Henry
Meredith got a ride earlier from either Ginny or Gabby—it’s unclear which—so I’m waiting with her now on Thames Street for her Uber to arrive.
As she hops back and forth from one foot to the other, she asks, “Are you good at identifying types of cars?”
“I’d say I’m about average,” I tell her. “Bet I can pick out a Toyota Tercel, though.”
According to her Uber app, Chantelle, her driver, is three minutes out.
“Are your ears ringing, too?” she asks.
“What?” I say.
“Are your…” She laughs. “Oh, right. The Horse You Came In On might be my new favorite place in Baltimore, by the way.”
“Not bad, huh? I haven’t been there in years.”
We’re about a hundred feet from the bar’s front door, which means we can still hear the band inside roaring through the loudest set of Christmas songs ever played. Best we could tell, they’re a mix of members from various local metal groups who’ve teamed up for one night to murder holiday classics.
“This city,” she says. “It’s got grit.”
I think of L.A., like my own Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and feel a pang for my loud, messy hometown even though I haven’t even left it yet.
When we got to The Horse You Came In On earlier, Meredith and I tried to have a civilized conversation.
Screaming things like, “So, what did you study in school?” at each other grew tiring, though, so we squeezed our chatting in during the ten-second breaks between songs.
When that eventually failed, too, we resorted to hand signals and facial expressions.
Then, during a version of Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” that sounded like a car crash, Meredith took my hand and pulled me into a little clearing in the crowd to dance.
“I’m not sure this is danceable!”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
Surprisingly, though, it was, and I learned that Meredith, like every tall woman I’ve ever met—Brynn included—isn’t a very good dancer.
It didn’t matter, though, because the sneaky charm of bad dancing is underrated.
She inches closer to me now as a cold gust moves across Fells Point.
Her glasses have a magnifying effect, highlighting the contrast between her blue eyes and dark brown hair.
“I mean, you don’t normally hear the F-word that much during Christmas songs,” she says, “but somehow it worked.”
“It did, didn’t it?” I say just as a white Toyota with a glowing Uber light appears down the block.
“Maybe you could show me some other places, too,” she says. “You know, if you’re up for it. You could be my unofficial Baltimore tour guide.”
I’ve had a nice time tonight. As her ride inches toward us, though, I somehow imagined that it’d be an isolated thing, like a chance encounter with a nice stranger during a layover. There’s no way to articulate that, though, so I say, “Okay, yeah, sounds nice.”
Chantelle arrives at the curb with the sound of squeaking brakes. “Hey, baby. You Meredith?”
“Hi. Yeah, just one sec, okay?”
Should I shake her hand? A half hug, maybe? Unfortunately, I try a combo of the two, and Meredith laughs, but not unkindly.
“Sorry,” I say. “Let’s go full hug.”
“Good idea,” she says. “I’ll go this way, you go that way.”
“Okay, here we go.”
She’s in my arms for maybe a second, tall and thin in a scratchy peacoat. Then her glasses brush my cheek, and she kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Night, Henry.”
As Meredith rolls away in Chantelle’s Tercel I’m left feeling a little dizzy, but it passes, and I stand quietly on Thames Street until I realize that I’m thinking of Grace.