations of workers' unions and the abolishment of a free market. It had been of folk singer Woody Guthrie barely smiling in black-and-white, cradling his guitar in his hands, that same catchphrase attached to the top shoulder of the instrument.

      Against her will, she smirked after seeing that, pleased. Any lingering melancholy glided out of her body, leaving her light and agile. "Not a bad motto for a singer." Smoothly, she opened her purse and rummaged for a pencil. "What did you say your name was?"

      "Robert." He cleared his throat, his voice squeaking a little, sounding younger than before somehow. "Robert Zimmerman."

      The blonde's nose crinkled, "Yeah, change that immediately. You can't be in the music industry with a name like that, no one will look twice at you, whether you're trying to sell a demo or begging stoners to jam out in your dorm when you go off to school."

      She leaned over the case to open his map of the city. She began writing instructions across the colored front, adding little notes along street signs. "What should it be then?" stuttered the kid.

      "No clue. That's your job to figure out. Sometimes people are born to the wrong names, wrong people, and when you get older, it's up to you to actually pick a name that suits who you are." Valerie dropped the map into his lap and abruptly stood up, brushing the back of her pants and closing her purse. She gestured to the piece of paper. "That's directions on how to get out of here and get to a subway station. If you go now, you'll be in White Plains before noon and no one will be dying of a heart attack over where you've been."

      Robert nodded a little frantically, gripping onto the corners of the map like it was a lifeline. For a lost Midwestern boy, it probably was. Valerie was about to step off the jacket and make her own way to the heart of the borough, before commenting casually over her shoulder. "Read a few poets. It's the best education you'll ever receive. Pick Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, or Dylan Thomas ― anybody that puts words to the things you've never been able to describe. Steal one of their names."

      She smiled graciously and walked away, only making it a few feet, before remembering another important note. She called out from her spot, "Oh, and Mr. Nameless!"

      "Yeah?"

      "If you wanna get laid one day, don't call girls 'chicks' to their faces." 

☆

      The Stage Deli rumbled with welcoming chatter as Valerie entered through the main doors. She settled into her typical, self-proclaimed booth along the side of an island, thankfully unoccupied. While tugging her coat off and pushing her bag towards the wall, one of the waitresses popped over. Despite being a semi-regular here thanks to Midge and Susie's obsession with the lunch specials and the reputation of comedians hanging around, she wasn't good at remembering the servers' names.

      "Eating solo or are your friends coming?" The older woman questioned while sliding a stack of napkins across the table. A couple stray packets of sugar were also tossed on top.

      "They'll be here in a bit." answered Valerie. "I'll wait to order."

      "Fine by me." She motioned to leave, but at the last minute, inquired over her shoulder: "Cherry coke on ice?"

      "You know me so well."

      In the meantime, the comic skimmed over the menu absentmindedly, regardless of the fact that she knew what she wanted. After a minute, during which her soda was nicely dropped off, Valerie began taking in her surroundings, noting the pleasantly busy atmosphere. People were acting normal. They sat at their respective tables and ate, and enjoyed each other's company. Life was moving forward. The visual, accompanied by the softness left behind from her conversation with the teenager in Riverside Park, made her feel at peace.

      The bell rang at the front of the restaurant and soon enough, Valerie heard a series of high-heel clicking from behind. Before she could turn her head, Midge was sliding into the booth across from her, purposefully ducking her head to the side as she slipped off her coat and straightened her pencil skirt. The guise of her movements felt so determined to be orderly that the blonde found it abnormal.

      "Sorry if I kept you waiting." Midge nonchalantly greeted, a little out of breath, gaze darting around. "Subway was packed."

      "Oh, you're fine." Valerie replied, trying not to overanalyze everything. "I've only been here a couple of minutes. If only Brooklyn moved at the same pace as Manhattan, then we'd both be fashionably late at the same time."

      The weak attempt at a joke fell flat. After a second of being unable to ignore how strange the tension had become ever since Midge walked into the diner, Valerie took a good look at her face, not hiding it. As always, the brunette looked beautiful, her hair coiffed into her signature rolls, a tiny hat acting as a crown on top of her head, her outfit pressed and dutifully matching. On the surface, she looked splendid and totally normal, but as Valerie's gaze surveyed her face, she was able to notice what was wrong. Redness underlined her blue eyes, little specks of ruined mascara mixed with the harshness of her skin. The same shade of ruddiness tainted her cheeks, though patches of powder tried to cover it up.

      "Hey..." Valerie trailed off quietly, leaning forward. Her concern only tripled when Midge hurriedly looked down and her lower lip wobbled. "Is everything okay? You look like you're been crying."

      "Everything's been alright, it's just..." She started and stopped, her hand that had risen in dismissiveness abruptly slouching by her side. Midge never was good at keeping up a ruse in front of her. "Today's been a really tough day 'tis all."

      "Something with Joel and the kids?" Valerie carefully asked, reaching over to snatch a single napkin from the pile and handing it over. "Because I know the answer was no when I suggested spray painting the back of the Maisel & Roth company building with the words 'man whore', but the offer is still on the table if he's acted like an asshole ― again."

      That got a small chuckle out of Midge as she dabbed underneath her eyes. "No, Joel's not been bothering me. It's nothing like that. It's just ―" Her voice broke underneath the weight of the words. "I've just been thinking about Mark all day, and you know...it's been a lot."

      Valerie stared at her blankly, the center of her forehead twisting in confusion. She was looking at her best friend like she had grown three heads and was half-expecting to hear another story of how it was actually her parents who sent her into such a depressive mood. Finally, after a moment, realization caught up with her. A jolt of shock stunned her expression, "Oh! I wasn't even thinking ― I didn't realize today would be so hard for you."

      It sounded heartless coming out in that way, but honest to God, Valerie didn't anticipate that the significance of today was going to affect Midge to the extent that she was ruining her perfect makeup with uncontrollable spills of tears. It's not like her and Mark weren't friends. They had known each other for years thanks to their parents being friendly with each other and while they weren't particularly close until Mark married Valerie, they still felt very fondly towards one another. Midge was more shocked than devastated when it was announced that Mark died, though later at the funeral, Valerie could recall the Upper West Sider struggling to hold back her sobs at the church service, turning to Joel for comfort and a show of strength. In the four months between the burial and the fight at the Morningside Herald office party, when the two best friends had inadvertently drifted apart, neither of them discussed each other's grief. Valerie hadn't investigated Midge's feelings, too caught up in her own.

      What also contributed to Valerie's surprise over the situation, more than anything, was the simple certainty that Midge was strong. Her disapproving parents and spineless ex-husband may disagree, but Valerie knew better. Midge Maisel was strong, always had been, and her strength allowed her to almost always stash away her true feelings. It's how she spent years trapped in a marriage where she was diluted down to a co-dependent housewife, and how she's pretended seamlessly to be okay living with her parents as she approached the age of twenty-seven, and how she managed to get through countless stand-up performances at seedy clubs in spite of rejections and misogynist blowbacks. Quite frankly, Midge's show of strength was almost the same as Valerie's except she preferred to hide it all underneath a perky personality while the blonde projected iciness.

      With all that being said, Valerie assumed that Midge would treat today as any other challenge: deal with the rising grief with concealment, busy herself with lengthy tasks, probe Valerie into how she was feeling today, and act optimistic. That was just the Midge Maisel way. But clearly the burden of today had become too much and she had cracked.

      The brunette took her friend's silence and distorted expression as a negative sign straight away. "This is one of the moments where I put my foot in my mouth and said the wrong thing?" Before Valerie could correct, Midge was covering her face with her hands. "Ugh, God, I'm such an idiot. How can I complain about what I've been feeling today when you're sitting there and you're feeling what you're feeling? Christ, I'm sorry!"

      The incoherence of her delivery didn't mean that Valerie didn't understand what she was saying. "For God sakes, Miriam, you don't have to apologize!" She implored, shoving even more napkins towards her as her alabaster skin became more blotchy. "And don't call yourself an idiot. Only I get to call you that and it's only when you really are acting like one."

      She sighed heavily, noticing how the shame wasn't leaving the other comedian's face. "It's not a competition. You can feel however you want to feel and I can feel however I want to feel today. We can co-exist with each other. Grief is an ecosystem, not an island ― I can't believe I just came up with that."

      "I don't know what happened. I woke up this morning and it just snuck up on me." Midge continued, on a roll now that she had been given permission to express herself fully and without judgement. She tossed the crumpled napkins to the side, her face dry of tears, but still sounding congested. "If I knew I was going to feel like I got punched repeatedly in the gut, I would have just stayed home."

      "And deal with the wrath of Susie? Not worth it." grinned Valerie, albeit feebly.

      "I can't imagine what today's been like for you." Midge mumbled, grasping the coffee cup with her manicured nails that had been graciously brought over by the same waitress from before, who discreetly ignored the hysterics.

      The blonde nodded, mute. A part of her just wanted to leave the comment hanging in the air and let the conversation drop with it. She didn't want to discuss the ins and outs of today, especially not with Midge, who was clearly struggling. However, another part of her that was still feeling good on the light tranquility of this morning, who felt a sense of pride for managing today so well and for not breaking down, wanted to divulge. It was uncharacteristically unguarded, but today was an uncharacteristic day. Her pride and defensive instincts didn't matter.

      "Actually, I've been feeling pretty good." Valerie explained, trying to sound collected and casual, avoiding her best friend's peer as she swirled her straw around in her coke. "Not good as in today's a good day ― because it's not ― but good as in I don't feel...terrible. Don't get me wrong, it feels strange...but then again, my whole life has felt strange for the past year. It's like an unstoppable roller-coaster, it just goes up-and-down, up-and-down, and...yeah."

      Her rambling became fainter until eventually she stopped talking. Embarrassment curled in her stomach. Most of the time, she was good at articulating herself, but clearly her words decided to fail her. It didn't help that Midge had started staring at her in bewilderment, behaving as if she was now the one with the triple-heads. "Are you saying...has today not been hard for you?"

      "No, it has been, it's just..." Valerie paused, searching for the words to desperately explain how abnormal and yet normal this day has been so far. "It doesn't feel like any special sort of day. It doesn't feel like it's been a year. It feels like it's been both ten years and one day."

      "When I got out of bed, it was like..." Midge moved her hands and gestured to herself, portraying herself as if she had never sensed or felt anything like this morning before. The bafflement of this experience wasn't something the blonde felt herself relating to at the moment. "Like a semi-truck nailed me right in the chest. It hit me all at once. It didn't feel like that for you?"

      Precipitously, out of nowhere, Valerie remembered her mom. She can't say whether or not losing her mom felt like an abrupt shattering of her life the same way it did with Mark. Losing her mother was more gradual than that. One day, her mom was there in their shared home, cooking in the kitchen like always, and the next she was in the hospital. Months went by and she got sicker. Valerie wasn't allowed to see her very often, the deterioration of her body and the petrifying exterior of a medical facility filled with dying people was deemed too much for an eleven year old. Then, in the middle of the night, her mom was gone. Succumbed, the doctor said, as if they meant something better than died from cancer. One minute, she was in their home and then she was taken away. No more medical treatments, no more medicine, no more of the hanging possibility of returning home and making life revert back to how it used to be. She was just gone, and Valerie remembered wondering for the longest time afterwards how someone could be there one second and then gone the next. It was the greatest example of the word abandonment that Valerie could find, until her father was devoured by his own grief and abandoned her too in many ways.

      Still, it wasn't like getting slammed by a truck or getting a bucket of cold water dumped over her abruptly. It was a slow-moving dread that creeped into every corner of her world. It infiltrated inch by inch until becoming just as familiar as a piece of furniture in the house or going to school every morning. Grief intertwined with her leisurely and malignantly. When Mark died, it was the same sensation. Devastation didn't come sharp and tempestuously, but heavy and habitual. She had a tumor that she had to live with, but could never cure. It was her daily prognosis, plain and simple.

      "No, because there aren't special occasions when I feel it and other times where I don't. I feel it every single day. Life doesn't become harder for me on anniversaries, or holidays, or birthdays, it's just hard all the time." Valerie described easily. Even though there wasn't a smile stitched to her face and her words possessed a small measure of grimness, she wasn't speaking unkindly. "But it's been a year and I'm okay. I'm not as happy as I used to be, but that's alright. I'm excited to work, and I'm excited to see you and Susie almost every day, and I'm excited to get my life moving again. That's what needs to matter right now."

      Midge met her steady gaze and didn't say anything else, remarkably still somber, but not failing to grasp what her friend was going through now. The front bell once again shrieked and soon enough, Susie was standing adjacent to their booth, unaware of how emotional this lunch had started off.

      "Neither of you ordered yet?" Their manager questioned instantly, rolling her eyes. She briskly gestured for Valerie to move across the seat, against the wall, so she could slide in. "Are we gonna eat or are you two just gonna keep sitting with your thumbs up your asses while you watch me eat?"

      Susie's blunt and forceful nature made it easy for the sobering tension to lighten up. Immediately, Valerie opened back up her menu and started mindlessly making comments about the odd combo deals just to hear if Susie had something funny to say about it. Midge followed suit not long afterwards and by the time their meals arrived, ambience surrounding their tiny booth resolved to something more relaxed.

      An hour and a half had passed when they finished their soaps and sandwiches. Usually when they went out, even after they were done eating, they would stick around to utilize their free refills and shoot the shit. Today was no different. Midge and Susie were bantering back-and-forth about where to get the best pastrami sandwich (turns out, there's an intense debate about that) while Valerie leaned back against the island and watched with amusement, sipping daintily on her soda. Not once had Susie mentioned her late husband, the anniversary, or acted anything out of the normal, which her client could appreciate. If Midge was the type to get you to open up about your feelings, then Susie was the type to help you distract yourself from them. Admittedly, Valerie loved them both for that.

      "Mmm, I like Katz's for their corned beef." retorted Susie as she nibbled on the leftover pastrami. She glanced over at Valerie. "What about you? You think this place or Katz has the best pastrami sandwich? Don't be a pennypincher and just say whichever one's the cheapest!"

      Valerie huffed a laugh, "Actually, I happen to think Carnegie Deli sells the best ones. Not to mention their cheesecakes are to die for."

      Susie's eyes widened, incredulous. "The Carnegie Deli? Are you shitting me? They slap a pound of meat between two slices of bread and call that a sandwich! That's not a sandwich, it's a monstrosity! It's King Kong swinging off the tower level beast! You'll break a tooth trying to eat that."

      "What can I say?" Valerie rhetorically questioned, grinning. "I'm a hungry girl and I like a lot of meat."

      The shorter woman rolled her eyes dramatically, scoffing into her devoured meal. "And yet you're as skinny as a pencil. The unanswered resilience of the human body will never cease to amaze me." Another large bite was chomped off. "And don't say so loudly that you like a lot of meat in a crowded restaurant. One of the horn-dogs around here might get the wrong impression and mount you like a grizzly bear."

      "A free show and meal then."

      One of the frequent patrons of this establishment, a relatively well-known booker, walked by the side of their booth, "Hey, Susie, call me tomorrow, yeah?

      "Actually Mel, can you call me?"

      The man's face twisted, "Why?"

      "Just do it!" groaned Susie in frustration.

      "Whatever." He shrugged, before walking off.

      Midge momentarily dropped her spoon into her soup bowel, still captivated by their debate. "Barney Greengrass is still better."

      "Damn right it is." Valerie agreed. Their manager nodded next to her. "I love their smoked fish. Their matzoh ball soup is also excellent."

      "I thought you said you didn't like Jewish food." teased Midge, eyes sparkling with mischief.

      "No, I like it when it comes out of a deli where the cooks are New Yorkers and actually understand the word 'flavoring'." She argued. The brunette rolled her eyes dramatically in good-nature. "What you and your family make are the same thing the Orthodox were eating in Egypt. It's archaic and bland."

      "It's traditional."

      "It's no longer edible." 

      Suddenly, a man in a blue suit from across the diner, occupying a round table with a few other patrons, yelled across the room without shame: "Hey, Susie! That thing you did? That was real shitty!"

      Susie didn't even blink, calling back, "That's the joy of not giving a shit, Freddy!"

      Just as Valerie was caught in her own confusion, trying to figure out if she knew this guy or if there had been any drama at The Gaslight recently, Freddy jumped up from the table, drawing everyone's attention. His arms flailed around like a crazy person. "You're just asking for reciprocation!"

      "I'm asking you to sit down ―" Susie placated calmly.

      "Don't tell me to sit down!"

      "Fuck you and your reciprocation ―"

      "No, no, fuck you ―"

      "― and your two dollar suits!"

      "You throw your weight around ―"

      "― And fuck your mother at the same time!"

      "You're nothing. You're nobody!"

      "Just crawl back up her pussy, and SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

      "Eat shit and DIE!"

      The shouting ceased simultaneously. Freddy dropped back down to his seat and turned his back. Susie, her face less red than it was seconds ago, barely changed her expression as she returned to her sandwich, glancing between her two clients. "Nice guy, I'll introduce you two later."

      Valerie shared skeptical looks with Midge, before replying to her manager, "It's amazing how I always feel at home when I'm with you. I thought I was going to have to jump in between you two for a second."

      Susie scoffed, dragging her dubious attention up and down the comic's body. "Please, what were you gonna do? Distract him with your bug eyes and act as a shield? Because you're not Rocky Marciano, you can't take more than one hit."

      "Hey, I'll have you know that I've held up fairly well in a couple different fights." defended Valerie. "And I know how to throw a punch. Remember that night with my boss at the Morningside Herald? How I got arrested? I fractured his nose."

      "Yeah, and then he almost knocked you out single-handedly. You were bleeding all over the police station. It was like you were on your period, but out your nose." The older woman retorted.

      The blonde shrugged, taking the loss. She bit into one of her French fries, pausing briefly, before asking contemplatively. "Did you only bring up Rocky Marciano, because we're both Italian?"

      "What can I say? I'm a prejudiced asshole." Susie answered, her face barely twitching. "All of you look the same to me."

      "Oh, shit!" Both ladies' heads turned towards Midge and her worried expletive. A rush of paleness overtook her face.

      "What's wrong?"

      "You're not gonna believe who else is here." Midge gasped, hushed, trying not to look over to the other side of the room where clearly this mysterious newcomer was at. Valerie looked over Susie's hat, unable to hide her curiosity. Though judging by the low drop of Midge's voice, plus the pinch of anger, it wasn't a celebrity she wanted to see.

      "Who?" Susie urged.

      "Harry Drake!"

      Valerie's eyes instantly widened as she caught the older man's figure comfortably roaming through the maze of tables across the diner, shaking people's hands, sharing small talk with presumably club managers, bookers, and various types of producers. Even before the whole debacle with Sophie Lennon, everyone in New York City knew Harry Drake was a big deal, but seeing him now, conversing so easily with entertainment industry personnel, the type of people that Susie and them would give anything to talk to, only solidified his mythological presence even more. It also labored the dread deep in Valerie's stomach that reminded her how badly she and Midge screwed up with that Gaslight performance and Morningside Herald expose.

      Just as Susie's head was turning to see where exactly the man who had tried to indirectly kill her was at, Harry turned around and met her gaze. Midge pointedly kept staring at her manager, panicked. "Does he see us?"

      "He sees us now!" Susie revealed through gritted teeth, plastering a wide smile as she waved at Harry. Seeing as she was the one sitting next to Susie, and also in plain view of the man, the blonde replicated the painfully polite smile and gesture.

      "He's coming over!" Midge glanced over to see him making his way towards their table. "Should I scream?"

      "Why, are you having an orgasm?"

      "He threatened you, Susie!"

      "Just be cool!"

      The hissed back-and-forth between the trio of women stopped once Harry Drake reached their booth, standing in front of them and looking down good-naturedly. "Hello, Midge, Susie, Valerie."

      "Hey, Harry, nice to see you." greeted Susie serenely.

      "How're you liking this weather?" He asked somewhat dopey. It was hard to imagine that this elderly man, in his tweed suit and large glasses that amplified his eyes by about ten times, was the same man who yelled at Susie in the entrance way of The Gaslight and sent low-level gangsters to search through the city for her. "'Spring is sprung, the grass is ritz...'"

      "'I wonder where the birdie is!'" Susie finished the Ogden Nash poem with the same light-heartedness that Harry utilized in his own tone. From both people it was evident that their niceties were inauthentic, but admittedly, the pairing was doing a good job of keeping things respectable in a public arena.

      "Not that any of us get outside much." chuckled Harry.

      "Just enough to hop into a taxi!"

      "Lunch, sometime?" He gestured towards her, wanting to see in his own twisted way if he could goad her into agreeing. No matter how much kindness he portrayed, there had been an undercurrent of intimidation from the very moment he stepped in front of them.

      Susie didn't flinch. "Name a day!"

      "My treat!"

      "Yeah, see ya!" She remarked, her voice still strong as she watched Harry walk away, even if her fingers were knotting together next to her plate.

      Midge couldn't help, but stare at her in deep puzzlement. "What the fuck? When did you make up with Harry Drake?"

      "I didn't." Susie said blandly, before chewing on her dill pickle.

      "Then what was that?"

      "That's showbiz."

      The brunette sternly countered, "He's been threatening you with violence!"

      "That's showbiz too!" Susie grimly responded. Midge looked over to Valerie, wanting either support or hoping to see the same imitation of disbelief, but the blonde simply nodded along with what their manager proclaimed. The entertainment industry was way too small to be causing problems in the public, even if threats and feuds were brewed behind the scenes. It was better for everyone involved, the two comics and their manager included, if no one knew of Harry Drake's resentment towards them. Well, "no one" as in everyone except the Midtown club owners who were explicitly told not to book either females.

      Despite Susie's calmness over the monotonous confrontation, the man still captured all of their attention as the three women subtly observed him still lingering on the other side of the diner and talking with a well-dressed man in a corner booth. "Ugh, look who Harry's with now!" groaned Susie. "That's Billy Jay! He books the Upstairs at the Downstairs. I'd give my right nut to get you both in there."

      "Yeah, that's on 56th." exclaimed Midge. "That's 30 blocks above our last one."

      "That's not even midway to Midtown." Valerie pondered out-loud, almost salivating at the thought of performing at the same club where Mort Sahl and Lenny Bruce played at. She squirmed in her seat, "That's like 1/4th from Midtown. It's an entire quarter!"

      "Billy Jay never comes in here!" Susie announced, frustrated as she continued to see how Harry smoothly discussed business with him. Or whatever it was that two famous men talked about. "Shit!"

      "Go talk to him!" urged Midge.

      "You don't just talk to Billy Jay, you need an in." A light bulb lit up above Susie's head just as she finished that sentence. Her attention zeroed in on the brunette sitting across from her mischievously. "Luckily, I got one."

      "Got what?"

      "His eyes for the ladies, hmm?" Susie hummed and began cocking her head in Billy Jay's direction repeatedly, one of her eyes winking in a deranged manner.

      Midge's brows burrowed together, "Are you having a stroke?"

      "From my point of view, it looks more like an aggressive case of Parkinson's." quipped Valerie.

      Susie rolled her eyes, returning back to a normal appearance. "Get over there and do your thing!"

      It took a minute, but once she realized what exactly Susie was not-so-cautiously suggesting, a stark flash of shock stunned her, "Are you kidding me?

      "The guy's a dog," Susie explained, thinking her tasteless articulation would help, "He'd fuck a corpse if it was less than six hours old."

      "I'm not gonna go over there and make this guy think I'm gonna sleep with him if he books me and Valerie!" Midge yelped, outraged.

      "Why not? You have those weapons." Susie pointed to the brunette's cleavage, highlighted by the lovely turtleneck that was quite form-fitting over her chest.

      "So do you!"

      She gestured hazardously towards her own, "No, these are self-destructive!"

      "What about Valerie?" Midge cocked her head towards the blonde. "Why aren't you offering her up like a broodmare for sale."

      "It's the anniversary of her husband's death," Susie said flippantly. "That's just plain wrong. I'll ask her to be a whore tomorrow."

      While she tried not to let it on, the casual mention of today's significance surprised Valerie, especially considering her manager made no indication or implication that she was aware of today when she arrived earlier at the diner. Unlike with Midge, Valerie just assumed that Susie had completely forgotten or just hadn't done the mental math of what occurred exactly one year ago. But of course, she hadn't not notice the calendar date. She just didn't want to address it. Typical.

      "Well, at least you're advocating for some ethical behavior." Valerie dryly commented.

      Midge steamrolled back into the conversation, "I wouldn't do something like that."

      "Come on, you told me all about how you practically slept with a priest so he'd give your friend some pigs in a blanket for her wedding, but you're not gonna do this?" Their manager cried out, referring to a story told earlier in the evening by Midge about how she managed to negotiate with a priest at a local church to get one of her co-workers at B. Altman a better wedding venue. At the time, the story was hilarious simply for the visual of Midge entering a church and having to talk to members of the clergy, but also for how disturbed she claimed to be at the actions of one of the nuns. Does every church have a punishment room with crying children, Midge had half-whispered to Valerie just as their soup arrived. The blonde simply smirked, amused at her indignation and slightly cringing at the childhood memories that were brought back. She had answered: Suffering is a critical element of the Catholic tradition.

      "That was just sweet talk!" Midge contended loudly, "It happened in the moment."

      "Oh, so you're just against being a premeditated slut," mocked Susie. "You're fine being a spontaneous slut."

      "I'm not sidling up to Billy Jay." The brunette determinedly proclaimed, effectively ending the argument. Valerie stayed silent, but tipped the rim of her glass against Midge's, before taking a sip, showing her approval in a wordless way.

      Susie threw her crumpled napkin on the table and huffed, the muscles of her jaw clenching in vexation. "Okay. Don't. But we do have to make some money at some point. Both of you understand that, right?"

      "Yes, we're aware of that." Valerie responded coolly, hoping to dampen down the tension tightening around the three of them. "We do get monthly bank statements."

      That didn't ease her manager's sudden franticness. "Like now!"

      Midge interjected, "Look, don't worry about me. I'm fine."

       Clearly, Susie's agitation with their lack of motility in the club scene and therefore absence of funds had nothing to do with being concerned with Midge's living situation. Valerie could have predicted that even before the fight broke out. Of all the things to be worried about concerning Midge, her running out of money wasn't one of them, not when her disgustingly rich parents were supporting her and her children.

      "Oh, are you, Princess? You hanging in there?" Susie derided, voice reaching a high-pitched, babyish tone that surely made the woman across from her feel five years old. "Is life okay in your 18-room apartment on the Upper West Side with your doorman and your maid and your childcare and your bottomless closet?"

      "Oh, I forgot to tell you guys," Midge abruptly said, losing her focus on the topic at hand. "I found two-thousand dollars in my closet!"

      Valerie sighed, "Stick to the script, Miriam."

      "You see, this is what I'm talking about!" Susie disquietly blurted out, briefly looking at Valerie to see if she too understood the gaudy outrageousness of Midge's life. Trust me, Valerie wanted to say, I do. "I'm not gonna find two-thousand dollars in my closet! Think about my life for a moment! I'm broke. I'm working less at The Gaslight so I'm falling further behind. I'm begging people to call me 'cause I can't afford to call them!"

      What had initially been a somewhat serious but ultimately bemusing conversation to watch and stay soundless on turned into something much more sobering. Valerie felt her good mood from how lovely this lunch had been to descend as she watched her manager have a mini breakdown, her voice even cracking at some points. "I am picking up half eaten apples out of trash cans at the Port Authority. It's getting dire here!"

      Concern nuzzled at her chest, sending unnerving numbness to the tips of her fingers. Harry Drake's boycott of them in Midtown certainly wasn't just extensive to Susie not feeling safe in her own home, but now to her financial situation. The thought of what's been happening to her made Valerie feel nauseous with anxiety.

      Midge must have felt a similar way as well judging by the drooping of her expression, sadness covering her eyes. She perked up with a desperate offer to help, "Then I'll pay your phone bill! How about that?"

      "It's forty bucks!"

      Valerie could have laughed at the come down of Midge's optimism. Clearly, she didn't pay her own phone bill at the Riverside apartment. The brunette slumped against the leatherback of the booth, "Oh, that I would have to borrow from my father."

      "You, from the father that doesn't have any idea why you'd be paying the phone bill of a friend that he's never met that you're not even supposed to know." Susie falteringly grunted, bringing up another situation that had yet to be resolved. "Great plan."

      Once she was done with her rant, Susie seemed to cool down a little. She looked between both clients, noting their sobering expressions, "You know what, don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

      "I get it, okay? I'm lucky! I have a support system, you don't!" Midge added, "I'm sorry."

      Susie waved her off, "Don't be sorry. Forget I said anything."

      "No, it's good for us to know what's happening with you." Valerie interceded softly.

      Still, Susie was looking more and more perturbed with herself for revealing so much, glaring at the surface of the table, "A manager doesn't go to her clients saying she's worried about money. She goes out and she gets money. I take on the burdens. You two are the artists. Your thing's harder."

      "Hey, we're not competing in an Olympic sport on whose job is more of a pain in the ass." Valerie strongly objected. "All three of us are doing hard things right now."

      Susie nodded murkily and didn't say anything else. The waitress curled around the island wall of their booth and dropped off the bill. Without thinking twice, Midge snatched the slip from the counter, "I'm getting this!"

      Their manager shrugged, "I'm not arguing with you."

      Midge tossed one more anxious look towards Valerie, before grabbing the bill, her purse, and heading towards the front of the restaurant. Both women implicitly understood that there was no point in continuing the fight, not when Susie had closed herself off so readily. Valerie and her manager sat in silence for a moment, lazily picking off pieces of bread and chewing while trying not to go stir crazy within the awkwardness. After a moment of deliberation, the blonde opened her purse and slid two sets of twenties towards her.

      "Take it."

      "No, I am not ―"

      "Take it, I'm serious." Valerie insisted tightly, her stare unwavering when looking at Susie's bulldoggish regard. "It's not a loan or a favor. We'll just call it a belated Christmas present and never speak of it again."

      Susie glanced down at the money, hesitant. Valerie cushioned her tone a little and pushed the money more towards her, pleading a little. "It's just for this month."

      Finally, Susie grumbled something under her breath, before swiping the cash. She stuffed it into the pocket of her leather jacket, determined not to meet the blonde's gaze, muttering an embarrassed 'thank you'. Valerie didn't say anything back, not wanting to make her uncomfortable about the whole financial situation.

      However, there was still something nagging at her, something she felt compelled to bring up even if it made her skin crawl. Clumsily, Valerie tried to bring it, "So, about today, do you wanna ―"

      "No."

      She winced at the woman's curt tone. "Look I'm not exactly thrilled about this either, but I just thought I would offer. If you need to talk, or ―"

      "Let's just not." barked Susie.

      Valerie broke off, feeling a strange wave of conflict, and hurt, and gratitude wash over her. Neither of them said anything else until Midge came back.

☆

      Maybe how quickly things went downward during lunch was a warning.

      Valerie didn't think about that as she rode a cab to Greenwich Village hours later. It would be a mischaracterization to say she was in a good mood for the rest of the day until it was time for her gig. Like how she felt right when she woke up in the morning and how she was while at Riverside Park, she couldn't help but discern that she was standing at the very tip of a diving board, off-balanced yet steady at the same time, always at the risk of plundering into the water. There were small pockets of time where the melancholy would creep in, or where it felt abnormal to be walking among the living, pretending to be functional when a lot of the time, she felt like a fraud, but all the moments were fleeting. She had done well today. She felt like today was like any other day ever since Mark died in that she had gotten used to the bizarreness of being a widow. However, there was a part of her that felt delicate, and that became hard to ignore.

      After lunch at The Stage Deli, Valerie briefly went back to Brooklyn to grab an evening outfit and a makeup kit, before taking the subway back to the Upper West Side. For the remaining couple of hours, she simply hung out at the Weissman apartment, playing with toy soldiers with Ethan, debating Abe about whatever controversial topic headlined The New York Times, and helping Midge pick out her own attire for tonight (that was a marathon within itself). Valerie had zero desire to return to her home where the lack of noise and David's easy-going presence was going to make her go stir-crazy. She needed high volume, she needed to be engaged, she needed something to distract her mind at every corner. The undercurrent of that anxiousness was the fear that if she was left alone with the silence, the darkness would snake back in.

      Nighttime arrived and after convincingly spewing a story about attending a cocktail party together to Abe and Rose, Midge and Valerie grabbed a cab to Greenwich Village. On top of the free spaghetti dinner and basket-house change that they were promised from the club's host, they were also promised a green room. Neither comedians had ever been granted any sort of dressing room since none of the venues they've performed have been fancy or high-class enough to have one. Usually, they would just hang out at the bar until it was time to go on and if they were lucky, they got a few drink tickets. 

      This club, however, swore to be different, hence why both ladies chose not to change at the apartment, but to wait until they arrived at their destination. Just for the experience of actually getting a dressing room. It was exciting, maybe stupidly so.

      When they walked into the lounge of the building, their makeup kits clenched in one hand while their clothes were laid over their other arm in protective plastic coverings, Susie didn't hide her judgement. "Oh, for Christ sakes," She groaned, temporarily snatching her cigarette out of her mouth. "You're both acting like you're Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe."

      "Which one is which?" teased Valerie, cheeks flushing as Susie simply rolled her eyes once again and led them to the back of the club. The actual establishment was shabby and quite clustered together, like most places in the Village, but similar to The Gaslight, it had been around for a while. The booker for the club was nice enough to allow Midge and Valerie two good slots later in the night, a favor paid for by Susie who he had known for a long time, but his generosity didn't extend long enough to be paying either of them besides whatever the crowd donated. It wasn't Midtown, but it was something at least.

      The supposed green room was more of a extravagant closest, a narrow space with two vanities attached to one of the walls and the lower shelves torn down to allow desks to be aligned. It wasn't anything like what stars got in Hollywood or what even those burlesque performers had in the Bronx, but to Midge and Valerie, it was a moment.

      "Ooh, I wish I had a camera!" Midge exclaimed excitedly, claiming one of the desks by plopping her items across the table surface. She gazed at the dimly lit bulbs and lack of ventilated windows as if they were chandeliers and satin curtains. "Our first dressing room!"

      Susie grunted from the doorway, looking between both of her clients with oddness. "Yeah, the room's a real beauty. I'm sure this is the same room they stuck Bob Hope in."

      Midge's head whipped around, "Bob Hope performed here?"

      "Fuck no!" She cried out, "If they ever brought Bob Hope to a place like this, his hairline would recede so quickly, his skull cape would go with it too!"

      Valerie paid no mind to her cynicism. She unzipped her dress from the laundry wrap and placed it on top of a nearby hook. She glanced over at her manager, "Does the guy want to meet us beforehand or..."

      Just then, a knock rattled against the hardwood door and a head popped out. Bob Feldstein grinned tightly and welcomed himself into the room, standing to his regular, staggering height as a broad and bellowed man. "You must be the upcomers for the night!"

      Midge and Valerie rushed to shake his hand. "Thank you so much for having us here tonight," The brunette between the pairing gushed. "We're grateful, truly."

      Bob didn't bask in the compliment. He simply nodded, still smiling, and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "I just wanted to warn you two that the crowd can be a little rough, but we've got some really good bouncers who will take care of anything that gets out of hand. Don't be afraid to shout, you know?"

      He turned to step out, but stopped before he fully could, "I've got you going on at ten o'clock and ten-thirty. No earlier, not later."

      Susie jumped at that. "How about ―"

      "Ten o'clock," Bob repeated, firmer. "and ten-thirty. Enjoy the show."

      With that, he left and Susie tried not to deflate with his refusal. Midge tsked sympathetically, "Those are great times."

      "Yeah, you know what, it's totally alright." Their manager shrugged off her disappointment easily, turning to face them with a beaming guise. "We're here, we're prepared, we're getting free food ― we're in a good place."

      Valerie reflected her confidence and nodded. She was in a good place, or at least she thought she was. She felt nothing but relaxation and anticipation for tonight's show. She knew what type of material she was going to say, how long she was gonna be on, how her comedy was going to transition into Midge's. It was all neatly planned how and secretly she knew a fantastic show was just what she needed to take her mind completely off this day.

      With that, both comedians got ready. It was a good thing they managed to get there earlier than asked, because it gave them plentiful time to not only get ready, but to survey the comedians coming on before them. Despite the fact that the stage was in the front of the building, they could hear the amplification of the microphone somewhat clearly, along with audience reaction. Man after man went on and most of the time people laughed, though there were a couple of times the crowd was so silent the trio worried the mic had blown out. 

      Eager for her clients to perform already, Susie originally occupied her time with hanging out in the dressing room with them, sitting on a leather ottoman and smoking cigarette after cigarette. After a while, she grew more anxious and decided to hit the bar for some of those discounted cocktails. She left just as one of the comedians carried out a magnificent punchline and the lounge roared with laughter, bouncing off the walls in loudness. 

      "You hear that crowd?" Midge questioned out of the blue, her voice wavering with nervousness as she leaned closer to her mirror, puckering her lips to apply some lipstick. One of the worst things about waiting for their slot was having to hear everyone else go on before them be great. It placed high expectations immediately. 

      "They sound pepped. But that's good, because it means they'll be in high-spirits for us." Valerie surmised smoothly, trying to infuse some of the confidence back into her friend. She slipped out of her chair and onto the edge of the desk, pushing herself closer to the mirror, a measly few inches away. She held up her mascara brush and delicately began applying them to her lashes. For whatever reason, she always had to be super close to the mirror in order to do this. It wasn't that she couldn't see from the chair, it was just a weird habit.

      Susie abruptly sauntered back into the room, briskly opening the door, because slamming it shut. A low-ball glass of whiskey swirled in one hand while the other cradled a stack of used magazines against her chest. "So, turns out, the bodyguards have an extensive collection of reading material by the front doors. I snagged some while we're stuck in here."

      Midge tossed a chastising look over her shoulder. Susie dropped the magazines carelessly across the ottoman, before holding up her hands (and by extension, her drink) in defense. "I'll give them back before we leave. Besides, this is only like a third of what they have up there. I skipped out on the Playboy issues."

      Valerie chuckled, dropping her brush back into the tube and hopping off the table. She took one more look at herself in the mirror. A lesson she had learned these past few months (a year, she had to remind herself, it's been a year) is that physically making yourself look good tended to make you feel good overall. With that in mind, she tried to best to make herself look perfect tonight, or as perfect as she was capable of being. So when she glanced at herself ― a short-sleeved white blouse with a scoop neckline that was tucked into a black a-line skirt; her blonde hair styled in her signature curls ― she felt good. She felt a surge of conviction for herself fill her keenly. It was a well-intact guard. Nothing else would hurt her tonight.

      Until she saw the magazines.

      A minute passed, before Valerie grew bored just as her manager. She ambled to the ottoman, picking through the magazines one by one. Life, Filmland, Man's Life, Stag ― she passed each one with a dismissive and amused manner. Men's magazines really were different than the ones meant for women. She looked through them all until she stopped at one that made her heart stop.

      On the cover of Billboard was a glamorous photo of her husband's band, each of the brown-haired men posing next to each other with their respective instruments close to them. The dark orange background illuminated their handsome features and dark clothing beautifully. Right in the center of the issue, where her eyes were glued, was Mark with a caramel and black guitar strapped across his chest. Sacred memories didn't serve quite as right as looking at photos of him. He looked exactly as she remembered, and though she had never realized it before, she noticed how young he looked in this photograph despite probably being close to thirty.

      But his eyes were the same, dark and hooded. There was that same smile, the kind that always made affection pool in the pit of her stomach. She could see the shade of his stubble across his jaw and she could feel it across her skin, tickling her neck when he kissed her jugular, scratching the corners of her mouth when they kissed in the morning. Her palms sensed the phantom downiness of his hair, the familiar sensation of thick curls, the grey streaks that were beginning to peak out at the edges of his hairline, the ones she noticed and teased him about.

      Across the front of the rag were a bold announcement: A TRIBUTE TO MARK KING (JULY 2ND, 1929 - APRIL 14TH, 1959), THE SINGER TAKEN TOO SOON.

      She knew if she flipped through the issue, she would find more photos of her dead husband and the prospect made her fingers shake. Without thinking twice, she dropped the magazine back into the pile harshly and whipped back around towards the vanity. She didn't sit back down, worried that if she attempted to grip the back of the chair, all of her dexterity would leave her. Studiously, Valerie pressed one of her hands against the rim of the table, pushing it harder and harder against the hardwood until a pain sharply bit into her skin. She kept going anyway. She just wanted the shaking to stop.

      Valerie angrily thrusted her teeth into her bottom lip, shutting her eyes close, willing herself to calm down and not make a scene in front of Midge and Susie. Releasing a quivering and quiet breath, the blonde joined her other hand on the table and just as she glanced down, another torrent of horror stroke her chillingly. 

      She didn't have her wedding ring on.

     Frantically, she surveyed her vanity, hoping to see it among the scattered items of makeup and notebook pages. It wasn't there. Valerie spun to face the room, rapidly searching every cranny with increasingly widening eyes, her right set of trembling fingers repeatedly twisting around the circumference of her left ring finger, as if constantly touching that area would bring it back. 

      Sudden fear thundered against her chest, caving it in. Her breath stuttered in and out. Nausea swiftly overturned her belly. She tried not to let the panic overwhelm, but it was quickly overlapping her entire being. "Umm, guys, I don't ―" She gasped a little. Midge and Susie's heads turned, now aware of her. Valerie couldn't look at them, her eyes weren't working. Things were being to blur. "I can't find my w-wedding ring."

      Midge's face distorted in confusion. She turned more fully around in her chair, "What?"

      "I can't ― I don't have ―" Valerie's eyes fluttered shut. A hand rose to brush against the top of her hair, then to the back of her skull. She couldn't break down. She had to be fine. Everything was fine. "My wedding ring's gone."

      "What do you mean?" Susie questioned gruffly, voice pinched from the cigarette in her mouth. "Did you leave it at home?"

      The blonde shook her head expeditiously. "No, I've never taken it off. I don't take it off, because ―" She turned away, her voice breaking. Fiercely, she gripped her purse roughly from the back of the chair. "Because Mark gave it to me."

      She tried to open her bag, but her fingers didn't work anymore. The clasps weren't coming off. Finally, in a show of unexpected impulse, Valerie ripped the two sides apart, flashes of silver buckles and buttons dropping to the ground unceremoniously. Without a care, she turned the bag upside down and poured everything on the carpeted ground ― coins, flashes of green dollars, pens, bobby pins fell out. 

      "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Valerie ―" She could hear both of her friends rising from their chairs, the caution loud and clear in her manager's voice, but she couldn't look at them. She had dropped to her knees and began madly searching through the discarded objects, needing to see a glint of silver and a single diamond in the center of a band. 

      There was nothing there. She couldn't see it amongst the trivial items no matter how many times she re-searched the pile and saw the same items again. At one point, she was more scratching at the carpet than touching anything tangible.

      "Valerie ―"

      Someone said her name again. She couldn't hear who it was. A deafening buzz was ringing in her eardrums, blocking anything else now. It made it even harder to concentrate. Was that Midge? Surely, that must have been Midge. She sounded scared.

      Before they could call her name again, Valerie's head dashed up from the ground, dread striking the muscles of her face. There was a desperation there that neither Susie or Midge had ever seen her possess before. But they didn't understand her anxiety. The whole room was crashing down around her. Something awful was hurtling towards her.

      "Can you guys just find it? Please?" She begged, wanting them to stop looking at her like something was wrong and to just find the damn ring. She crisply wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands even though there was no wetness. "You know, I ― I ― I can't ― it might be outside."

      Midge was the first to snap into action. Hurriedly, she gestured to Susie, "Maybe it slipped off her hand out in the lobby. Can you go check and ask the guards?"

     Still looking more than a little troubled, Susie nodded and almost sprinted out of the room. Valerie didn't feel any better with one less person around her. The room was still getting tinier. Midge made a tentative move towards her, probably aiming to pick her up off the floor, but the blonde brushed her off with flailing movements. She pushed herself up, starting to pace the small length of the green room. She couldn't stay still. Her clammy hands went from rubbing the underside of her jaw to touching her reddening sternum to back down her ring finger.

      God, it was missing.

      How could it be missing?

      She had never taken it off since Mark gifted it to her. 

      What kind of wife was she? What kind of person was she? Losing the ring her husband gave her. Abandoning like it was some meaningless object. Like it was a cheesy gift at the one dollar general. How could she have spent this day like this? How could today of all days she allow herself to forget her husband? There was no moving on. What did that even mean? Moving on. There was no moving on for her. Mark was oxygen and now there was no air. 

      Her head was pounding painfully. 

      She was ridiculous to be standing in this building. To start a stand-up career ― why did she think that was a good idea? It was nothing. It wouldn't make her feel happy. There was no making her happy, not anymore. How could she even try to be happy right now? Was she that selfish?

      Valerie pressed, or more like slammed, her back against the wall, wincing at every heaving breath she took. She thought she could breathe again, but there was no chance for breathing, not without Mark. There was no more room for light or brightness when Mark wasn't here. He was light. He was brightness. He died and all of it went with him. 

      "I'm looking for it right now, Valerie." Midge was hurriedly searching through her own things, destroying her meticulously arranged makeup kit that they sometimes shared. Her back was turned, but her movements and the strain of her back spoke of her anxiety over the situation. "It's gonna be alright!"

      It's not gonna be alright. It was all coming back. The darkness, and the blue mornings, and the agony. The tears, the chills, the closing of her throat, the pain ― all the pain was being thrusted inside of her and there was no escape. A year hadn't passed. It was just yesterday. She got a call from the hospital around noon. Someone asked if she was Mark King's wife. She said yes. A kind and weary voice said she needed to rush downtown. Someone needed to call his parents.

      Valerie scrunched her eyes tightly together, tears squeezed out from the corners, leaving grey streaks behind. The heels of her hands crammed into the sockets. She needed the affliction, something to ground her, because she was no longer touching the Earth. 

      Because she couldn't find her ring.

      Because she wasn't a wife anymore.

      Because her strength had left her.

      Because she thought she was doing better and this wasn't how tonight was suppose to go.

      Did she want to be better? Was she allowed to be better? 

      No, because without the pain, there was no evidence that Mark was ever here. There would be no evidence that he loved her; and there had to be proof. She had to keep some of it, because without it, she didn't know if anyone had ever loved her. Not really, not truly, not completely. Not like Mark had. She had felt it. It made her glow from the inside out. But now it was all gone and she needed to know it was real.

     One of her hands seized onto her chest, riffling the low stitches of the blouse. She tried to stop her lungs from moving so heavily. She wanted her ribs to stop making a vice around her. She wanted to breathe, but everything was coming out as broken gasps and wheezes. She couldn't gasp for air, not properly, not while panic had an unrelenting grip.

      The pads of her fingers brushed against her necklace. Her thumb pinned itself against the silver indention, feeling the sharp counters of her mother's cross, molding itself with the small figure of Mother Mary. Pain seared through her skin as she forced her thumb further down, as the necklace rammed into the skin of her breastbone. She didn't care. She wanted it. She wanted to feel it. It was the only way to show she wasn't entirely empty. Saint Mary, she cried in her mind, she quietly prayed, you know what it's like to lose a son, but do you have any idea what it is to lose a love?

      She wanted Mark.

      She wanted to feel him, and hear him talk, and feel his comfort.

     But he was gone.

     He's been gone, and he's never coming back.

     She wanted him so badly though.

     The devastation crippled her.

      Valerie fell back onto her knees, thumping loudly and staggeringly against the floor. She bowed her head forward, nearly touching her legs as torn sobs convulsed her. Not even seconds later, someone was pulling her into her arms without hesitation. She was being pressed against a warm body and the slope of a chest. Midge cooed tenderly against the crown of her skull as she rocked her back and forth.

      She couldn't help it. She grasped onto her best friend like she was a lifeline, hands circling her arms, half-sprawled in her lap. As long as Midge held her and she held back, she was safe. She would be okay. It would all stop soon enough. Until then, she surrendered to the desolation, to the loneliness, to the humiliation. She let herself get swept up in all of it, between the cries, between the ruptured panting. 

      Midge kept saying, it's okay, it's okay, but Valerie didn't have the words to tell her it wasn't. How could she say she wished her husband was here, that all the color had drained from her life when he left, how she had only ever been gifted good things that came with expiration dates? How could she say that in this moment, for nonsensical reasons, she wanted her mother? She wanted her mother's touch, and her mother's wisdom to vanquish the sorrow, and how she missed that woman so much. How could she say she was so ashamed of herself for breaking, how she couldn't understand why she couldn't be strong all the time, how her family would be contrite about how she was acting right? How could she say she wanted to be alone yet not alone at the same time?

      The door to the dressing room busted open. Susie was heaving exhaustively, but shock overcame that when she saw what had transpired while she was gone. Valerie couldn't look at her, couldn't focus. Her only focal points was the strong arms that enveloped her and the steady rhythm of her best friend's heart. 

☆

      The ring wasn't lost.

      It had been tucked in between her skirt and pants from earlier in the day. It must have come off while she was changing into her evening attire. When it was finally found, because all of the women refused to leave until it turned up, Midge gently slipped it back onto Valerie's finger, but the blonde just felt numb watching it come back on. It felt like a home, but it also felt like a trap.

      Their performances were cancelled. Susie did it without asking or complaining. She made up some excuse about her comics suddenly developing food poisoning from a random deli on the street. It all likelihood, this particular club would probably never book them again. Most managers didn't like performers who skipped out on them at the last minute, no matter how talented they were. Bob made that quite clear to Susie, but it was the last of the manager's concerns at the moment.

      The trio shared a cab while leaving. Midge and Susie practically had to guide her into the car, otherwise Valerie would have been left standing on the sidewalk, frozen in time, staring at the ugly apartments across the road. The ride back to the Upper West Side wasn't awkward, but it was perfectly quiet. Midge politely asked the driver not to play the radio. It was for the sake of not wanting to disrupt the peace, but to also avoid hearing what must of been a replay of Mark's songs just for today.

      Valerie looked ruined. Midge and Susie had taken all of her belongings, deciding to carry it for her, but she almost wished she had something to hold onto to hide herself further away. Her outfit was ruffled and out of place, her hair had become undone from the sweat, her mascara had melted down her face in a sad display of ink and dried tears. She was a mess. She looked like a mess. She no longer felt beautiful. Midge and Susie kept looking over at her during the ride, concern painting their attributes as they took in her ruined self. Still, nobody mentioned the trickle of red that was smeared across a few of her fingers and underneath her crucifix. 

      They didn't say anything about it, but Valerie could tell they wanted to. How had she managed to hurt herself in the process of a breakdown, they probably wondered. Suffering needs to feel religious, she wanted to offer them an explanation, but couldn't muster the strength to speak, it needs to exist. She couldn't distinguish if that was something she truly believed in or if she was just repeating tenets the church told her.

      Compared to the past hour, Valerie felt calmer. She was able to rest her head on the window, watch the city go by her in a dark breeze and be able to breath freely. It wasn't peace, but there was the possibly that she would never be at peace. That was okay, she thought to herself. Peace was Mark and Mark was gone. She could replay that piece of reality over in her head, live within it, and accept it. She would be able to accept it tomorrow as well, and the day after that, and the day after that. She would accept the fact that her strength was still there for her to possess and she knew that, because she had a taste of it during this past year.

      She would channel that strength to get through this next year; and the year after that, and the year after that. One year at a time, she decided. She would take this one year at a time and maybe one day, it wouldn't be unbearable anymore.

☆

"(...) But this is also the good news.
They live forever in your broken heart
that doesn't seal back up. And you come through.
It's like having a broken leg that never
 heals perfectly ― that still hurts when the
 weather gets cold, but you learn
to dance with the limp."
― Anne Lamott

☆

AUTHOR'S NOTES.

⋆ So...that was a chapter, huh? I promise it wasn't my intention to depress anyone with this chapter, but I felt discussing some of the significant moment of the bereavement process was important for Valerie's character developing. Also, I would make the argument that this chapter is more hopeful than what can be seen on the surface level. There are quite hopeful moments through-out this chapter, from Valerie having a moment with the kid in the park to her realizing at the very end that she will preserve in the future. This wasn't a decline of her development as a woman learning to live again as a grieving widow, but a progression, because she allowed herself to breakdown. She allowed herself to feel. She allowed herself to be comforted. She was able to recognize her own strengths. Don't get me wrong, she's got a long way to go in order to be in a more mentally healthy state, but I don't want this chapter to be perceived as retrogressive. 

⋆ Furthermore, I wanted to make a point that grief isn't linear. People who have often not experienced such intense suffering in the form of losing a loved one think that time heals all wound and as time goes on, things get better. That's not necessarily true as grief is, like Valerie described to Midge, a rollercoaster or a wave. It goes up and down. Some days are better than others and that's just how it's gonna be for the rest of your life. Grief is intermittent and sometimes has intense periods that can be randomly scattered through out your life. The point of healing, however, is to have more good days than bad.

⋆ A lot of what Valerie goes through and how she experiences her grief is based on my own struggle with grief and a recent conversation I had with my mother. This year marks nine years since my dad passed away. As heartless and confusing as this may sound, the anniversary of his death (which was last month) doesn't feel any more significant to me than any other day. My mom and I talked about this, and she agreed. To some of my aunts and uncles, this was absurd thinking, because they find themselves depressed on that date and on holidays where they can't see their brother. But it's different for me, because I feel my grief every day. It doesn't show up on certain dates. It's with me all the time. Sometimes it's worst, but that has nothing to do with anniversaries or holidays. It's all random. I very much expressed my experience through Valerie and some of the alternative perspectives through Midge and Susie.

⋆ To be honest, I don't know if I portrayed or described correctly the panic attack. The experience is different for everybody and I hope I conveyed the sense of overwhelming fear that strikes you when you have a panic attack. Personally, it was kind of hard for me to write so it's definitely not perfect, but I tried my best. I really wanted to emphasize how during a panic attack, your mind is kind of all over the place, thinking of things that are both representative of your true feelings and sometimes representative of irrational thought that may not always be reflected in how you feel when you're not freaking out.

⋆ Also, I made me and Mark have the same birthday 🙂

⋆ On a lighter note, I'm glad I was able to maintain my monthly schedule. This chapter is probably gonna be published right before midnight, but it's still the 25th so it counts, okay! I expect the update again next month around this time as well. Like I said before, no promises, because my school schedule can become very time-consuming very quickly, but I will try my best. Next chapter we're off to the races with the Catskills subplot in episode four! I know you're all craving some Lenny and I promise he'll show up soon!

HISTORICAL REFERENCES.

⋆ Salvador Sali was a controversial Spanish surrealist artist who's most famous works were published in the 1930s and 1940s. Valerie mentions expecting her kitchen when she wakes up to look like one of his paintings, mentioning mind-bending shapes and a liquidized clock This imagery was based on one of Salvador Dali's paintings called The Persistence of Memory. 

⋆ Poetry Magazine is an actual magazine that's been in publication since 1912. It's a monthly poetry journal based in Chicago

⋆ John Berryman is an actual poet from Oklahoma who often discussed suicide, death, and other personal problems in his life through confessional poetry. He's an incredibly interesting man and he'll be appearing again in the distant future in this story through one of his more famous poems. Surviving Love was an actual poem by him and it was published in Poetry Magazine.

⋆ Okay, I honestly doubt anyone would pick up the implications I wrote of the guitar-pickin' teenager who Valerie shares a conversation with in the park unless you're a massive and intense fan of folk music, particularly of one person. The character was supposed to be a cameo of Bob Dylan prior to him making it big as a critically acclaimed musician. To be honest, my portrayal isn't the greatest, because I took a lot of artistic liberties in describing his personality, but I did add some clues to who he would later become in pop culture. 

⋆ In 1959, Bob Dylan was seventeen years old and was about to attend the University of Minnesota. The bit about him being in Upstate New York with his parents was made up on my part, along with the suggestion that he ran away and got lost in New York (he had never been in NYC before as far as I'm aware). A year later in 1960, he would end up quitting his post-secondary education and moving to New York officially.

⋆ Like any other teenager in the fifties, he was a fan of rock n roll artists like Elvis Presley and Little Richard, but his main source of inspiration was a folk singer called Woody Guthrie. A lot of his songs dealt with protesting issues in the United States. The quote, 'This machine kills fascists' is an actual quote from Woody Guthrie that he printed on his guitar in the 1940's.

⋆ Valerie introduces Bob to Greenwich Village, the neighborhood that features The Gaslight, which was quite an artsy scene in the fifties and sixties. In the sixties, when he was attempting to pursue music professionally, Bob Dylan played at many clubs in Greenwich Village, including The Gaslight. If anyone wants to see a replication of Bob Dylan in his younger years playing at that iconic club, watch the final scene of Inside Llewyn Davis with Oscar Isaac (Mr. Mark King himself). It shows a cameo of Bob Dylan playing on stage. 

⋆ The fact that he says his name is 'Robert' isn't untrue. Bob Dylan was originally born Robert Zimmerman, but later changed it to the stage name Bob Dylan thanks to inspiration from the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (the poet Valerie tells him about). When Valerie encourages him to adopt a stage name and she says that sometimes people are born to 'the wrong names, the wrong parents', that is paraphrasing an actual line by Bob Dylan in a 2005 interview with CBS News. He also was Jewish in real life.

⋆ Again, I doubt I was spot on with capturing his personality and dialogue as a bright seventeen year old who hasn't quite formed his music tastes or hasn't decided to become a professional singer, but I will say that I hoped that I captured some essence of him. I based his attitude on the film I'm Not There (a brilliant 2007 film based on different phases of Bob Dylan's life) and a 1965 press conference in San Francisco that he held that is available on YouTube.   

⋆ Sun Records was an actual record company from the 1950s.

⋆ The Daily Worker was a Communist newspaper that began publishing in 1924 and had been contributed to by Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan's idol 

⋆ Rocky Marciano was an Italian boxer and one of the best boxers of the 1950s

⋆ Jane Russel and Marilyn Monroe were a brunette and blonde pairing that starred in the iconic film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes