Rose of Spanish Harlem
JULIAN GALLO

          It wasn’t snowing when Giorgio left his apartment so he isn’t aware of the sudden front blowing across Manhattan while he’s on the subway, and he most certainly isn’t prepared for it when he emerges to street level and into an eerie wintery silence. There’s no wind, creating the illusion that it’s a light snowfall, but it accumulates on the sidewalk and parked cars and clings to everything — his pea coat, his ski hat, his scarf — and the eerie silence begins to unnerve him. It’s not a good night to be out and about, and normally he wouldn’t be, but Rose is waiting for him outside her building. A last-minute call. Desperate. 
          He hadn’t heard from her in three weeks and she’d been ignoring his phone calls and his text messages. He knows it’s over but he still clings to a thread of hope, a thread which is fraying, ready to snap. The last time he saw her was at his apartment, before the winter chill arrived, before the snow, before the seemingly ever-present warship grey sky. She was lying on his bed watching him nervously puttering around the apartment, at wit’s end, waiting for the final break but surprisingly it didn’t come. Instead, she coaxed him back to bed, held him in her arms, kissed his forehead, his neck, and his shoulders, and told him she loved him but he knew this wasn’t the truth. She didn’t love him, nor anyone else. There was only one person Rose loved and that was Rose. And as he lied there, succumbing to his insatiable desire to be wanted, to be loved, to destroy his insufferable loneliness once and for all, he saw the cracks beginning to spread out across the thin ice in which their relationship stood upon. He didn’t know why he felt he wouldn’t see her again after she walked out of the apartment that night, and he didn’t, but then out of the blue, the desperate phone call, pleading to see him. In other words, the cycle continues, and as he walks up Lexington Avenue toward her apartment, he doesn’t know what to expect. 
          He considers just going home, back to the warmth of his cell, getting lost in sleep, in dreams, in another reality far from the surreal carnival that had become his life. Momentary flashes of memory: her youthful face framed by long dark curly hair, half-lit by lamplight, the dimples on her cheeks when she smiles, the way she walks across the apartment in her black lace underwear, the birthmark on the small of her back, her dark curls gliding across her shoulder blades, her little feet with Band-Aids covering the blisters on her heels, the tribal tattoo just under the swell of her little paunch, the scar on her knee from when she fell playing Double Dutch as a child, all of it seems unreal now, like a dream or a fantasy, and when he wakes from it he’ll be alone in his apartment, peering out the curtains at the snow accumulating on his fire escape, waiting for a call that will never come. 
          But it is real, and he sees her huddled in the doorway of her apartment building, smoking a cigarette, watching a plume of smoke slowly drift into the falling snow, illuminated by the streetlight. 
          She sees him walking toward her but she doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. She remains in the doorway, her cigarette burning between her ringed fingers. Now she’s having second thoughts, regrets calling him because she knows there’s no way she won’t tell him. She supposes she doesn’t have to if she has the strength, but she knows she doesn’t and now she realizes what she’s gotten herself into. He’d always been understanding, a little too understanding. Too nice. She didn’t like men who were too nice. Kindness is weakness, or at least that’s what she’d come to believe. He’s the first man who ever treated her like a human being and she couldn’t handle that, took advantage of him, played her games, and he just took it, always understanding. How did he put up with it for so long? Weakness. That’s all the proof she needed. She isn’t so desperate now. It’s over, anyway. Nothing can be done about it. He doesn’t even have to know. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him and she knows he will hurt, will empathize, will want to comfort and reassure her, and she’s not able to handle that. 
          When he arrives, she takes one last drag from her cigarette and drops it to the snowy sidewalk and kisses him hello. 
          Were you waiting long? 
          No, she says. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, and you know my mother. 
          Where do you want to go? 
          Just for a walk. 
          In this? 
          It’s kind of nice, isn’t it? It’s quiet. When is it ever quiet around here? 
          They walk arm and arm back towards Lexington Avenue, heading towards the coffee shop, though that may be either subconscious or merely out of habit. The eerie silence continues to envelop the city and they aren’t talking, as if each of them are afraid to disturb the silence. 
          After they reach the next block, Giorgio says, What’s wrong? You sounded like something was bothering you. 
          She doesn’t answer him. She doesn’t want to now. She searches her mind for a reason, any reason, but she knows it doesn’t matter what she says. He’ll accept it. 
          I just wanted to see you, she says. 
          It’s been a long time. I thought you gave up on me. 
          How he could not be angry with her mystifies her and it only reinforces her belief that he’s weak. Javier, her ex-boyfriend, wouldn’t have waited for her. He would have pounded on her door, demanding to see her. Not Giorgio, who retreated into his corner, his sanctuary, licking his wounds. 
          She wants to tell him but can’t bring herself to do it. 
          What was it that you wanted to see me about? 
          Rose doesn’t say anything, removes a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket, then changes her mind and puts them back. 
          I just wanted to see you, she says. 
          Giorgio knows something’s wrong but he doesn’t press her. He suspects she’s been seeing someone else. 
          It’s snowing harder now and the wind intensifies, so they decide on the coffee shop after all. She sits at a table near the window while he orders their usual espresso and cappuccino. She watches the snow for a bit, then turns to watch him at the counter, his coat pebbled with melting snowflakes. He’s a good man, she tells herself, but a little too good. Who else would have come out in this mess to travel all the way uptown on the strength of one phone call? He had every right to tell her to fuck off and hang up on her but he didn’t. She can’t decide if that’s a good thing or whether he just proves his insufferable weakness. Javier most certainly wouldn’t have gotten his lazy ass off the couch. When he walks towards her carrying the two cups of coffee, she studies his expression, sees the usual seriousness he’s possessed with, as if every day is a struggle. She never met such a serious young man. How would he take the news? 
          He places the coffee cups down on the table and slips out of his coat, drapes it over the back of his chair. He doesn’t look at her when he sits down but instead looks out the window at the snow now whipping sideways up the avenue. 
          It’s brutal out there, he says. 
          She looks out the window, doesn’t say anything. 
          What did you want to see me about? 
          She looks at him, studies his face, then sips her cappuccino. 
          It’s more than you just wanting to see me, he says. It’s been nearly three weeks. You haven’t answered my calls, my texts, nothing. It’s as if you dropped off the face of the earth. What’s going on? 
          She’s about to tell him but she can’t. She looks out the window again, hiding the tears beginning to well up in her eyes. He just watches her, sips his espresso. He’s angry but he isn’t showing it. He’s damned if he will. He’s tired — tired of the game, tired of her, but she doesn’t know it yet. 
          I’m sorry, she says. I know I’ve been kind of distant lately. 
          Distant? You disappeared. 
          She reaches for his hand and takes hold of it. He doesn’t hold her’s back. 
          Just a lot on my mind lately, that’s all. 
          Care to share it? 
          Again she wants to tell him but the words get caught in her throat. 
          Are you seeing someone else? 
          No, she says. It’s not that. 
          Then what is it? 
          She lets go of his hand and looks out the window again, stifling a sob. The snow is blinding now, the wind beginning to howl, sending bits of trash tumbling along the snow-covered sidewalk. 
          When she saw so much blood in the toilet she knew it was over. For three weeks she was in denial, not wanting to believe it was true, but the tests showed otherwise. Then came the excruciating pain, the cramps, then the blood. In a way she was relieved but she had to be sure, and that’s when the doctor told her. She couldn’t face him after that. 
          Just going through a rough patch, that’s all, she says. 
          You could talk to me. It’s what I’m here for. 
          She wonders if he’d have the same answer if he knew. Probably. She can’t imagine him being angry over such a thing. She wonders had it not happened, what predicament would they find themselves in. How would he have handled it? He would be by her side, responsible, adult. She wasn’t prepared for that, isn’t prepared for that, but it’s over now and there’s no reason for him to know. She can cut the cord, set herself free, set him free. 
          She sips her cappuccino and looks out the window again. It’s practically a blizzard now. Visibility virtually zero. He just looks at her and studies her face, knows something is wrong. The mood is oppressive as if being squeezed in a vice. She just looks at him, takes hold of his hand again and forces a smile. 
          Thank you for coming out in all this, she says. I appreciate it. 
          Of course, he says. I just wish you’d tell me what’s on your mind. 
          There’s always time for talk, she says, looking out the window again. Let’s just sit here for a while. I’m just glad you’re here. 
          They both look out the window, watching the blizzard. He wonders how difficult it will be getting home and if the buses are even running. 


                                                                                                                                                                   \
                                                                                                                    New York City, May 2022