by Lila Felix
So as he kneels, true to his word, and the light flickers alive on a once stagnant candle, I get up and leave. The door agrees with my decision and shows it by closing silently behind me.
But what I really wanted, was for it to slam.
In my head, I pretend it slammed, dramatically.
Isn’t it bad enough that I pity myself?
I circumvent the cemetery and park, darting instead for the sidewalk. I take the long way home, ignoring the whip of the cold wind and the bite of the darkness. What began as a church night has now turned into a diving into a warm bath and hiding in a book night. It’s not quite bad enough to warrant the use of the cabinet, but it’s close.
I revamp the church scene sinking down into eucalyptus scented bubbles. He made no move or gesture that would cause me to think he was anything other than a guy concerned about his friend’s property. I read too much into the distance he sat from me. I examined his gait and tone of voice too intently. I inhaled his scent and let fantasies of every genre weave through my thoughts.
Pathetic.
I dunk myself down in the now tepid water. If only I could hide in the tub forever. If only the water would shield me from the world like a bubble.
A text signal dings and, hanging over the tub, I dry off my hands. It’s from my mom. She wants to know if I’m okay. She probably expects me to have a mental breakdown after standing up to her. But in actuality, I was only speaking the truth, taking up for myself.
In a flash of recovering lucidity, I decide to make my own Christmas. I make a plan in my head, still swimming in the lukewarm water, to go all out. I will buy Christmas lights, decorations and even a real tree. Even if I’m the only one here, I will have Christmas cheer if I have to cram it down my own throat. Regardless of the time and the chill outside I flounder out of the tub, dry off, and throw on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. I ball up my hair, throw on some comfy boots and head out.
By the time I’ve reached Wal-mart, my steam has deflated from being capable of running a train to barely fueling me. Doubt, she’s a real bitch. She sat on the passenger side the whole way to the store, looking out the window, nudging me incessantly with her killjoy attitude.
But when I arrive in the Christmas section, she goes into hiding again. I end up with a six foot artificial tree with a variance of teal and light blue ornaments and thousands upon thousands of twinkly lights. I buy a lone stocking and even a wreath to match my tree decorations. This is my present to myself.
It’s rolling into three a.m. when I finally plug the green corded lights into the wall and watch Christmas practically explode in my tiny living room. The lights loop around the tree and hold a warmth that brings a seldom seen smile to my face. They nestle in between branches just right. I love it all so much. I decide to sleep cuddled up on the couch, just me and my constructed Christmas cheer. I can’t think of a better companion.
Saturday morning, after detangling the mess I made the night before, I decide to get my hair done. I don’t know what has sparked this flame of change, but I don’t overthink it for once in my life. Instead, I embrace it and head to the salon. The girl suggests bangs and long layers to compliment my face shape, and I give her full reign. I have nothing to lose.
Monday morning, I wake with my heart pulling stunts again. I dress carefully, pulling something from the closet befitting others’ expectations. I fix my hair just like the hair stylist taught me and put on make-up, something I usually forego.
My first mistake is smiling as I get into the elevator. I mean, who do I think I am—smiling and greeting people in the elevator? That kind of behavior is reserved for regular people.
A flash of high school reverberates in my memory as eyes are rolled, and I’m virtually ignored. It’s funny. People think high school is a place, four years of education and social interaction guaranteed to brand into your psyche for time and all eternity. And it is. But high school is also a state of mind. It’s the tendency for people to treat others like shit just because they can—or because they’re allowed to. It’s the gang-up mentality at its finest. Gang up with others like you or even the slightest bit similar and then bond together in constant belittling of others. This goes for the pretty people and the outlanders alike. It’s also the same words that flash like a neon light in my mind when I see those social situations taking place in my adult life. And for people like me, who tried to spend their high school years camouflaged against the cinder blocks of the hallways, the high school act shoves me into emotional hiding immediately—even years after graduation.
High school sucks. It sucks when you’re there. And it sucks to wallow in it stagnantly through adulthood. We may all have big girl and big boy jobs and paychecks, but we’re still in high school.
I flick the elevator incident to the side and maintain my fresh attitude as I snatch the daily calendar and messages from my desk and enter my boss’s office. I even couple it all with a cup of coffee made to his odd specifications: six sugars and one teaspoon of creamer, dry, not refrigerated.
I run through everything poignantly and professionally. He reaches for the messages and schedule, which he insists be printed daily, without looking away from the screen.
I may have new hair and a better attitude, but in the world, I’m still Spam.
It all provides a steady diet for my self-mutilation hungers.
I recoil, not hurt, just reaffirmed, at my desk and delve fully into my work. I forgo lunch, opting instead for a cup of coffee. The room falls silent when I enter and stays that way until I leave.
The rest of the week is more of the same. Every night I return home and bask in the happiness of my little Christmassy home. Friday rolls around before I knew it. I pretend not to make an extra effort to look nice as I prep for another night of church stalking. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t looked in the mirror more than once before I left out.
I grab my forest green pea coat and head out. As I walk, daydreams of revelry float through my thoughts. I allow them to come through since daydreams and Christmas decorations are about the only things that bring me any sense of joy of late. When I reach the doors, I groan at my own vanity, but finger scatter my bangs anyway, wanting them not to look like I’ve had my head hanging out of a car window like a dog.
It was later than usual when I walked in, closer to midnight. Some of me was trying to avoid seeing Ezra again, but some of me wished he would show up. I slink down onto my regular pew. For a few moments, I let my eyes wander all around the vast space, taking in the building amounts of lights and decorations. The church is beautiful on a normal day, but the lights and Poinsettias make it look even more sacred—even more hallowed. I don’t flinch as my gaze goes to the huge double doors near the front. I pretend to just look at the decorations. But I see them, both of them, Gray and Ezra, near the middle of the church. And Gray is pinning me down with a stare. I ignore it. Their pity or extraneous prayers are the last thing I need. The church is a little busier that night. It always gets that way during the holidays. It builds up around Christmas and New Year’s, fades to minimal until around Lent and then repeats the cycle. I’m sure all churches’ attendance fluctuates the same way.
From my peripheral, I see Gray whisper something to Ezra, who uncouthly turns abruptly in my direction.
Do not come over here. Forget your ever saw me. It’s not that hard, people do it all the time. Trust me.
Gray ignores my mental pleas, stands, and zeroes in on my pew. She sits directly in front of me, facing me sideways. She’s way too close. As she turns, I can smell her flowery perfume. If I can smell the specifics of your perfume, you’ve trespassed onto my personal circle.
“Aysa, right?”
I meet her eyes and confirm with a nod; “Yes.”
“I just wanted to thank you for saving my rosary. It means a lot to me. Ezra said he was going to try to thank you the other night, but when he turned around, you were gone.”
“I thought the candle was his thank you.”
“He’s not very smooth, is he,” she asks with a snort.
I shrug. How should I know? I’ve talked to this guy a total of once. And she’s asking me questions?
“I know it’s late tonight. But Ezra and my other friends get together every Saturday morning for breakfast. Would you like to join us? Just as a thank you.”
I glanced over at Ezra, who is turned around, watching our interactions.
“I don’t know,” I answer, still looking at him.
“He said you were pretty.”
I crack my neck facing her again, “What?”
She scrapes at the top of the pew with her thumb nail, “He did. He told me the story of getting my rosary back, and he randomly added that you were the prettiest girl he’s seen in a while.”
I scoff at her lies, “He needs to get out more.”
She giggles a little, “Look, eight in the morning, at the Pancake Pit. If you’re there, you’re there. If not, maybe another time.”
I expect her to say,’ if not, no big deal,’ or ‘if not, no sweat.’
“We’ll see.” I shrug.
When did I, become such a shrugger?
She bounces up, but then bends over, getting even more in my space, “He never talks about girls, like ever. Just so you know.”
“Thanks.”
Why in the hell was I thanking her?
Tearing my eyes away from her and back to the front of the church, I recross my legs uncomfortably. They have breakfast with their friends every Saturday? Hell, I couldn’t even get someone to email me back. What I really want to do is split out those doors like the place is on fire, just so he won’t see the blush that was now at full attention on my cheeks. I can’t help myself. I look back at them, and he’s telling her something. She nods a couple of times.
They both turn completely forward now, and I do leave this time. Hopscotching through the cemetery, I notice the change of flowers on the graves. They now reflect the upcoming season. I neglect the seesaw in favor of the slide. On my third time down the curvy metal, I hear a sound to my left. There’s someone behind the trees just outside of the cemetery.
“Hello?”
A dark figure steps out and toward me. I’m too damned short to do anything but haul ass, so I plan to as soon as the danger is confirmed. But instead, another danger comes into the light provided by the moon.
“Ezra?”
“Yeah, hey. I was just in the cemetery, and I heard noises over here. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I always come here after church.”
Just tell him what your blood type is too. While you’re at it, give him a spare key to your apartment.
“You don’t swing?”
Does he mean like those people who swap wives? Oh, yeah, the playground swings, duh.
I look over to the swings he’s pointing at and laugh.
“No, they’re like toddler swings and seesawing gets old with just one person.”
Shit, that sounded like an invitation.
He pockets his hands in his coat. His breath clouds in and out of his mouth and I shiver, wondering what that same warm breath would feel like phantoming down my neck. From the light of the moon, I can see the gentle flush of his cheeks. I shove my hands inside my own pockets. I imagine they were on his cheeks, drawing him downwards to me for a winter’s kiss.
He shifts back on his heels; “I haven’t been on one of those in years. So you slide?”
His voice is menacing and lusty as he says slide. It’s like he just said, ‘So you strip?’
I roll my eyes, “Yeah, it sounds kinda stupid when you say it like that.”
He curses under his breath, but I hear it just fine, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound that way. I can’t seem to say anything right around you. I’m just gonna go.”
I don’t protest. I want him to stay, but I don’t want him to make fun of me either. I cut through the track and walk home. And despite the oddity that was our park conversation, I would go the next day to breakfast. If nothing else, to see what this group of friends thing was all about.
The next morning, I throw on a pair of jeans and a white short sleeved Henley shirt. I fix my hair and leave it down. Mascara and lip gloss are my only makeup. I wait until that exact minute where I wouldn’t be late to the restaurant, but I wouldn’t be eagerly early either. I park and grab my purse. I can see them inside already, huddling around a circular corner table, laughing about something. Except Ezra, he isn’t laughing at all. It seems he’s the butt of whatever joke they were telling.
Anger wells within me at the sight. Why do people pick on other people so badly that it hurts? I can understand kidding among friends, but this looks like a lot more.
I want to rush in there and save him.
Gray sits right next to Ezra, of course, and I halt in place. There isn’t even space for me at the table. They don’t really want me to come.
And then, just as if he’s heard me through the glass, Ezra turns and waves me in. Then they all turn to gawk at me. Gray stands in the bench and climbs over Ezra, heading for the door. She opens the push glass entrance and yells, “Come on!” to me.
I forge into the restaurant, thoroughly flushed and embarrassed. Gray threads her arm through mine and whispers, “He says he made an ass of himself again.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Well, it’s made him kinda grumpy. Just ignore him.”
He wears a t-shirt that reads something about losing hope. But that damned t-shirt and the way it pulls and gives with the contours of his muscles underneath has nothing to do with losing hope and everything to do with hope that one day I would get under that shirt. He looks different in this light—very different from the light of the moon and the yellowed lights of the church. He hasn’t bothered to shave this morning—I assume he doesn’t have to work on Saturdays.
How in the world could I ever ignore the presence of him?
Gray makes the boys push over and shoves me into the circle right next to him. Though both of us are fully clothed, the swish of his thigh against mine brings all my nerve ending to life and ignites a whole new kind of electricity in me.
“Aysa, this is Dauber,”
He corrects her, “Roman.”
“Oh God, he said Roman. That means he’s on the prowl. Watch your bra and panties, girl. And that’s Neil and Leon. We’ve been friends since school. And you know Ezra.”
The table erupts in laughter. I don’t understand what is so funny.
“Ezra told us of his great suave behavior last night.”
“Oh,” I blush, “just give me a minute, I’ll out do him. Sometimes, I wish I was mute.”
Roman sombers, “My mom is mute. That wasn’t very nice.”
I sink into the seat; “See? I’ve already done it.”
Then they all begin another round of laughter. “His mom’s not mute. He’s just messing with you.” Ezra whispers down into my ear. I feel like a child next to him. I bet, any minute now, the waitress will bring me a kids’ menu and a sticky booster seat.
But even in my childlike body, I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck, and it sends shivers rippling down my spine. I smell him next to me. It’s not one scent in particular, nothing I can put my finger on. I bet in a dark, crowded room, I can find him just by scent.
The waitress takes our orders and before long the sounds of knives and forks clinking against plates almost drowns out the conversation. I interject when I can, but they speak as if they’re in some pre-scripted play. Everyone knows their roles and their lines. It feels like I’ve intruded on a secret treehouse meeting. Neil and Leon file out together after nearly inhaling their food in eleven minutes flat. Dauber makes a comment about being late for work and leaves next.
“Give me your phone number,” Gray coos, gathering her things.
I attempt to write it down, but instead she grabs my phone and texts herself and then programs numbers into my phone. Not just one number, several numbers.<
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“Okay, we’re going to do something tonight. Do you have plans?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll text you, okay?”
“Okay.”
I don’t dare look at Ezra. I’m afraid if I look at him, he’ll be the next to leave.
He huffs out a monstrous breath beside me and shoves his plate away.
“What are you doing today?” he asks as Gray walks away.
“I really don’t have any plans, why?”
“How do you feel about animals?”
“I don’t mind animals. Birds freak me out.”
He closes his eyes and laughs at something I said.
“I have to do some volunteer work at an animal shelter. Do you want to come? Hang out?”
“Sure,” the word erupts from my mouth before I could stop it or think about it.
“No birds, I promise;” He laughs.
He gestures for me to get up, and I look around for the waitress, wanting to pay my ticket.
“It’s my uncle’s place. We don’t pay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty damned sure.”
“Okay.”
We walk out. I slow, not knowing if he wants me to drive or if we are supposed to ride together.
I assume nothing.
“Are you always like this?” He is suddenly in front of me.
“Like what?”
“So…unsure?”
I feel like glass, made of melted sand, ready to crumble, yet completely translucent. He can see right through me and chooses a parking lot, of all places, to call me on it.
“I think I’d better just go home,” I murmur.
He backtracks, “No, I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. I’ve just never…”
“I need to go,” I duck out of his gaze and out of his invitation at once. I don’t have to deal with this shit. I just don’t. I can’t even get a word in edgewise without him shining a spotlight on every single out of the ordinary thing I did.