One in a Million

Nothing Ricarda wore ever quite matched, and somehow, that made everything fall into place. On our first date, she wore a plain red skirt.

Not the red that screams for attention or signals confidence. It was the soft, clumsy red of lingering youth. A shade that matched nothing but her.

At the time, I was broke. She was an art student. A real date wasn’t an option. When we first met on a video call, I told her I had to clean my keyboard because I’d spilled hot dog sauce on it. She said that was sweet, so I took her to a hot dog stand and called it a proper date.

She laughed—a quirky, offbeat laugh that fit her and her skirt. She always pressed her lips together after laughing and looked away, embarrassed about enjoying herself. It was the cutest fucking thing I’d ever seen. She told me no guy had ever taken her for hot dogs, ironically or not—and she liked that about me.

Now, you might be thinking: if I take someone to eat hot dogs on a first date, I have no business judging their outfit. Fair enough.

Still, between the red skirt and the ketchup stain on my shirt, something between us held. Our silences weren’t empty, leaning toward each other instead. And I wanted to make her laugh again, just to see how she did it.

We talked about plays and books. Ricarda had just read Slaughterhouse-Five. Cried a few times. Loved that recurring understatement of death, the acceptance of abrupt endings summed up in three plain words: so it goes. She talked about wanting to move to the U.S. and become an actress. Attend the Met Gala. The red carpet. But she said it like it was already a joke. A dream knocked out after too many punches.

She was twenty-two. Too old, she said. Too broke, too. She could barely afford the rent on a dingy flat she shared with three other students. West End might as well have been Mars. Broadway? Pluto.

The hot dog stand gave way to a bridge and then a park. Overpriced Cokes turned into cheap beers. The street noise softened into the background hum of engines. Manchester dulled to gray. And there she was, in that clumsy red, still burning bright in my memory.

She wanted to believe she was one in a million. But she didn’t. Said she’d never belong in movies. It was better to kill her dreams before they came back undead, feeding on whatever small joy everyday life still had to offer. She never should’ve worn that dumb red skirt she got for Christmas.

Then she sobbed.

Hugged me, and my shirt, already stained, absorbed her tears too.

I told her she was wrong. She wasn’t one in a million—she was just the one.

“Even your skirt is its own thing,” I said. “It’s the color of ketchup.”

She laughed. Pressed her lips together. Looked away.

I hugged her tighter.

She peeked at me like I was making a mistake. Said I should fall for someone steadier. Prettier. Someone who didn’t wear red like a dare.

I told her that was all bullshit. Red skirt or not, I was already head over heels. And then we kissed—long and quiet, the eternity of a few seconds. The night, thank God, still many kisses away from dawn.

***

Just like in the movies, time passed. People moved on. Unlike in the movies, though, dreams shrank to fit what was left.

We lasted two years. A couple thousand I love yous. Two job offers. I finished med school and took a junior doctor post in Sheffield. Ricarda booked some online ads for a startup in London. We still loved each other, but neither of us wanted to be the weight that held the other back.

So we let go. Called it a life.

So it goes.

***

And so it went.

Years later, Ricarda messaged me. She was coming to Scotland for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, starring in a play her boyfriend had directed. We agreed to meet.

We sat outside a café that had nothing to do with the hot dog stand. Like anyone meeting someone from their past, I wondered if she’d notice how much I’d changed. She had changed, too. Incipient wrinkles now traced the echoes of old laughter. She still pressed her lips together after laughing but didn’t look away anymore.

And that red skirt, though.

The same one, after all those years. The color of ketchup. Unlike herself, slightly faded.

She looked like someone who’d started winning arguments with herself. Ricarda was done with “stupid internet ads” and now starred in plays across the UK. She leaned in, just as I noticed the gold ring on her finger, and whispered she was talking to a producer in L.A. Her eyes gleamed. Her gaze drifted somewhere past me, into the night.

We stayed on Waverley Bridge until the sun dawned in scarlet hues. Then she said she had to go. Back to her boyfriend. Back to her life.

I nodded. The kisses, now reduced to waving hands.

As she walked away, swallowed by traffic and stone, I smiled the saddest smile of my life.

So it goes.

***

Ricarda called a few days ago. We only spoke for minutes, but they stretched like hours. She said I should visit her in New York. She’d let me know next time she came back to the UK. And then, before hanging up, she told me to watch her at the Met Gala.

I missed the broadcast because I was in the operating theatre on the night shift. But after the surgery, I looked it up in my office.

There she was. Ricarda. Quirky as ever. The woman who’d starred in a Tarantino film last year.

The media wasn’t kind. They called her outfit wacky. Unfitting. Odd. As if those were flaws.

She wore Prada, head to toe—except for the cheap, faded red skirt.