People think that just because they watched Pulp Fiction they’re guaranteed some rite of passage into the world. Just because you can quote, probably not even verbatim, a phrase about a five dollar milkshake doesn’t make you anything special. Most of the time it just makes you look like a d--- because the Royale with cheese is a much better choice. Not to mention, there are endless combinations of f---s and motherf---ers to be quoted on the behalf of Samuel L. Jackson, which in my opinion is a much better choice. When I saw the guy with Mia Wallace dominating the front of his black t-shirt, I automatically assumed that he was just another shallow example of the pretentious a--holes that cult classics seem to create. I gave him credit for the book that he was reading, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, because it’s rare to see someone my age with decent taste in literature. Still, he had made mistake number one, and it was almost unforgivable.
Sitting about thirty feet away on the nondescript park bench, I glanced up from my well-worn copy of East of Eden to find him watching me. As angry as I was about the shirt that he’d probably picked up because he thought Uma Thurman was hot, I couldn’t help but feel like I was being placed under a gigantic microscope as he continued to look at me. He had a slight sense of self-importance about him that I didn’t find endearing, and it became more noticeable as he stared me down. My face was growing red, not due to the sun that nearly blinded me every time I looked up, but from the stupid gaze he was sending in my direction. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just sit at the edge of the lake on my lunch and read my book without some dude straight from the Urban Outfitters catalog I got in the mail invading my privacy. I did my best to glare at him which probably just contorted my face strangely and made it more interesting to look at, but I smirked with satisfaction on the inside as I found that I could focus once again on Steinbeck’s infallible genius.
I took my time walking back to the hospital that afternoon, not looking forward to my shift in the morgue. Being a resident had its perks; if I was to fall down the twenty flights of stairs in my apartment building at least I’d be covered for the stitches. I wouldn’t get home until the next morning and I’d spend the seven hours that followed sleeping until it was time to repeat the entire routine over again. The entire week I was working in the morgue and despite the air of bravado that I carried it still got to me. I knew what the job description came with, but it was nothing less than heartbreaking to see a man in his twenties with his entire life ahead of him, ruined, because someone f---ed up and hit his car head-on at two in the morning when he was taking his girlfriend home. Worse, even, was stepping outside of the industrial doors to see the now single girl with tears streaked down her face as she waited with the policeman to identify the body. I had to pretend that I didn’t care and that it didn’t get to me, but it didn’t get any easier with time. I questioned my decision to go into medicine multiple times and this was one of the main reasons why. I didn’t want to become someone incapable of empathy and it was a genuine fear that the job would turn me into an emotionless robot, but somehow the pain of feeling someone else’s loss kept me grounded. That did not, however, mean that I wanted to do it for five days straight.
…..
The work went exactly how I expected. Friday nights were always the most difficult because every drunk person in the city of Chicago seemed to be out driving, not to mention the various cases of head trauma plaguing the emergency room because someone had to have the last word in a meaningless bar fight over a girl that couldn’t care less who she went home with. My messy apartment was a relief to arrive home to and as soon as I arrived I closed the curtains and fell into bed with my scrubs still on. As I dozed off I felt the paws of my tabby, Vince, walking lightly on my back.

“Good morning to you, too.” I muttered as he settled in, making it impossible for me to move. I secretly enjoyed the company of my slightly overweight cat, but I would never admit it to him. I had to practice not letting others on to my emotions somehow, and if it was via animal communication, so be it.
I woke up mildly horrified. That guy, the one from the park, had been in my dream. This time he had been the person waiting outside the morgue to identify the woman that was presumably his mother. He kept shouting “Danielle” over and over and I knew that he was calling for me but it was like he was underwater and I couldn’t yell back to him. I found it amazing that my mind could come up with a voice for him and a personality when I had just seen him from a distance nearly a week ago. I wondered if it was like one of those weird things I had seen on T.V. when someone dreamed about something and it actually happened, and then I wondered why I cared about it so much. He was just someone who had stared at me in a rather rude fashion, in my opinion, and I didn’t understand why I was so concerned for his welfare in my brain’s creation. Still, for a solid twenty minutes, I stayed in bed with Vince still on my back, wishing there was some way that I could ask him about his mother.
I still had an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach as I sat at my kitchen table and ate a bowl of cereal while reading the last few chapters of East of Eden. It always made me feel somewhat hollow to finish a book, like there was nothing left to do. If that story was over, I didn’t understand why my real-life story should continue. I thought that at some point everyone experienced this, but Noel proved me wrong.
…..
I had the next two days off before I started my shift in the morgue again. Only one more week of it and I would be back in emergency, thankfully. There was always more noise and chaos there, but for one thing it was life and people were being saved. I couldn’t do any saving when I was removing the bullets from a ten year old girl’s chest. I tried not to think about that as I swung my legs over the concrete barrier between me and the lake. The day was clear enough to see to the shores of Indiana, and the city behind me was as beautiful as ever. It was my favorite spot to go to. There were a couple of benches dotting the sidewalk behind me and I could see the observatory and the aquarium to the right and the crowds of people lining up to get in. Bikers rushed past behind me and the jingle of the bells on ice cream vendors’ carts rang along the walkway. A cool breeze off the water blew my light brown hair over my shoulders and I felt the sunlight against my pale skin. I was drowning in my thoughts when an unfamiliar voice was suddenly close to my ear.

“You come here often, don’t you?” he asked me, taking his uninvited spot on the ground beside me.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I replied incredulously. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes when I saw his Rocky Horror Picture Show shirt. F---ing cult classics.

“Well, you know that I sit here nearly every day, don’t you? It’s Noel by the way.”

“Noel, I know that you sit here and watch me, so I’m trying to determine if you’re some pervert who’s going to murder me in your basement or if you’re just socially challenged and I should do you the favor of making conversation.” He laughed at the remark that normally would have sent someone in the opposite direction, and something told me that maybe the media hadn’t corrupted him as much as I had thought that it did.


“First of all, I don’t have a basement. I’d probably take you into an alley. Can you at least do me the favor of telling me your name?” I noticed a sketchbook clutched in his hands and for some reason I was curious as to what was inside.

“It’s Danielle. Are you an artist?” I asked him. He grinned at me, his teeth sparkling against his tanned skin. Now that he wasn’t thirty feet away from me, I noticed how handsome he really was. His hands looked strong but his fingers were thin and nimble. Definitely an artist’s hands. His hair was a dirty blond and he had dark brown eyes and freckles dotting his nose.

“Nice to meet you, Danielle. Can I call you Dani? And yes, I would like to consider myself an artist.” I watched, dumbfounded, as he produced an ink pen from his pocket. He opened his sketchbook to a page and wrote “Dani” in cursive on the paper, then tore it out and handed it to me. It was stunning. He had drawn me on the park bench, my head bent over a book and my hair swept over one eye. I could never keep my bangs in place and I always thought that it looked stupid, but he somehow made it look nice.

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed.” I said, still looking at the drawing.

“Flattered, I hope. You’re an excellent subject, you know. Your lips were difficult to do because they’re so full, but your eyes were the hardest. The sun always hits them when you look up. They’re really stunning, for what it’s worth. I’ve never seen that color of blue.” A blush was creeping up on to my neck and my cheeks and I couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Well, thank you, Noel, for the drawing. I think I might just keep it.” He checked his leather wristwatch and suddenly got to his feet.

“I’m sorry to leave you so quickly, but I’ve got a meeting at the Institute in a few minutes. They’re hiring and they want to see my portfolio. Thank you for these lovely few minutes, Dani.” I tried to come up with a response but before I knew what was happening his warm lips had brushed against mine and then all I could see was his back as he jogged away.

…..


“Okay, go.” I said, closing my eyes. I opened my mouth and chewed, screwing my face up in concentration. It was sweet, like the past twenty or so, and that wasn’t exactly helpful. “Is it lime?” He laughed, full and gentle.

“No, dork, it’s cherry.” I opened my eyes and leaned in to kiss him.

“I swear to god it was lime.”

“It can be whatever you want it to be, Dani, as long as this happens afterwards.”

“Shut up.” I said, grinning, and shoving his shoulder. “Okay, your turn.” I dug through the bag of Skittles, looking for a purple one because it was the worst flavor but he loved them anyways. “Close your eyes, you cheater!” I said, smacking the back of his head lightly. He stuck his tongue out at me and closed them, opening his mouth.

“Grape.”

“You suck, you totally saw.”

“So what if I did? I know you save all the purple ones for me.” He said, leaning his forehead against mine. Four months had passed. His hand covered mine on the concrete in the spot that had now become ours.

…..

It was my month to work in the morgue again. I changed into my scrubs as Vince sashayed in between my legs, meowing softly.

“Sorry, buddy, gotta go.” I grabbed Noel’s Pulp Fiction shirt off of my bed and shoved it into my backpack to change into later, stopping quickly before I sped out the door to look at his drawing taped up above my bed. I said hello to the receptionist as I passed the welcome desk and headed for the elevator, pressing the button for the bottom floor. It was a Friday night and I anticipated walking back into the elevator completely drained. It always seemed to end that way.

“You can go home, Jerry, I’ll take it from here.” I said to the only other resident from my shift. He was just pulling one of the silver cabinets from the long row open.

“Got another kid here, Dani, you gonna be okay?” I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine, just say hi to Jenna for me.” He waved goodbye and I walked to the sink to wash my hands and put my gloves on. I got my clipboard from the shelf on the wall at the check-in station and went to the cabinet that he had opened, sliding the table out. I took a deep breath, staring at the sheet covering the person beneath it. I said a quiet prayer, like I always did, and lifted the sheet. It was the second to last time I saw Noel.

…..

I wore his t-shirt to the funeral. It wasn’t black, but he had been right about those movies. You had to watch them a couple times to understand the point.