roberto & nia

08. nia+robert

when he was younger, and more open to wonder, robert's mother used to dress him in all white whenever they would travel. they'd go out of state for a weekend getaway, spend friday in new york city, leaving their footprints on streets like stars in hollywood. his mother would straighten all her curly hair until it was pin-straight, black like the sky in the winter, like his own hair, like permanent markers, so she looked like every leading woman in every telenovela she'd ever watched. even her spanish was sharper, had a drama to it. she would wear blue and she's dress robert head to toe in white. todos pueden verte, she told him, porque nadie lleva blanco cuando puede ser sucio. nobody wears white when they can get dirty.  he would be the special one.

robert thought it was bullshit then and bullshit now. nobody would see him because he was nothing to look at. his mother would tell him he was special, and then he would nod, and then step on an oil rainbow at the corner of the street, and then his mother would squeeze his hand and smile and  he would not, could not care about anything besides the wet, cool way oil felt on his legs and hands.

catherine hates white. her bedroom is painted stark, dark blue, almost black. every time robert enters it he can feel the light being choked out; the sucking away of the sun; the feeling of cold replacing warmth. she lights white candles and never turns the heater on. the candles make it romantic, even when she yells. robert can focus on the beauty of the flicker instead. 

he's wearing his favorite white flannel and still, he is invisible. intertwines himself with the small crowd spread out across the kitchen and living room, people sitting on the table between two chairs.

cadence marshall loves white. she's wearing a wedding dress, down to veil streaming from her head and the miles of train behind her. she drags a bouquet on the floor by string, her white, scrappy boots clicking against the linoleum floor.

white women. robert wonders whether catherine would ever do something like this — so obvious, and extravagant. avant-garde and almost beautiful. like if he walked in with his eyebrows shaved off or his shoes tied properly. then he catches nia's eye, and she winks and smiles before adjusting her arms, and his train of thought is lost.

"welcome, everyone, to the biweekly marshall-rivera string commemoration," she announces, swishing loudly in her dress in front of counter in the kitchen.

"i'm cadence marshall and my beautiful, beautiful wife, milagros rivera, is our first chair cellist, sitting right here before you all."

milagros rivera smiles and waves her hand at the audience. her hair is drawn back tight on her head, and her eyes are shiny, excited. like nia's. like they were both unified by this strong, invisible anticipation.

"we've been working tirelessly, incessantly on these pieces, sonatas, concertos, and everything in between. we, as a musical family, have been working dedicatedly to produce the best music we possibly can. i'm honored to have you all witness the magic of the most talented in our community, from age sixteen to seventy-two," cadence says. nia blows her a kiss in acknowledgment.

"without further ado, i present to you the marshall-rivera string orchestra's take on tchaikovsky." cadence pulls a thin black stick from her brown hair and turns her back on the audience. beside him, a man closes his eyes.

robert doesn't know what to do with himself. he feels foreign, and phony, and too big amongst the crowd. people who knew what sonatas and concertos were. people who closed their eyes when the conductor began.

he closes his eyes, too, anyway.

• • •

the quality of this book is deteriorating as it grows longer lol at least frank ocean and migos made a song offset is a national treasure girls america's jewel. happy saturday.