A Lone Stone Rarely Falls by Irina Moga

It’s noon at Bloor and Spadina, in Toronto, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Devin waiting at the pedestrian crosswalk.

“Hi,” he says. “Look who I’m running into.”

“Oh, hi. What are you doing here, skipping class?”

“Biding my time.” The movement of his lips is in sync with the mocking look he gives me. “Hviklyndur,” my grandmother used to say in Icelandic. Fickle. I guess that’s Devin. “The real question is, how come you're not in class?”

“Bored, I guess,” I reply. “Here, I got some apricots at Metro. Want to share?”

“Yup, I'm desperately hungry,” he chuckles.

“There’s a bench in the Gwendolyn MacEwen parkette, up on Walmer Rd., wanna go there?”

“Yup.”

~~~

Two weeks ago, while Mariana and I were guarding the lockers during Phys Ed, she said, “I can’t believe you’re oblivious to what’s going on. A woman is supposed to read signposts.”

“What signposts, M?”

“Devin — I think he has a crush on you. Can’t you tell?”

“M, come on. Where are you getting these ideas from?”

“I think it’s obvious. Just so you know... I’m interested.” She paused. “I asked him out, but he turned me down. I envy you. You can’t let that kind of opportunity pass. He’s really something.”

Devin? That’s out of left field.

He’s a social butterfly who’ll befriend anyone able to match his witty remarks. Later, as I get home, I mull it over.

Isn’t it strange, a guy like that being interested in me?

I’m the lifeless appendix of my former self, ever since my parents nudged me into the computer science program at U of T. Their rationale — “one cannot make a living writing poetry, dear” — was enough to make me cave.

Now I’m an indifferent, comatose nobody, taking courses I loathe.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone like Devin — tall, funny, a little ridiculous — to take me clubbing, text me at dawn, make me feel alive?

He’s always in a good mood, at ease with himself, and even manages to chat up the Chu Twins, the top students in our class. While Richard Chu — the younger one — is more my style, Devin cleans up well and dresses with a laid-back sense of fashion.

Still, after talking with Mariana, I wondered what sort of contagion had entered my brain. She’s a nice enough girl, but I can’t mimic her way of thinking.

No. I must push her words out of my mind.

“Sjaldan fellur stakur steinn,” I tell myself. A lone stone rarely falls — the saga of my life.

And yet… there’s Devin, with whom I’ve been casually exchanging notes during breaks.

Just like Mariana, who put the bug in my ear, I’m starting to pay attention.

~~~

“We’re lucky,” Devin says as we settle down on the bench, “there isn’t a lot of pigeon shit. Just enough for the both of us.”

I laugh and pull out the apricots. “Get the water bottle from the backpack, and let’s wash them.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It wouldn’t do for Dr. Stanley’s only son to die a preventable death. Imagine how it would set tongues wagging in North Bay.”

“Poor Dr. Stanley, have you heard…”

“No, no. We’re safe.”

A minute goes by. “Umm, these apricots are yummy.”

“Weather’s not too bad, either.”

A seagull lands on the top of Gwendolyn MacEwen’s bronze head in the middle of the parkette. Another one is circling above, its anxious shrieks not unlike the ones of ring-billed gulls on the shores of Lake Winnipeg.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, before I ask the next question.

“What do you think of Mariana?”

“She’s a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me,” Devin says, tilting his head to one side, a hint of humor in his eyes.

I catch a whiff of the expensive cologne he rotates throughout the week. Today’s scent feels like fog over ocean waves.

“Then again, she isn’t an Icelandic beauty from Manitoba.”

“Are you going to hold that against me, too, Devin?”

“Nope,” he replies, grinning.

“Guess what she told me. She thinks you might have, ah, ‘a thing’ for me.”

“A thing as in… like you?” Devin’s eyebrows arch upward.

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s right about one thing. I do like you.”

My heart skips a beat. I’m brimming with joy, as if drunk from an unknown elixir. “Yeah?”

“I’m not sure about ‘the thing,’ though.”

“Umm-hmmm.”

“It’s not easy to talk to people, if you get my drift,” he continues. “You’re okay, though. Sometimes.”

“Ah, sometimes…Yeah, I know what you mean. I told Mariana she was mistaken, straight up.”

A bubble of euphoria has drifted away. The warm May sun shines above us, its light scattered by the large maple leaves overhead.

We split the last fruit.

Devin leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out.

“Nah, I can’t wait for the semester to end,” he says. “My girlfriend, Lindsey, is waiting for me in North Bay.”

The word girlfriend hits like a sudden gust of cold wind.

“Oh,” I say, blinking. “That’s... nice.”

“Yeah. My parents can’t stand her, though.” He laughs. “She’s eleven years older than me.”

I nod, slowly. “Don’t take it to heart,” I manage. “I’m sure things will work out.”

“They will,” he says, with conviction. “I’m planning to pop the question when I get home.” He glances at me, gauging my reaction. “My father will be livid — oh well. Anyway,” he says, “thanks for the apricots.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Shall we head back to class now? We can make the 2 o’clock lab.”

As we prepare to leave, he adds, “Poor Gwendolyn. She died young.”

I know what it feels like to be young and to be dead inside.

And I recall her lines:

something is eating away at me

with splendid teeth