Short fiction
Yours is a face polished by tears. I saw them once, when you told me that your little brother died in his crib. Then once again, when you told me you lost your virginity to a rapist. When you told me that we were standing against the railing, on the ferry — do you remember? The wind blew so strongly from behind you that your auburn hair was flicking at me like flames. And the sun was in my eyes. I could barely see your face. Still, I knew you were crying. When you told me about your brother, we were standing in his old room. A ceiling fan whispered above us. Strands of your hair danced around your head. What is it about moving air? I wanted to bring my hand to your cheek, to be the one to polish your face with your tears, but you know I could never bring myself to touch you in that way. I watched the tears slide down the slope of your soap-textured cheek, then round under your jaw line and disappear. Eventually you used your hands to do the polishing yourself. They knew just how to do it. Sorry, you said. No, no, I said. You turned and left the room, and I followed. You were giving me the grand tour.
I did what I could to help you to trust me. I listened and showed you that what you said mattered to me. I shed layers. I told you about my father’s death, about how the doctors must have done something wrong but I would never know what. I met your mother. I called my mother and told her about you. I kept promises. I wanted to get to know your friends. I wanted my friends to get to know you. There’s no rush, I said. Sometimes I squeezed your hand, but never held it for long.
One night we drove with your best friend to the college town up north. You and your friend had another friend who had a boyfriend up there, who was having a party. Your friend drove your car because you said you didn’t feel like driving. I wonder if you remember. In the passenger seat you smoked, and drank from a plastic juice bottle. You kept offering me cigarettes over your shoulder, but I couldn’t keep up. Too many would make me feel nauseous, I knew. I listened to you and your friend talk about people I didn’t know. You constantly searched between radio stations, and seemed to stop only on cheesy songs from the 80’s and 90’s — then you would turn it up loud and you and your friend would sing along. You leaned in toward each other, like you were sharing a microphone, and sang with sarcastic, exaggeratedly emotional gestures. Every once in awhile I rolled down the window a few inches, for air.
The party was in the friend’s boyfriend’s on-campus housing — a mud-colored one-story duplex. Before going in we stood outside in the snow, in the dark, smoking a cigarette and watching through the sliding glass doors of the living room. It almost felt like watching a play, except with no sound. There were only a few people inside.
When we went in, your friend with the boyfriend practically jumped on you. Well, hello, she said to me, I’ve heard so much about you. Her face was pink and pudgy and reminded me of a pig’s. Other people in the room looked to see who we were, but didn’t recognize us and turned back to their conversations. We went into the kitchen and I poured us some rum and Cokes into red plastic cups and we stood there and drank them. Your friend who drove wasn’t drinking, so she just stood there with us. Your friend with the boyfriend had already disappeared into a different room — they’re probably smoking weed, you said. We talked about how the party was lame. You started laughing and I asked what you were laughing about and you said, I was just thinking how glad I am that I dropped out of college. I laughed along with you, but couldn’t think of anything to say in response. We looked at the Bob Marley poster on the wall — a bunch of smaller pictures of him were arranged in such a way that from afar they made up one bigger picture of his face.
We were only there at the party for half an hour, then we left. We had driven an hour to get there. Your friend with the boyfriend never reappeared. You sent her a text that said we were leaving. I found it all so strange, but was glad to go. I can’t remember a single face from the party other than yours and your two friends’, but I remember the bathroom. It was small and windowless and lit by a fluorescent light attached to the top of the medicine cabinet. A horizontal centerfold from a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue was taped to the wall above the back of the toilet, face level for peeing guys. The model in the photo looked some shade of Latin, maybe Brazilian. She lay on her back in a glittery gold bikini, on a glistening plane of wet, white sand, the camera positioned directly over her. She looked as if she’d been writhing around in ecstasy. Grains of the sand were flecked all over her immaculate brown body, making her look somehow edible. Her eyes looked up into mine, expectant. When I turned around to wash my hands at the sink, I could still see her in the medicine cabinet mirror, which was heavily speckled with the dried white spray from more than a semester’s worth of teeth brushing.
In the car, on the way back to Seattle, you sent me a text. I had been quiet for much of the ride, just listening to you and your friend, and thinking, I suppose. The text message said, I’m sorry. From the dark back seat I looked at the profile of your face — your lush, black butterfly lashes, the high curve of your cheeks, the straight lines of your nose — trying to find an answer. For what?, I texted back. I watched as you felt the vibration and flipped open your phone, the blue-green glow of the screen illuminating your face. Your thumb quickly tapped out your reply. You never turned around. It was as if I weren’t there, as if I weren’t watching you, and you didn’t know it. My phone trembled in my already trembling hand. For everything.
I’m sure you remember the day we went down to Ocean City — I think it was November. The tide was way out. We drove your Jeep out onto the flat, wet sand. The beach was completely deserted as far as we could see in either direction. It was the kind of day that seems like it wants to be sunny, but patchy, grayish clouds come rolling through one after another, so the light alternates between promising and ominous.
You parked so that we faced the ocean, about 50 yards of sand still between us and the water. It is such a wide beach at low tide. I figured we’d get out and go for a walk, but you shivered and asked if we could stay in the car. You had brought a six-pack of Coronas, so we opened two and clinked them together. You drank thirstily. A mix CD I’d made for you was playing on the stereo, mostly songs that resonated with my impression of you — beautiful, and sad. As we talked — about what, I can’t remember — you seemed more at ease than usual. You had slid your shoes off and were turned toward me, sideways in the grey leather bucket seat, one leg folded up under you. Your voice quivered less.
At some point I got out to go pee. The closest place I could go to be obscured was back to the gradual dunes, which were pretty far away. Even though there was no one else around, out of a modesty between us I set out toward them. I imagined you twisted around in your seat, your nose on the leather headrest, watching my back as I walked, listening to some sad song I’d chosen for you. A steady wind blew up the beach from the south, flapping at my clothes. With each step my shoes left their stamp on the damp sand. It felt right to be out in the open. I breathed deeply the salted air.
Back in the car we finished our second beers, then onto our third. We changed the music — something upbeat. We were laughing often, heartily, disarmingly. I wondered if we might kiss. I wondered if the spacer between us might be dissolving. I wondered what it would take to make it completely disappear. Once, I began to move my hand toward yours, but stopped halfway and pretended instead like I was shaking out a kink in my arm. Your gaunt hand lay on your thigh, delicate and trembling. You must have known. It was probably so obvious.
A woman and her dog walked by, down along the edge of the water. We hadn’t noticed them approaching. The dog, a thick yellow lab, must’ve smelled something, because it was digging furiously in one spot. After a minute we couldn’t see its head anymore, the hole was that deep. As we were watching, we spotted some more silhouettes up the beach, some tall, loping four-legged figures coming toward us, and joked about them being wild giraffes. Really, they were people on horseback, a group of four or five. Our eyes stayed fixed on them for most of their slow approach, something about it mesmerizing. They passed in front of us, then off down the shore.
Do you think you’re starting to trust me?, I said.
Yeah, you said. I looked at you. You kept your eyes on the people and their horses, except really somewhere beyond them, out toward that line, where the sea met the sky. You were chewing on the insides of your mouth.
The sun was low and the clouds seemed to be clearing, bathing everything in an orange tint. The red in your dark hair was glowing more than I’d ever seen. Without looking at me you handed me your empty Corona bottle and said, I’ll be back. You took off your socks and got out of the car. You started walking toward the water. I watched your back, your feet, your hair flicking in the wind. You were in jeans and a black, hooded sweatshirt. The tide had been creeping toward us the whole time, so the walk wasn’t far. But when you reached the water you didn’t stop. You walked in. In the quiet of the car, I flinched. The waves broke against your knees. You kept going, the swells rising up to your waist. I gasped and held my breath. My hand found the door handle. Then you stopped. I stopped. Then all of you disappeared completely. I flung open the door, but before I started to run you were there again, turned toward the shore, your hands smoothing back your soaked hair, water streaming from the arms of your sweatshirt. Your knees were lifting, one then the other, you were getting taller. You were coming back. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea what I’d say.
And I have no idea what I did say, and no idea what you said in return, probably because it was no satisfying explanation. Would there have been one? I remember finding a towel in the trunk and handing it to you. I remember you asked if I would wait outside the car while you went into the back seat and changed into a dry set of clothes you apparently had with you. After that, it seemed to me that you were pretending it had never happened, that I hadn’t been there to see it. I offered to drive us somewhere for some dinner, somewhere warm. Instead we went to a drive-thru and ate cheeseburgers in the car. You were ravenous. That’s when I realized that we would never make it.
When we met for the first time, on New Year’s, I used a line. It’s so strange to think. I never use lines. It was after midnight and the bar was loud. You were looking away, at nothing. I sat down next to you on some kind of bench seat. It was fake leather, white and curved. I never do things like this — not before, and not since. You felt me sit down, you turned.
I said, Why’s a girl as gorgeous as you sitting alone?
