Vera's apartment smelled like cardboard and vinyl. Saul ran his fingers along album spines, stopping at an invisible barrier between jazz and classical. A half-inch gap separated punk from everything else—quarantined like a contagion. His finger bridged the divide, and something in him clicked: these weren't organized records but fortified borders.
"My guilty pleasures," Vera said, catching his exploration. "Well, not guilty exactly. Just... separate."
Saul pulled one record half out, glancing at the sleeve. "Separate like Ann and Vera?"
She traced the edge of the album, sliding it back into its precise slot. "Different genres need different contexts—jazz doesn't belong next to punk. If they mix, the experience gets contaminated." Her fingers smoothed the sleeve edge with practiced care. "Everything in its proper place preserves what makes each one special."
While Vera rifled through records, Saul's eye caught her open day planner. Between "Music rehearsal" and "Call Pastor Mike" sat his name: "Saul - classical music education, 7 PM" in her precise handwriting. His gut clenched. Not Saul + Vera. Not even "hang with Saul." Classical music education. Another project between obligations. A task scheduled and contained.
The Replacements' "Bastards of Young" suddenly filled the room, Paul Westerberg's ragged voice cutting through the careful order of her apartment.
"A heartbeat underneath the noise," she grinned, curling onto the couch. "Rules bending but not breaking."
Saul leaned against the wall, watching her. "Too honest for the hardcore kids, too messy for the pop crowd."
"That tension is what makes it work." She tapped her knee in rhythm. "What about 'Unsatisfied'?"
"One of their best. Has that ache to it."
"I thought I'd hate this stuff—too messy," she said, a curl escaping her usually perfect chignon. "But it's got a cool white heat to it."
Her grin hit like a riff, sharp and alive. The apartment suddenly felt smaller, air thickening between them. The record crackled between songs, and in that moment of static, Saul became hyper-aware of her proximity—her breathing slightly faster than usual, fingers tapping against her knee no longer following the music.
She leaned in, her lips finding his. Her mouth tasted of honey, warm and insistent. They stumbled backward against her desk, sending papers sliding to the floor, the sound jarring against Paul Westerberg's raw vocals.
Saul started to pull away, but Vera pulled him back, her kiss deepening. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer. Her fingers traced fire through his shirt. The careful distance she maintained in public completely abandoned.
"I love you, God, I do," she whispered against his neck, echoing Westerberg's lyrics but with heat all her own. Her body pressed against his, the careful chignon unraveling completely, dark curls falling wild across his chest. Papers scattered, desk creaking beneath them.
No Ann, no Vera—just her, undivided, whole.
The phone shrieked, splitting the air. She froze against him, their breath mingling for one suspended moment before she pulled back. Shoulders snapping straight, voice pitching higher—by the time she reached the phone, Saul watched in fascination as her transformation completed.
"This is Ann," she answered, voice modulated perfectly. His skin still burned where her fingers had traced, but hers showed no such memory. The conversation was brief—something about Sunday's service, a change in the music program.
When she hung up, she turned back with an apologetic smile, but something had changed. The boundaries were back in place, invisible but impenetrable. The papers were retrieved from the floor, carefully reorganized. She's gone, cool as glass. Left me smoldering, like I never happened.
Their relationship deepened over those winter weeks, finding rhythm in stolen moments between her classes and rehearsals, his work shifts and diminishing skating sessions. They explored each other with the same curious intensity with which they explored their different worlds.
One evening, as they lay tangled in her sheets, Saul awkwardly broached the subject of how this fit with her faith life.
"Christ descended before rising," she murmured, tracing patterns on his chest. "Some things transcend simple categories." Her voice carried familiar certainty, but her eyes slid away—answer too pat, like she'd rehearsed it.
Another wall—she keeps that part locked, even from me. When he asked what her church friends would think, she silenced him with a kiss, shifting the subject with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
The campus bookstore incident happened on a Saturday afternoon. Saul was skating with Dutch and Ott past the entrance when he spotted Vera with some music friends going in. Coming off a night at her apartment, he rolled over to greet her without hesitation.
"Hey! We were just hitting up the record store. Want to join?"
The smile she gave him was polite, distant—pure "Ann" territory. "Oh, hi Saul. I'm with colleagues right now. I'll call you later, okay?"
He shoved off, wheels biting asphalt, spitting grit. Colleagues, huh? Guess I'm the B-side you don't play in public.
When they spoke later, her explanation was matter-of-fact: "Those parts of my life don't need to overlap. It's simpler that way."
"Simpler for who?" Saul asked, voice low. "You or them? Like your records—which side am I getting? The A-side for public, or the B-side that only plays when no one's listening?"
"Don't you ever choke on all these masks you wear all the time?" he pushed. "Let them all crash together and let's see what's real."
"You don't understand—each context has... expectations," she said, cool as ever.
"But it's still you underneath all of them," he said, unable to hide his frustration.
She looked away, silent.
The breaking point came at a reception following one of Vera's recitals. Men in ties, women in modest cocktail dresses, classical music discussions conducted in hushed tones over boxed wine in plastic cups.
Saul made a valiant effort, wearing his cleanest jeans and a borrowed sport coat from Vance that smelled faintly of fish and cigars. He'd even attempted to tame his hair, which mostly resulted in it sticking up in different directions than usual. He hovered near the punch table, feeling the fabric rough against his wrists, too short in the sleeves.
The trouble began when Professor Willingham—a portly music theory instructor with perpetually food-stained ties—approached and asked about Saul's "musical background." His eyes lingered on the space between Saul and Vera, as if measuring their proximity for propriety.
"Punk's my thing," Saul said, acutely aware of Vera's warmth beside him. "She's showing me her side too."
"He's being modest," Vera interrupted smoothly. "Saul has a wonderful ear. He's just beginning to explore classical composition. He'll grow out of that childish punk phase soon."
Saul's chest tightened, her words a jab between his ribs. "Maybe I won't," he said, eyes locking with hers. That's me you're scraping off.
Rod sidled up, watch flashing briefly under the recital hall's chandelier. "Nice try, Vera—polishing rough edges." His smirk begged for a punch.
When Willingham drifted off, Saul turned to her, voice fraying. "Why'd you say that? Like I'm some stray you're training?"
Her smile faltered, eyes darting around them. "I didn't want them dismissing you," she whispered, urgent. "They're judgmental—punk's nothing to them. I made you fit mine."
"Fit?" Saul's throat caught, hurt spilling out. He tapped the mix-tape in his pocket, hand shaking. "You're splitting me to slide into your slots—not letting me be who I am."
Her jaw tightened, but her eyes softened—pain flashing behind the mask. "Saul, you're slipping," she said, voice cracking. "I'm trying to keep you whole—my way's what holds me up."
"You're not keeping me whole—you're carving me into pieces. Like your records, neat and separate." His words stumbled, raw. "I can't split like you—I'd lose me. You're the one splitting—'Ann' here, Vera with me. I just want you, not the pieces."
Her curls quivered as she blinked hard, fighting something back. "I adapt," she said, the word cracking with something desperate. "You don't get it—I need this. My scholarship's next month, Rod's helping me. I can't just... be."
Her hand twitched toward him, fingers nearly brushing the spot on his chest where they'd traced patterns nights before, where her head had rested as they'd listened to records in the dark. Then her hand fell, a quiet plea dying in her throat.
Outside, the cold bit, their breath puffing out, fading fast. They walked slow, asphalt crunching, the split between them thick in the quiet.
"You bury yourself to fit," Saul said, voice rough, low. "I can't do that."
"These walls—I need 'em, Saul," she said, eyes searching his, wet. "I wanted you in there—us. But yeah, I keep it all apart." Her voice cracked, barely holding.
He met her stare, throat tight. "I wanted you—all of you, not some track I slot into. I'd break before splitting." It tore out raw, cracking. "This hurts, Vera."
She nodded, a tear slipping—she swiped it quick. "Yeah," she breathed, faint. "It does."
They stood, her hand twitching like it might reach, then falling. A beat stretched, heavy—her locked boxes, his jagged edges, no bridge between.
"I get it—your walls," he said, voice thick. "Just can't live there."
"I get you," she whispered. "I'd sink without 'em."
That was it.
Saul hit the Putt-Putt after hours, scaling the fence in three moves—no hesitation, no vertigo. Perched on the windmill, hole five, he breathed deep. Vance's jacket reeked of fish and cigars—not a cologne Vera would approve. Highway sounds mixed with plastic palms rustling beneath. Fake world, real wind. Tonight, even mini-golf felt electric.
He dropped down, landing solid, and grabbed a stick from the ground. He slashed jagged lines in the dirt—not mindless scribbles but something begging to mean something. "There's gotta be more than this," he growled, voice rough in the quiet night.
A flash of memory—that skater girl from the Sonic Youth show, moving through the pit like water through rock, fearless and whole. She'd ride this void, not fence it. Her sea-green eyes had seen right through everything, challenging without a word.
Dawn burned gold, daring him. The mundane landscape transformed before his eyes—dishes waiting to be washed, concrete waiting to be ridden. Not just routines but challenges, possibilities. He thought of the aquarium at home, cloudy and neglected. He'd clean it tonight, restore that balance—not for Vera's approval, but because he wanted to see what would emerge from the clarity.
Not fixing things, starting.
Next Week - Chapter 6, the conclusion of Part 1, Saturday 4/14 - 9am.
Thanks!
©joevigo2025
(Cover art is from the 90’s band Indian Summer, possibly designed by Henry H Owings, used without permission)