The Color of Home: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

interrupted the story, spoken openly to one another, or to anyone around them for that matter, they would have been okay.”
    “I can’t believe you’re rewriting Shakespeare. Some things are better left alone.”
    A homeless person, with long matted hair, and layered in ragged clothing all dusted the same dirt color, walked into the diner. Stopping in front of Nick, she asked for spare change. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her. She continued on to the next booth until the owner chased her out.
    “Do you always do that?” Sassa asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “There’s a lot of suffering in the world.”
    Her hand carved through her hair, and holding it back for a second, she gathered it into a temporary ponytail. Then, reaching across the table, palms up, she took his hands and gently shook her head from side to side.
    “Okay to keep going?” he asked.
    “It’s a small price.”
    “If Romeo told Tybalt about their secret, that would’ve interrupted the story. Or Mercutio could’ve reached Romeo in time. Or Juliet could’ve waited for confirmation from Mercutio before she swallowed the elixir.”
    “That would have made it a boring story.”
    “A different story, for sure.”
    “You’re better on suffering. There’s no conflict or action in your version.”
    “Sometimes ideas are the action.”
    “Not in the real world.”
    A reflection of the ceiling fan spun in his coffee. As the light danced on the top of the black surface, forming constantly morphing images, he couldn’t help but smile. So far, the conversation had gone well. In unexpected directions, but well. He raised his head, looked right at her with probing eyes, and said, “Let’s say none of the tragic events occurred, and instead the story focused on Romeo and Juliet’s true love, a love that brings together two warring sides.”
    “Do you believe in happy endings?”
    “Doesn’t the world need stories that break down barriers?”
    “Do you always answer a question with a question?”
    “Nice.”
    She yawned and stretched her arms up into a touchdown position, as if she’d scored the game-winner, as if words, one-liners, tie-backs to earlier conversations had replaced the quarter and table edge. “We should call it a night soon.”
    “Ten more minutes.”
    “Five.”
    “Okay, five. . . . So there are many tragic stories, but few about ways to be truly happy. We need more of the latter.”
    Her eyes went wide. Picking the quarter up off the table, she spun it, studied it as is sphered across the table until it slowed, dropped back into a circle. Frowning, she said, “Whatever. The story is more about what happens to good people in a series of bad circumstances.”
    “Not really. It’s about a violent world where everyone lies and keeps secrets.”
    “Which is our world, don’t you think?”
    “Yes, but we need to change it.”
    “And on that note, I’ll be right back.” Placing her hand on his shoulder, she bent down and whispered in his ear, “Get out of your head.”
    As he waited, he took stock of the diner and gleaned things, apparently always there, that he hadn’t noticed before. A Mario Batali cookbook. A Japanese cast-iron teapot. A poster of the Swedish women’s national soccer team. He did need to get out of his head more. She was right about that. And she was also the one person who had ever called him on his habit, his pattern, to over think, over intellectualize everything. So far, she’d navigated the R&J conversation well. More than well.
    Sassa glided back to the table with a slight bounce in her step, somehow different. Brighter. Like the short break had given her a shot of adrenaline. Or like she’d constructed the perfect winning argument. “Okay, I’ll play more.”
    “What happened?”
    “I want to see if you took my advice.”
    “Oh.”
    She waved the waiter over to the table and ordered another piece of German chocolate cake and a chocolate