Page 56 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Buzzing and warm, Ricki and Ezra were only too happy to join, drawn to the flea market, with shelves of photographs, records, and magazines. Of course, Ricki made a beeline for the clothing racks.

“She is everything,” she gushed, pulling out a swishy, strapless chiffon gown. “Very losing my virginity in the back seat of an Edsel after the sock hop.”

“Oh, that’s yours. You need it,” said Ezra, emerging with an armful ofLifemagazines, the top one opened to a profile on Ray Charles from July 1966.

“It’s a testament to Jamie Foxx’s performance,” declared Ricki, “that I can’t look at that man without seeing his face.”

Ezra’s jaw dropped. “Say again?”

“I said what I said,” she chirped playfully.

“Oh, you cuttin’ up. Jamie Foxx is talented, but this isRay Charles. I mean, when he was young, he needed some coaching. His right hand was on the weaker side, so I…”

Ricki raised a brow. “You what? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing, just stopping myself before I get too technical,” he said quickly. “So. You trying on that dress?”

“I should, right?” She stepped in front of a floor-length mirror, examining it. “My mom had a dress like this. That maniac has style, if nothing else.

“Here, try this on,” she said, grabbing a tuxedo jacket from a rack marked “1920s.” The lapel was scented with long-agocologne. Ezra held it against his chest as they stood side by side in front of the floor-length mirror.

They saw themselves together, as a pair, for the first time. And they fit.

Their hands moved toward each other, their pinkies brushing. Ricki felt something shifting between them, like their molecules had been rearranged.

“So, what did you have to tell me?” she asked Ezra, her voice trembling. “I need to know. Now. Because this feels too good.”

Just then, the flea market proprietor stepped over to them. He was a slightly stooped seventy-year-old man wearing an Adidas tracksuit. Ezra grabbed his wallet from his pocket and slipped him cash to pay for their pieces. Then he noticed the guy’s face and drew back. It was subtle, but just enough for Ricki to notice.

“You’re a good-looking couple,” the guy said.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed. And, true to form, Ricki continued by oversharing. “We’re making the most out of our final hours together. For reasons unknown, this is our last date.”

“Good. Otherwise, you’d be making a terrible mistake.”

“I’m sorry?” She flinched, searching for signs that he was joking. “What do you…”

“I mean, you two better stay away from each other,” ordered the guy, pointing an accusatory finger at them. “Only darkness awaits.”

Ezra’s features turned to stone. Grabbing Ricki’s hand, he led her out into the street, leaving behind the clothes, the magazines, and forty dollars in change.

Ricki couldn’t grasp what had just happened. “Ezra, what was he talking about?”

“Poor fella. Mental health care is draconian in this country,” said Ezra. “You won’t remember him in a month, anyway.”

You’ll forget him in a month, anyway.

Now, where had she heard that before?

By the time they walked back to Wilde Things, it was around 9:00 p.m. Their tipsiness had faded into a pleasant, cozy buzz, and that bizarre encounter was, for now, on the back burner.

Ricki stood in her doorway and peered up at Ezra. “Do you… want to come in? Have some bad Keurig coffee? A nightcap?”

“No.” The sadness in his face was like a punch in her heart. “I should decline.”

“Right. Of course. So, do you want to break up with me here, or inside?”

They looked at each other, both aching with pain over losing a person they barely knew. A dry wind whipped around them, tossing Ricki’s hair.

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