[left for him at the front desk of the hotel, in a plain envelope marked ‘Robert’]
Robert had gotten the letter before he had left LA and started his own trip to New York, taking the time to write on the plane, a note of his own, folding it up to resemble a little envelope itself. Now all he had to do was wait. And once the journey was over, Robert stepped off the plane, knowing exactly where he had to go to deliver it. [Lucky for him, he was stocked up well on people who could make a few calls around for him.] Before getting to his own hotel, Robert had them drop him off elsewhere and give him approximately five minutes to do what he needed.
it was a simple job even; Robert had found where Summer had been staying, taking the folding up note and writing her name on the front before placing it on the floor, and pushing it under the door. Smile on his face, Robert left the building without bothering to announce his presence, hopping into his escort vehicle and having them bring him to his final destination.
Sitting on the floor, just past the door where Robert had been previously standing, resting on the floor was his too-skilled-folded note, And within, it held the message that follows:
Summer-
This is completely informal, but you left me a note, so I’m doing the same. Due to the premiere, I’ll be booked up until the afternoon of the 30th. However, after I’ve done my duties of the day on the 30th, you can find me waiting for you in Central Park. On the west side, which seems to be closest to where I’m staying, and much easier for me to get to, and hopefully keep the press off my ass.
From there, we can find something to do away from prying eyes, and perhaps we can discuss the topic of our feelings. How’s that sound?
Come around 3:00PM. I’ll be waiting.
—Downey Junior
Two days, three … Summer had steadfastly avoided watching tv since she had come home. She’d tried steadfastly avoiding thinking of Robert at all, but that hadn’t worked in the least. The stack of unfinished books by her chair, and the state of her bicycle tires, could attest to that.
She hadn’t even been /in/ the apartment when he’d come by.
The folding of the note had reminded her, amusingly, of school-age efforts at origami, and how small a note could be folded before the teacher didn’t notice you passing it. (Turned out it didn’t have to be very small, if you kept passing tests.) The contents of the note had left her sitting abruptly in the chair, breathless with shock, hope, and fear.
A little more than a day. It didn’t leave very much time — she’d be completely, and inescapably, out of reach Thursday to Saturday.
I’ll be waiting.
Well, then, so would she. And whatever happened … it would be enough.
She’s sleeping. Well, at least, it looks like she’s sleeping.
Sprawled across a plaidie blanket, half-sideways, she has one arm curled under her head, copper hair equally vivid against the golden skin of her forearm as against the green of the grass. The stuff fans out in looping strands behind her, seeming to revel in its freedom.
The other hand drapes across her stomach, long fingers limp and unadorned. The colour of her skin nearly matches the pale cream of her blouse, only a few shades darker on this early day of summer. Her eyes are green, darker by far than the pale green of the handkerchief-edged skirt she wears. Her eyelashes, pale at the tips, echo the curve of her hand, seeming to disappear against the dark circles under her eyes.
She’s barefoot, though a pair of sandals repose to the side, with a neatly propped bicycle. Bungee cords secure a plastic box to the back of the bike, over the wheel. Sunbeams lay dappled patterns over bike and girl.