I Hated Fridays.

Not that I hated my job, but there are days when anticipating what waited in that building caused more trauma than facing it eventually did. Fridays meant infinite deadlines. As if it knew my hatred for it, the whole universe conspired against me. I slept in, waited in line at the coffee hut, and endured bumper to bumper traffic for miles. I parked at the back of the garage and hustled to the bus stop but missed my shuttle. Defeated, I sat down on the sheltered bench and cursed. My watch flashed red, silent, and judgmental. Yep, late. The one on the bank agreed. Still late. The phone in my pocket? Yes, that too, all synched in motion against me. I looked up at the schedule on the pole, sighed, and consigned myself to a stern talking to when I finally got in.

Gentrification worked this part of town into a dream of halcyon days in the city. Never mind the grit and crime that originally built it. This section stood as a curated museum of brick streets, brick buildings, faded antique advertisements and big brick planters with young trees and bright flowers. Trim youths in designer clothing walked their dogs, secure and clueless, past curio shops and hipster restaurants. Where the bank now stood, a row of brothels, barber shops, bars, bodegas, bail bondsmen and pawn shops marked my memory. Only twenty years ago. . .god I’m getting old, and the bank went up in two years, five years ago. Now it blended in the way a movie set blends with reality. I never usually stopped to look these days. Affording the goods hocked here meant digging deeper into my wallet than I cared to delve.

The four-wheeled tourist traps waited for money. One of them sat parked at the corner, just out of the way of the bus stop. The sullen driver stared off into the middle distance while his horse relaxed in its harness, head down and back leg cocked. I wondered if those could get me to the office faster than the city bus.

Seated on the broad edge of the planter next to the trap, a middle-aged woman painted on an easel. At her feet sat a cardboard box full of prints marked down to a dollar a copy. I looked up at the sign again; checked my watch again. I couldn't resist. A dollar a copy; a moment of time.

Her rough, scarred hand clamped down on the cuff of my suit as I reached in for the first shrink wrapped poster. It dropped into the box with a thunk and my eyes traveled from my captured wrist up her arm to her cataract filled eyes. Eyes like that shouldn't be able to see anything, let alone be able to paint.

"Young lady, why is it that the seed of Moses never walked the promised land, but the seed of Naomi danced through its streets in glory?"

I tugged my arm back but failed to escape her grasp. She tilted her head at me; her gaze dropped from direct to just below it. Aware of what she was looking at, I clutched at the cross around my neck with my free hand.

I didn't know how to answer her question. In my moment of ignorant hesitation, her face fell.

"Many of us bear the burden of a place we were born into but do not belong. As you are I can only offer you a musician's grace."

"Ma'am if you will let go of my sleeve?" I asked, creeped out by the crazy talk.

She gave me a down and up with a laugh that was more threat than mirth.

"Well, dear, I need you to do me a favor. This is my newest painting. I did it for a friend, but that person won’t be able to see it now. I want you to go to the river. You must walk from here to there. You need to stand with your feet in the flood and fling it into the river. Fling it as far as your arms can manage and it will be enough."

"Can I look at it first?" I asked. The woman handed me the binder clipped cardboard she had just been painting upon.

"Paintings are meant to be looked at," she said. I held it up. The cardboard stabilized a stock photo of the street corner. Cel covered the photo. Of course there was nothing there. This was just a crazy lady, a beggar. Still, because I'm not a complete asshole, I handed it back to her. She pushed it away and looked at me through her hands, thumbs wed to index fingers.

“It requires the right perspective,” she said. I humored her. I adjusted until the photo lined up with the reality behind it.

Instantly, where people stood in the photo, satyrs walked. Little sprightly girls poked their faces out of the dangling flowers and called to them. A tall black man with skin like bark and hair like vines squeezed the fruit at a farmer's market stall. In the lower left, the huge white horse stared back at me, a crystalline and gold spiraled horn jutting from his forehead. I peered over the top to look at the horse and trap. Its driver eyed me; sullen expression unchanging.

I held up the picture again, but nothing. Once again, just an ordinary photo with blank acetate over it.

I turned to the woman. She was gone, leaving behind only splotches of iridescent paint on the brick. Shaking, I dabbed at it with my fingers, but only road dust clung to my skin.

I sat in her spot, adjusted my perspective and looked through the painting again. There they were again. Now where was the unicorn? Of course. The creaking of the vehicle and the clop of hooves on brick answered that question. I wanted to sit all day and watch through this magical lens. Wouldn't it be so much cooler to not have the old stock photo behind it? I pinched open one of the binder clips.

Before I could pull it apart, the belch of diesel smoke from the city shuttle alerted me to the time. I let go of the clip, looked at my watch, hefted my attaché, took two steps toward the carbon stained door and stopped.

The river. She wanted it in the river for some reason, but that meant going in the opposite direction of work. But why did she want it tossed in? Would she even know if I took it now versus later, or even at all? How would I explain it to my boss?

The more I thought about the situation, the more I knew I was going to do it. Besides, she had called me a young lady and a dear, and not many people in my life seriously called me that. I was flattered, I will admit. Just that little acknowledgment already made the anticipation of my workday bearable. Besides, I was already late anyway.

I set my feet in the direction of the river. Commitment to this kind of mystery meant that I might as well follow instructions to the letter. Every child in the history of ever gets told fairy tales just like this.  I didn't dare fuck it up by half-assing it.

Fifteen city blocks between me and my goal and I hoofed it tp the riverwalk park. There, the turgid river flowed below the narrow arc of a pedestrian bridge. Recent rains filled the muddy waters with dead branches, reaching up from the water like skeletal hands. Barriers stood across the Riverwalk, and there was no question why. Dark water pooled across the cement. I climbed over the caution tape, looking around for people, hoping nobody saw me. My shoes rapidly filled with mud. This was incredibly dangerous. I could feel the pull of the river across my legs. No, no further.

I stopped, wondering what was going to happen. I pitched it in. It sailed out like a leaf and then plunged straight down, sank like a stone and disappeared into the murk.

I waited. I retreated from the water, jogged up the bridge where it was safe, and watched downriver to see if it would bob up, but nothing appeared. The more I stood there in my business attire with sodden, muddy shoes staring at the swollen and polluted river the more ridiculous I felt. Still I checked my watch and my phone. I exhaled. Nothing. One minute. . .two. . .three. . .Where was the magic? I sighed, disappointed, then walked off the bridge and up the street toward the office. What a waste.

Even disappointed about the lack of instant gratification, I still spent the day jumping at shadows with that night-before-Christmas feeling that something was going to happen. In between paperwork and meetings, manufactured crises and office drama I found myself peeking around every corner, waiting for the magic to happen; wanting it to happen. I needed something, anything to make me feel better about. . .

"Hey, you want to play pick up with us after work? We reserved the court for five-thirty," Randy, an executive's son, said as he leaned over the top of my cubicle. His red hair dangled about an inch too long in front of his eyes in a way that made him constantly jerk his head. I looked up from my computer and checked the time in the wall; three PM. I shook my head. I loved pick-up, but I hated Randy. Besides, he only asked when his buddies stood to lose a bet.

"I can't. I volunteered to take cards to Alie for the company," Randy's nose wrinkled.

"Aw man, Alie in Marketing? That girl that committed suicide?" He asked. I nodded, leaning back in my chair. I had a legit excuse to refuse him for once. "Why'd you volunteer? You liked her or something?" He asked.

“We were friends,” I said, crossing my arms.

"You know she was. . .you know. . .right?" He asked, tapping his hands together in twin OK signs.

"She was what?"

"Nothing, man, nothing. . . y'know. But uh, wouldn't someone in her department be a better volunteer?"  he asked.

“Why?” I asked.

"Well, whatever,” he said, “You cut out early. Do all that shit quick and come around."

I shrugged and hunched over my keyboard.

Five o'clock brought with it an armload of cards with signatures from every department.  Outside the funeral home, guarded from entry by men in suits, a gaggle of girls bore rainbow signs and placards. A tear escaped my eye, seeing them there. Why weren't they allowed in?

The truth was I loved Alie as a person. Alie and I got along like siblings. I had to admit, of late we hadn't been talking as much. With advanced degrees online at night and a full work schedule during the day, there wasn't much time for even my own pleasure. That was why I volunteered to do this. It helped assuage the guilt and shock of learning about it via office gossip.

Was there anything I could have done? A phone call, a night out? I realized that I hadn't even looked at Alie’s social page in weeks. I wasn't really avoiding it, not really. It was just that I hadn't logged on in weeks, but still. . .

I shook hands with Alie’s father in the parking lot, his stony face completely dry.

"Sir, we are sorry for your loss. Alie was a bright spot in--"

"Stow it. We know she was a fuckup," he said.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Well, sir I'm sorry, but--"

"You look pretty normal. What do you do?"

"I'm in finance."

He nodded.

"Well, it's good to see that she had some normal. . .friends."

He scowled at the girls and threw himself into his car, revved the engine and scratched on his way out. I stared after him with equal parts shock and anger.

"Don't mind him dear one. You can't save them all."

The voice made shivers run down my spine. I turned. There stood the artist from this morning's weirdness, dressed in finer attire, older, hair blue-white and eyes tucked deep into theater curtain lids; pink with tears behind massive trifocals.

"You," I said. She slipped her arm in mine.

"You,” she said. “Escort me in?”

I nodded. She patted my hand. She hesitated at the stairs and lifted one shaking, swollen ankle at a time. I steadied her, suffering her iron grip on my arm.

“You knew Alie?” I asked as she concentrated on the steps.

“We spoke often,” she said.

“Are you real?” I asked as she took the final step up to the threshold. 

“How else should I prove myself to you?” she asked, looking up toward the cross over the door. Then she elbowed me.

“What is a musician's grace?” I asked, matching the speed of her arthritic shuffle towards the viewing room.

“If you understood how completely a musician chases perfection, you would understand a musician's grace,” she said, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

And there lay Alie. The body wore a dress, makeup, jewelry, perfume; everything Alie hated. I sniffed and turned away. The artist patted me on the back.

“It's not your burden to bear my love. I know you loved her as a woman.”

I nodded.

“As a sister,” I said.

“This is too sad for you. Shall we go?”

I shook my head, but I still let her lead me out. I didn't want to leave Alie there alone. Why wasn't anyone else in there? Where were the flowers, why was the casket so simple?

“I am sorry, I just met you. . .” I began once we were out in the parking lot. I was hoping for a name. The wind picked up. Her hearing aid whined.

“I loved Alie too,” said the artist, “So many did.” She motioned toward the gathered protesters.

“Why this? Why Now?” I asked.

“Sometimes, even the best of us get lost,” she said.

“Hey, hey wait!” a voice called from behind me. I turned around to see an older version of Alie. I had to wipe the tears from my eyes to make sure it wasn't her. The woman shook my hand.

“Thank you for bringing those cards. You don't know how much it means to us,” she said.

“Well, Ma'am, Alie was a respected employee and--”

“I know you,” she said, “Alie had pictures of you on her phone. Thank you.”

“Well, I--”

“And I am sorry about my husband. But she was our little girl, do you understand? Our little girl,” she said with a desperate tone.

“Yes ma'am,” I said and turned away from her, but the artist was gone.

----------------------------------------

Ladies night at the bar. It was the bar Alie and I used to go to whenever I wanted to step out of my suit and into something beautiful. Tonight I was here for her and for me, and for all the girls she left behind.

The bouncer gave me a look as I walked through the front door in heels and a little cocktail dress. My favorite outfit, years out of date, made me feel beautiful. A little push up bra with extra padding to fill out the cut; that was all it needed. I wore this when I first met Alie. So fuck everybody; fuck their standards. Alie never cared for them. . .I thought.

I ordered a vodka and juice and sat down at the bar, stomach empty and heart full. Why did I even bother? A girl glanced back at me with veiled disgust and whispered into another's ear. Just once I wish I had the courage to say something to one of them. Actually, I had once. Alie had come to my defense. That was how we had met, but now I had no Alie. I ordered a dry martini with a stuffed olive and set it on the coaster in front of the vacated stool next to mine.

"I'll miss her too, hon. No charge for that one," he said. He knew. His bored, long suffering eyes looked through me with the same sort of hollow expression that the driver with the unicorn had given me this morning. Why was I thinking of the horse as a unicorn? Somehow I just couldn't shake the sense that the unicorn was the reality.

How many months ago had it been since we went together? Those were fun times. She would tease me for my girly drinks and I'd warn her that what she was drinking would put hair on her chest. She would laugh, belt down her martini, belch like a trucker and challenge me to pool, poker, bar trivia; anything. She would go home in the arms of some woman; I would go home alone and happy just to have been in her presence.  I always thought Alie had a thirst for life. I never expected her to end it.

And then. . .I dabbed at my eyes to stop the mascara from running. Why couldn't I stop weeping?

"Well look at you," Randy's voice caused the blood to drain from my face. I stiffened, clutching my glass. Of all the bars in town, he had to show up at mine; flaming hair and t-shirt with a screen-printed tux front and his buddies in tow.

"Holy shit, man, what the fuck?"

"It's . . .ladies' night," I said. “What are you doing here?” Randy stared at me wide eyed, then guffawed and drank down half of Alie's martini.

"Fuck man,” he gave me the down and up, “Now I know why you didn't want to play pick up. You wanted to play dress up. Did you raid your momma's closet for that thing?" Randy sat down and fingered the glass. I stared into my own. "Hey, you ought to host the next company charity auction," he said.

The guys all thought this was a great idea. High fives all around.

"I got to go," I said, looking toward the bathroom as an escape, pathological fear of them be damned.

"Oh come on man, don't be like that. It's too late to run. We already got photos," he said, as his buddies held up their phones in my face. He gulped down the rest of Alie's drink.

"That was not yours," I said. Randy shrugged.

"Yeah, so? Abandoned property, man. I'm saving a life."

"Hey baby girl," the artist's voice floated over the din. She smooched me on the neck; a gorgeous woman in jeans and a tailored t-shirt that read "All the wrong places.” The guys hooted at her. "Sweetheart, let's leave this place. It's getting too crowded," she said, giving Randy a sneer.

"What’s a matter baby? Wouldn't you rather have a man like me and not a cunt like this?" Randy said.

"Sorry cute stuff, I'm stickin' with my girl tonight," she said. Randy's buddies snorted with laughter. Randy's face paled. Her hand clamped on my wrist like a vice and led me out. I didn't dare balk.

"Seriously, thanks," I said, once we stepped into the night. Together we walked down the street. She leaned her head on my shoulder and twinned her fingers with mine. How did I come to the point where she was so familiar?

 Her gaze went up to the stars.

"Don't worry about Randy," she said, and stopped. Next to us, a carriage waited. I looked at the driver. Same face. I squinted at the horse. She climbed up and held out her hand for me. I paused, then took her hand. Instantly, the shining horn jutted from its head. I looked back at her in wonder. She smiled and kissed me on the forehead.

“You're not going to do anything to him, are you?” I asked.

“How can I do anything to him? I am just an artist,” she said with a smile. I shook my head.

“He's tormented me from day one. If he wasn't an executive's son, I'd. . .”

“He likes you, that's all.”

“What?” I said, derailed.

“I suppose your mama never told you that sometimes boys tease the girls they like?”

I didn't know whether to laugh or not.

“Well, fuck that. Boys don't deserve women like you.”

“That's. . .I mean, really?” I said.

“Oh, well. . .you know.”

Awkward silence; I changed the subject.

"You know for a moment there, I thought that the bartender was. . ." I said, nodding at the driver and indicating with my eyebrows. Her lip twisted into a half-smile.

"Both professions require years of looking at horses' asses all day."

"Seriously though, are you stalking me?" I asked after I stopped chuckling. She tossed her hair.

"Well actually, I was there first, at the bus stop, at the funeral; even in the bar. I think the better question might be: are you blindly pursuing me?"

Now awkward silence lapsed into thoughtful silence.

The ride ended at the fountain park in front of the bridge. Self-conscious about taking a free ride, I took out money to pay the driver. He accepted it with a nod, his eyes a little less sullen.

“Oh, you didn't have to,” she said. I smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Well, you did rescue me from the bar. It was the least I could do,” I said.

Once again we walked together. She lead me up the bridge. I leaned against the railing. She looked down into the water. My gaze followed hers. A tear slipped off the end of my nose and off into the water below.

“Where is Alie now?” I asked.

“That is a question for an author,” she said.

“I must know your name,” I said. She shook her head, her face sad and serious.

“Yes, you probably do,” she said. “But this is where I have to leave you.”

“Just a name?”

“Never on the first date, lover.” she said with a peck on the cheek. “Your car is still in the garage, remember? Better go get it before they charge you the whole night.” She turned and jogged away from me, her hand raised in a final wave.

“Wait,” I said. “The painting from this morning was for Alie, wasn't it?”

She didn't even turn around. I tried to jog after her, but she just disappeared into the darkness. Angry and frustrated, I clutched the closest railing and counted. One. . .two. . .three. . .clutched hard enough to balance on my arms, four. . .five. . .six, toes lifted off the pavement, seven. . .eight . . .nine. . .did she have a picture for me too?

The cathedral bells rang out midnight, jolting me out of the moment. I thrust myself away.

----------------------------------------

A bank holiday Monday still meant another bus ride from the car park to the office. No buskers and no unicorn drawn traps yet; just me, the light holiday traffic and my fear of facing Randy and his pictures. How many of them were now plastered all over the internet? I didn't have the courage to even look.

The tapping of a cane alerted me with just enough time to turn around before a blind man crashed right into the side of the bus stop shelter. I raced around to help him up. A knitted veil covering his face fell back from the cap covering his head and ears.

No muscle tone fleshed out his face. Eyes incapable of blinking stared at nothing, conjunctiva red as blood, pupils completely dilated leaving only a rim of blue. Bloody tears rolled down his cheeks. His hair hung flat and stark white.

Hands flew up to my face; exploring.

"Huh?" he said, forcing air through his vocal cords but unable to form phonemes with a jaw and tongue that lolled from a slack and unresponsive jaw. Drool ran down his chin and into the scarf around his neck. Then the hat also fell away revealing a bald head with nubs of horn. I suppressed a squeal. Then I noticed that his feet were hooves, not shoes. I almost dropped him in surprise, but I just held him and stared. The more I stared, the more familiar the face seemed. Was this Alie’s brother?

"Ohh, oh dear," said a familiar voice. I should have expected that voice. I looked up, not shocked to see the artist. Today she wore an old-fashioned nun's habit with a stiff wimple, the kind that no nuns wear anymore. Round sunglasses obscured her eyes, giving her an ageless look. She picked the satyr up from my arms and set the cane back in his hand.

"Now, remember what we told you about sweeping it like this," she stood behind him. She helped the man sweep the cane back and forth, forcing contact with the base of the awning. He nodded and pushed the artist away. He tapped his way to the bench and sat, gaping up at me with his deadened face. The artist attended him, blotted away the drool and replaced the hat and veil.

"Bless you, my child, for helping him up."

"Is he ok?" I asked. The artist cocked an eyebrow.

"Ali will be fine. One day he will see again, though I think, not for a long time. Stubbornness takes a long time to cure."

I paused. No. It seemed impossible.

“Alie?”

"The poor dear has been through such an ordeal."

I opened my mouth, then paused and shook my head.

"No, of course not," I said, “It can’t be.”

"Huh. . ." Ali said with a wheeze. The artist winked at me.

"Ali remembers you," she said.

"What's wrong with her. . .his face?" I asked.

“Well, it’s completely new, isn’t it? You can’t treat death the same way you treat other diseases. But what would I know? I am an artist, not a doctor.”

"Death is more than just a disease," I said. She cocked her head at me.

"Your ignorance is showing," she said.

"You can't be a real nun," I said. She leaned back and swung her feet.

"Strange, the convent seems to accept me as a sister. But oh well, I suppose you know best," She looked up at the sky. Then she elbowed me.

The trap with the unicorn in harness pulled up to the curb and the sullen eyed driver leaned out. The artist helped Ali up into the seat.

"Oh, Don, I nearly forgot. You left this at the bar," she said, and handed me a painted-over driver's license. I looked at it.

The portrait stared back, beautiful and inhuman. Blue-green tinted her skin; her eyes the omega-pupiled orbs of a pleco. Hairlike sensory tentacles hung around ears that swept back into three webbed points. The face seemed familiar. The name: Dawn. Dawn the naiad? I turned it over and read the back, looking for duplicate information. Donald Rove. My name. I ran my thumb against the edge, loosing sticky backed clear plastic, the kind that usually goes on cell phones.

"What does this mean?" I asked.

"It means you should be more careful, my daughter," she said.

"No, I mean. . ." I said, with no clue how to ask the right question.

“I just paint what I see. It is much easier than pottery or sculpture. Nothing has to suffer or die to make a painting,” she said, patting Ali’s arm.

“What are you?” I asked. She shrugged.

“I am sorry for what happened, that’s what. But I am glad I got to you in time. . .to get your ID back to you, I mean. Isn't life a wonderful thing?" She said, looking over her shoulder at the grinding and popping of the shuttle's aging transmission only a block away.

“Will I see you again?”

“Likely,” she said and signaled to the driver. “You seem to show up wherever I am. But would you look at the time?”

I checked my watch. When I looked up again to ask her for her name, she was gone.