“Meet her. You’ll see that whatever you’re up against isn’t much.” Jenna topped off her mug, which was painted with red-capped mushrooms. “God. Men are the worst. The one you’re dating has got to be a moron.”
“Why?”
Yes, Jenna, please tell me why he is a moron, because I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“He must be. Otherwise, how could he think you’d stick around for this game? You’re young, you’re new, but you’re smart too. This is the thing about men,” she said. “Once you stop giving them what they want, they change what they ask for. No man has a hard limit. But we do, women do. We’re the ones who set the boundaries in relationships. That’s our power.”
“Shouldn’t men and women do that equally? Like, an egalitarian relationship?”
Jenna raised a perfect eyebrow. “There’s no such thing as an equal relationship, because men and women are not equal in love and never will be. Balance is key. Not equality. If it’s really bugging you, though, you could do something about it. There’s a vacant lot on the corner with a bunch of groundsel growing in it.”
“Groundsel?”
“Tall weed, looks like yellow daisies. Dig up one of the plants with a tool that has no iron in it and touch your heart five times with the plant. Spit three times after each touch, and the cure will be complete. Technically, it’s for toothache, but you know, whatever works.”
She went downstairs, and Josie heard her put on a record, then close the door that separated her bedroom from the rest of the basement. Josie finished her coffee, rinsed the cup, and left it clean and upside down on the rack. She felt strange and empty. Jenna’s words rattled around in her brain. Her chest ached as if something rotten was collapsing inside her.
She picked up her phone and typed Liz’s name into the message screen.
Wanna get coffee today?
She saw the read receipt appear, then the response, which followed almost at once. Sure! I’m leaving Mark’s right now, headed to Sweetpea Bakery.
Jeez, that’s cutting it close, Josie thought. But she was almost dressed, and the idea of meeting Liz at this moment, with her mind so quiet, was tempting.
I’ll be there in 20.
She put on her favorite T-shirt, the black one with the screen print of Marilyn Monroe’s face, and made sure her socks matched. She picked out a necklace, a crescent moon on a long silver chain, and when she slipped it over her head she felt some of Jenna’s witchy power transfer into her. She walked her bike to the corner and saw the groundsel growing knee-high, thick as wheat in the vacant lot. She had no tool, aside from her cell phone, so she picked a handful of yellow flowers and crushed them against her heart. They released a bitter scent that nauseated her. Her tongue swelled. She spat three times, between her feet, letting her saliva dribble out of her mouth as though she was drunk.
She threw the ruined flowers back over the chain-link fence into a place where the grass and weeds were flattened and dry.
As she rode, she repeated the mantra Jenna had provided. Bitch. Even though Josie wasn’t the superstitious type, she felt her perspective align with Jenna’s. What was Josie even doing? Was this imbalanced triangle ever going to straighten up and magically deliver her the thing she wished for? She tried to imagine Jenna in her situation and found it impossible.
If it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. She didn’t have room in her life for more disappointment. Weeds grew; people picked the best ones and killed the rest.
Sweetpea was a small vegan bakery tucked into the trendy strip on SE 12th and Stark next to a vegan minimart, a vegan tattoo parlor, and a vegan-owned acupuncture and massage clinic. Josie locked her bike up at the rack out front, amazed that the steel tubing was already warm from the sun. She didn’t know exactly what Liz looked like or what she would say to her, but she was glad she’d come. She felt a little less afraid, just being there. I’m leaving Mark’s right now, Liz had texted. So she spent the night in his bed; so they slept late. But for once Josie did not feel jealous of either of them.
Is he really that great? Jenna had said.
“Josie,” someone said when she walked into the bakery, blinking the glare out of her eyes.
The woman was standing by the counter, with a white paper cup in one hand and a small plate in the other. “I’m Liz. I would hug you, but my hands are full.”
Josie looked down into Liz’s face. She was smaller, softer, older than Josie expected. She looked like a kindergarten teacher. “It’s fine. How about you pick a table for us?”
“I didn’t think you’d get here so fast,” Liz said as Josie slid into the chair opposite her. She couldn’t stomach sweets before noon, so she had a bagel, smeared with some kind of imitation vegan cream cheese that actually wasn’t too bad.
“I’m in Sellwood. It’s not far.”
“I love that neighborhood.” Liz sank her teeth into a peanut butter bar that immediately covered her plate in brown sugar crumbles—a kindergarten teacher eating a graham cracker. Josie noticed that her arms were covered in indecently thick dark hair. A glance at Liz’s face, which was appealing and plain, showed matching patches on her temples and even on her upper lip. Her black bob had a fading blue streak in it. Her brows were unplucked. A week ago, she would have been intimidated by this woman—her metamour—but now she viewed Liz through Jenna-colored glasses and all she saw was a not-very-attractive woman who made no effort to make herself even a little bit beautiful. Liz was not her competition. Josie looked closely and saw someone who was willing to compromise on what she wanted because she didn’t have enough power, or enough confidence, to barter for it. Liz was sticking around for the game, had stuck around, and Mark was comfortable keeping her waiting for whatever it was she wanted.
“How was your picnic?”
“So pretty. Mark says that the two of you ride through that part of North Portland a lot.”
“We don’t,” Josie said without thinking. She picked a yellow petal off her arm. “I don’t know why he would tell you that.”
Liz put her cookie down. “He was eager for me to meet you.”
“I don’t know why he would be eager.” Josie laughed, half at how ridiculously good it felt to tell the truth and half at the look on Liz’s face. Josie’s bluntness was out of place in Portland, just like her need to love only one man, only one at a time, and not share him with anyone ever.
Liz smiled. She was better looking when she smiled, even with her hairy arms.
Josie said, “We can’t just sit here and talk about Mark.”
“No,” Liz agreed.
“I mean, he’s not that great,” Josie said. “And he would like it too much.”
That made Liz laugh, and then she was pretty, but Josie didn’t mind, because her chest stopped hurting and she knew that Jenna’s spell had worked and, as of this moment, she didn’t give a fuck about Mark and honestly Liz could fucking have him, since it was clear that on some level Mark and his half-baked theory of polyamory was the best she could do, and if that was what Liz wanted to settle for, then who was Josie to stand in her way? She imagined Liz waking up next to Mark under the carriage house’s skylight and hugging him while he checked his dating-app messages and texts from Josie and tried to confirm a happy hour date with some other bitch for later that day. And this picture wasn’t pure imagination because he’d done exactly all of those things in the presence of Josie, even while she pressed the length of her sleep-softened body against him, waiting impatiently for him to put the phone down and turn to her and give her the attention she desired. If Liz wanted all of that, all that non-affection Mark had to offer, it was hers.
“I see why he likes you,” Liz said.
“I see why he likes you,” Josie said. “I’m glad he gave you my number.”
“Me too.”
“I mean, I hope we stay in touch, is what I’m saying.”
Liz’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m breaking up with him,” Josie said. “Like, effective today. He wasn’t giving me what I needed. But I would love to have coffee or something again.”
“Are you serious?”
“I should probably let him know, huh?” Josie said.
Liz blushed, picked up her cookie, put it back down, picked it up. “This isn’t how I expected this to go.”
“I don’t even like the word metamour,” Josie said. “I don’t like this arrangement. But that’s not on you. It’s just not enough.”
“Do you want me to tell him? You’re going to tell him.”
Josie shrugged. Third Wheel didn’t give instructions for how to leave a poly situation. In the column, these relationships seemed to live on indefinitely under the constant attention and nudging of the people in them. But she didn’t want to be friends with Mark or slowly transition from being his girlfriend while he fucked other people and she shopped for a suitable replacement. She didn’t want to talk about labels and names. She wanted a love that was simple and worthy.
“I’ll let him know. Just pretend it’s a surprise, okay?”
Liz smiled. “You seem a little surprised yourself.”
“I had a change of heart, is all. Plus, meeting you. I think it’s the best choice for everyone.”
“Why would meeting me change that?” Another small sprinkling of brown sugar fell onto the plate. But her eyes were not composed, and, with a delicacy that did not come naturally to her but was undoubtedly the gift of Jenna’s powers, Josie saw Liz’s excitement, her eagerness. Josie was granting Liz’s wish. The only thing Josie had to do was make sure that Liz was in a position to enjoy it.
“You’re so much better for him than I am,” she said. “I have no idea how to do this kind of relationship. He’s happy when he’s with you, and I think that once I’m out of the picture you’ll get to see more of each other. He needs someone like you for the long-term.”
And Liz’s smile was glittering now, and she was beautiful, really, wearing her hope all over her face. “I feel the same way,” she said.
And then they changed the subject and talked about movies.
Mark called a lot over the next few days and texted, too, but Jenna gave her a crystal to put on top of her phone to filter out negativity and, after about a week, Josie stopped hearing from him. She felt relief, honestly. She rode her bike in the sun until she got freckles on her shoulders and her nose and she ate sandwiches in the park and went to bed alone and whenever she felt like it.
At night, before sleep, she lay in the dark with the sheets kicked off, her hands traveling over her warm belly. Outside, she heard a car start, and then the hazards and red brake lights flashed in gentle pulses through the blinds. She was not lonely, here in the dark with herself. She was alone, a network of one, a single dot connected to nobody.
When she touched herself, she saw not Mark’s face but a swirling void full of fingers and tongues that thrust into one another, licking and pulling, and this vision was what made her cum so hard that her bed shook, knocking her phone to the floor and sending the borrowed rose quartz skittering under the bed. She picked it up, her hands still sticky with lube, and the screen blinked on.
Best week of my life, Liz said. I hope you’re enjoying it too.
Josie typed a yellow daisy and a golden heart. Yes, she wrote. Actually, I think I’m in love again.
Cat Sitting
I knew I liked Kim when she said hi at the AA meeting, complimented my crop top, and told me I reminded her of Debbie Harry. Her exact words were, “Debbie Harry, if Debbie was played by Michelle Pfeiffer, by the way I’m Kim and I have cancer.” Who wouldn’t want to be friends after that?
Kim was straight, but I didn’t hold that against her. Something about coping with her own mortality gave her dimension, kindness, intuition. They’re the qualities I associate with people of my type, not hers. Most straight people are so clueless. They ask such stupid questions. What’s it like being gay? They watch porn actors fucking each other in same-sex couplings and they think it’s an anatomical thing, the way I feel and am. Nubs and fists and getting married and making babies. That’s their normal. It’s exhausting. What’s it like?
You tell me.
Kim said chemo was exhausting. She missed her long hair and hated explaining to people that she looked okay because she had a rare neck cancer, not the usual kinds, but, in reality, I don’t think she had anything to complain about.
Who wouldn’t want her life? I did—cancer or no cancer. I told myself that hers was the life I should be living. It was like one long Instagram story. Kim was a designer. She drove a black BMW. She traveled too much for work, and I was part-time at the Audubon Society, so we figured something out. When she was gone, I was supposed to collect the mail, feed the cat, and make it look as if someone was home. It was convenient for her, and, since I was sober, she figured she could trust me. It was an easy job, and her cat was the best cat. Biggie was a massive white furball with crossed blue eyes: a sweet little bitch, even if all cats are heartless, murdering bird killers.
Not that I have a resentment. They can’t help the way they are.
* * *
My girlfriend dumped me the morning that Kim left for Brazil.
I don’t really want to dwell on the breakup, but I was eager to get away.
I treated Kim’s house as though it was mine. I wasn’t stealing. Well, yes I was, but she always left a note that said, “Help yourself,” and I chose to interpret that in a way that suited me. Why shouldn’t I enjoy it, while I could? I deserved it, anyway. My feelings were hurt.
Kim’s blender was rad, in part because she couldn’t eat or swallow, but also because she could afford the best one. I made myself an organic blueberry and almond milk smoothie that tasted as if it came from a field of wild, native fruit bushes. The blender did something to bring out the honey in it, and the sunshine. Rich people really do have it better. So do their cats. Biggie pooped in a special odor-proof box in the laundry room. She ate better than I did.
All of Kim’s stuff was high tech. Even her supplements were spray vitamins. Pumpkin oil and cherry-flavored B12 and Omega-6 blend and St. John’s Wort and belladonna and THC and CBD and two kinds of prescription anti-anxiety drugs and some kind of liquid cocaine were all lined up like perfume samples.
I totally didn’t mean to relapse, but I did two squirts from every bottle. Then I lay down on the bed. When I woke up and went back into the bathroom to hit the vitamins again, I saw that I had eyeliner all over my cheek, the same inky black as Kim’s phenomenally fancy sheets. I lay on the bed spraying vitamins into my mouth and alternately crying about my breakup and fantasizing about getting revenge on my ex. Biggie sat next to my head. She wasn’t allowed in the bedroom because of Kim’s immune system, but I always ignored that and just left the air filter running and the windows open. I wasn’t worried about cat dander at all. The filter was super-efficient. Stains, on the other hand, were a different story.
* * *
I was making another smoothie when Biggie went out through the cat door and came back with a meadowlark in her mouth. It was still alive, which I didn’t realize until Biggie let go of it. She brought me a present.
I looked at her, and she meowed.
“What are you thinking?” I asked her, and that’s how I knew I was super fucking high, because who wonders what a cat has on its mind. I realized I still had the bottle of B12 in my hand. My pee was going to be really, really orange. Biggie’s pupils were huge, and mine probably were too. She was high on the bird’s suffering. She wasn’t going to kill it yet. She saved its death for me.
The meadowlark fluttered around, as though beating itself against the fireplace or Kim’s hi-fi would somehow change its situation. Biggie pounced on it again and let it go, chasing it over the linen
sofas and across the buffalo-hide rug. She clawed loose pawfuls of quills, feathers with vanes, contour and flight feathers, down, filoplume, semiplume, and bristle. They pooled in the corners of the living room and under the shelves and cases. The meadowlark flapped into the wall and then through the door to the place where I’d been sleeping.
I followed. A songbird couldn’t hurt me. At work, I helped reset the broken wing of a great horned owl, and its beak was like garden shears. It could have punctured the meat of my hands without even trying. Humans are so soft, just buttery animals with thin hides and flat little teeth, no claws. We have no natural defenses. We’re just fucking mean to each other.
When you’re high, don’t call anyone, especially not your friend who has cancer. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the bird. It was nearly wingless now. Biggie lay down at my feet and we watched the bird make Rorschach blotches on the wall.
Hell yes, I was going to leave it there.
“Aren’t we just fifty kinds of awful,” I murmured.
She purred.
Field Medicine
Rent was due, so I did my makeup and took my card table to the farmer’s market. My hand-lettered sign said Spirit Healing, Love Signs, Femme Magick. Each tarot reading was an easy twenty bucks, and all most people wanted was to feel as if someone was listening—and the sparkle, the magic. For readings, I wore my candy-pink wig and painted glitter triangles on my cheeks and forehead. I looked like something from a world where human kinds of trouble don’t exist. My femme power was real too. Its vibe was big and rosy and sympathetic, and people were drawn to it like butterflies to blossoms.
That’s what healed people: kindness. When I held someone’s hand, they immediately relaxed. What I did was field medicine: not a permanent solution, but the help that gets you to the thing that will save you. The in-between help that, no matter how small, can turn the tide of a person’s life.
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