Six-thirty in the morning on this, the thirty-fourth birthday to pass, and there’s metal scraping against metal outside the window. A screech heard over fake rain blaring from the noise machine and whirring of the air conditioner. At the window, glass slid upward and screen removed, body half out, leaning over until the air in the lungs is pushed out the mouth and there’s a horizontal ache across the ribs. Julia and Robbie are down there. She’s got her hands on her hips and is leaning on a rented truck, listening while he’s talking. Can’t see his face or hear his words, but he’s gesturing like he used to back when he’d be sitting on the couch in here talking about the new book he’s been reading. Like this was the one that his students would appreciate, he just had to add it to next year’s syllabus. Nodding along with eyes sliding to the side, fixing on the flickering television.
They disappear, ostensibly into the apartment they share. Thought they were still down in Mexico, sitting around at Julia’s beach house and drinking margaritas and taking nauseating photos with arms all draped around waists and necks. Haven’t been tapping on those photos, nope. Not giving the dignity of viewing, but having friends screenshot and send them like some sort of private eye.
Back in the street, he’s got a few boxes and she’s got a lamp. He puts down the boxes and is helping her climb into the truck, hands on her hips like that lamp is just too darn heavy for her dainty little arms. Pale and freckled, not a hint of the tan from Mexico. Guess they weren’t there long enough.
Carefully ease the body back in the window, reattach the screen, slide the glass shut. Just heads now, bobbing below. Hers then his then hers then his again. Swimming through smudged glass. More cardboard boxes [winter – Julia] [books – Robbie] and, obscured by layers of cellophane, a headboard carefully finagled into the back. Queen-sized, rustic metal, tasteful. My choice. He wanted fabric, with the buttons, deep blue, to hide dirt. Dirt in the bedroom? Really? Yes, really.
Arms folded, staring at her through the glass. She has these shorts on that all the young girls wear these days. Terrycloth, folded at the waistband, some brand stitched at the hem. Showing everyone she’s young and fun, always posting photos taken in the mirror of workout classes, her lineless face shrouded in shadow. Flexing sinewy stomach and skinny biceps.
The cord on the shorts draws them taut at her narrow hips, a sliver of belly and hint of a silver ring. Mint green in color. Calm, cool, collected mint. Dissolves on the tongue like an Altoid before my first date with Robbie. Wearing a mint green tank top that had to be continuously tugged down during dinner to cover a tramp stamp stick-and-poke from high school. A smiley face. Faded and discontinuous. Shaky from the hand of the artist, who had a little business he ran out of his friend’s garage. Quarter-sized stick-and-pokes, whatever you want, $50. No hepatitis here. No sir.
A year later, and I still wonder why Robbie didn’t choose me. Blue eyes, blonde hair a mile long, maintained monthly at the salon. Forehead Botoxed to high fucking heaven, not a laugh line in sight. Certainly can’t see the weight of thirty-four. Tanned, toned, Pilates every Tuesday and Thursday, yoga on Saturdays, sauna on Sunday. Run Mondays and Wednesdays. Today’s Friday, rest day. Well-read, whip-smart, and funny to boot—these aren’t even praises sung by me about myself, no. They’re from everyone else.
Fine.
To the bathroom, pajama pants pooling at the ankles, peeing and staring at the palms, hands turned upwards on knees. Another silly stick-and-poke tattoo, a star and a heart, like a doodle on a high school yearbook. Usually covered by a thick watchband. In the mirror, brushing with the charcoal whitening tube. Aggressively, obviously, purposefully ignoring Robbie’s spearmint toothpaste sticking out of the toothbrush cup. Lazily left and not touched, not moved, not dropped in the trashcan where it belongs. A relic of Robbie.
Swish. Spit. Charcoal stains the sink black but keeps the teeth oh-so-white. Scrub the sink later, mental note.
Pause on the way to the kitchen, watching Robbie and Julia through the living room window. Coffee machine kicked on half an hour ago. Pouring a cup into the mug he gave me, moving back to the window to watch while sipping it hot and dark. No sugar. Keep the teeth nice and strong, body nice and tight. Forehead against the cool window, breath clouding the glass. What is it about her?
They’re sitting on the back of the truck holding to-go paper coffee cups. Some design on the side, definitely that little shop a few blocks over he was always going on and on about. Feet dangling down, his grazing the ground, hers swinging in the air. Like how our feet were swinging off the tall barstools a year or so back. Seated on the squeaky plastic, skin sticking with sweat. Right after the drinks got delivered, hadn’t even lifted the cold glass to lips before he said sometimes I think you’re not listening to what I’m saying. Frozen with a hand on the glass. Looking at him confused, why would you think that? No one’s ever said that. Wide eyes, mouth turned down, acting like it’s the accusation it is. No, no, not trying to start anything. Backtracking, like always. Stumbling backwards like a bear stepped into his path. Scrambling back up the mountain, scrabbling with hands and feet. Kicking up dust.
Drinking the beer, staring blankly at the rows of colored glass, liquor throwing fractals of light depending on which eye I’m looking through. Letting him rush through what he’s trying to say, panic easing in and settling deep in the belly. Both his and mine. This is how it ends, that’s clear. Like the glass of those bottles, murk swimming within.
Insidious at first. Eyes wandering somewhere else, nodding mindlessly when he’s going on and on. Couldn’t even listen to the reason he was thinking I don’t listen. Obvious later, in rearview. When I tilt the mirror.
He’s waving his hands again, down there, sitting on the back of the truck. Gesturing with the coffee cup. She’s looking at him with sparks in her eyes, static practically lifting the hair off her neck. Laughing like she’s never heard anything as funny as what he’s saying. Funniest man in the fucking world. That’s what it is, duh, slapping hand to forehead, falling stars in the eyes. Because for everything I could fake, I couldn’t fake that.
