Is this really you? he wrote back.
Yes.
Where do you live, Lacey?
About forty-five minutes from you.
How do you know where I live, Lacey?
I know because I Googled it.
And I had. I’d even written down his address on a torn piece of paper and slipped it into my wallet where I kept the cash. I drew a little heart next to Abraham and a little tree next to Forrest. I kissed it and left a sticky-cherry lipstick mark. He lived on a street called Halcyon and it felt like a sign. Halcyons were a kind of bird, and his new bird episode was coming on the next week.
It was time for bed, so I turned the TV off and waited for his reply. It wasn’t as quick as the others, but it came. Finally.
Well, you certainly are easy on the eyes, he wrote.
I heard his voice in my head saying it, and this too: Look at how small and beautiful she is, she has the prettiest markings. I pictured him gently lifting me from my bed, tagging my ear, tracking me all month. A year, maybe.
* * *
Abe Forrest came to my house at dusk, two weeks later. He apologized for not being able to make it sooner, but he was traveling, working. When he showed up, he wasn’t wearing his work clothes. He was wearing a thin blue-gray plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves and dark jeans, brown boots. I was wearing a dress and he said maybe he should’ve worn a tie. I told him no. I told him ties were just penis arrows.
“These men are walking around everywhere with arrows pointing straight down to their penises and they know exactly what they’re doing. They do it on purpose, but…they act like we don’t know…,” I said, rambling. Abe laughed. I’d never heard his laugh before. He never laughed on his show. His laugh was husky and if it were a color it would be melon-orange. I loved how his forty-something-year-old eyes crinkled at the corners.
My dress had a belt. I never wore dresses. I got that dress for Abe because I was adorning myself the same way the birds did. Male bowerbirds decorate their nests with trinkets all the same color to impress their mate. My dress was blue, my jewelry too—turquoise thunderbird earrings and a bracelet to match, some crystal-blue rings. I poured the wine from a blue bottle into a blue glass. I’d turned on Joni Mitchell’s Blue album before he got there. “Carey” was coming so soft and low from the speakers we could barely hear it. I put blue corn chips and blueberries on a bright blue plate for him.
“There aren’t many naturally blue foods,” I said.
“I’m not very hungry, so this is fine. Impressive, actually.”
“I’m a bowerbird.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, nodding. His voice, flashlight-bright.
I asked him the scientific name for bowerbird. He said Ptilonorhynchidae and it felt like a kiss. I crossed my legs, squeezed my thighs together.
“It’s okay if you think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“But it’s totally okay if you do,” I said.
“Well, I don’t.”
I told him he couldn’t leave until the morning because we were crepuscular, remember? Since he came over at dusk, he couldn’t leave until dawn. I told him nothing had to happen. It was okay if it did, but it didn’t have to. I told him men were lucky because they didn’t have to be scared when a woman got obsessed with them and looked up where they lived and invited them to their house. Men didn’t have to be afraid of women the same way women had to be afraid of men.
“I understand. But you invited me over here and you weren’t afraid of me,” he said.
“No, but I watch you on TV every night. It’s different,” I said, smacking more wine into our glasses.
I told him he could sleep on the couch if he wanted. I told him I had a blue blanket.
“And there’s something else I want,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. And I loved that he didn’t ask what it was, he just said okay. Joni Mitchell was still singing because the album was on repeat and Abe and I were drinking and drinking wine, eating and eating chips and berries.
“I want you to talk about me like I’m one of the animals. Y’know…follow me around and talk about what I’m doing,” I said.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and at first I thought maybe he was calling the police because he was convinced I was a complete maniac, but he held up his phone to record a video, and said okay go.
I picked up the empty blue plate and walked to put it in the sink. I ran some water over it.
“Look. The female bird is cleaning her nest. She is a rare Lacey bird only seen in the western part of the state,” Abe said, using his deep documentary narration voice.
My face was hot, my eyes watered. I took my hair down.
“It seems as though she is finished hunting for the night. She’s fluffing herself,” he said, smiling at me.
I undid my belt. The big horned buckle thunked to the kitchen floor. I looked down, let my hair fall and cover one of my eyes.
“No, wait! Maybe she is still hunting…looking for a mate. If there are any male birds in the area she will know it very soon,” Abe said. He aimed his phone with one hand and leaned against the doorway, stuck his free thumb through his belt loop. He whistled—four snappy, high chirps. I fluffed and fluffed.
Stay and Stay and Stay
HOTEL INFORMATION:
Goldenrod Inn & Suites
1616 Ridge Pkwy
Lexington, Kentucky 40503
TRAVEL INFORMATION:
Arrival: Thursday, August 8
Departure: Friday, August 9
Number of Nights: 1
1 Room(s)
2 Adult(s) per room
ROOM INFORMATION:
Room 1 Confirmation Number: 89483028
Guest: You & _____
2-Room Suite with 1 King Bed Nonsmoking (NKS): This deluxe nonsmoking two-room suite features plenty of room for you and your high school biology teacher, Coach Cahill. He’s still ten years older, but not twenty-seven to your seventeen—thirty-nine to your twenty-nine. It was winter when you saw him lonely and broken at the bar, like a sturdy table with nicks, now on clearance. Asked him if he’d gotten into a fight with his wife and he didn’t answer. You bourbon-and-Christmas-kissed in your car. On the ride home he confessed he’d worn a rubber band around his wrist when you were in high school, snapped it when he thought about you. Bruised and red-sliced his skin for sin. You wanted to lose your virginity to Leonardo DiCaprio until you saw Coach Cahill, then you told your best friend you’d let Coach Cahill take it. (And take it and take it.) You blasted Hole’s “Violet” and dressed like Dominique Swain from the Lolita movie—milkmaid braids, high-waisted shorts, and saddle shoes. Went to his house on Halloween night and saw his red-haired full-moon pregnant wife in a fuzzy white sweater with a black cat on it. She was handing out little brown and gold foil candy bars and crinkly packages of chalky, pale sweets. She invited you girls around back where Coach Cahill was flannel-shirted, a little beer-buzzed, splitting wood. Your actual virginity wasn’t lost in that moment, but it may as well have been. You wanted to slam yourself against the handle of that ax, use his baby-animal-soft shirt to wipe at the sticky blood between your legs. When you used their bathroom you looked at your panties and saw a bloodstain in the shape of Africa, like you had willed yourself to bleed for him. You imagined learning how to navigate the tight hallways of his house in the dark, running your teenage fingers along the nubby walls, feeling for the light switches. In high school he never touched you. Not even once. Not even accidentally. In the suite, there are two spacious rooms separated by a door, but will either of you close it? There is one king bed in the bedroom and a pull-out double sofa sleeper in the living room. We won’t need two beds, but that’s the only room they have left. We can leave the couch a couch. You will want to smoke in here, but you won’t do it. The two of you will go out for tacos and beers with limes, buy a hard yellow box of organic cigarettes, go to a dark park and share one. He will say it’s not bad for you
if you share. You will tell him you made up a new word: clandestiny. Secret destiny. The two of you were clandestined to be together. You can flick through cable channels you’ve never heard of on the thirty-seven-inch LCD television while you try to distract yourself from thinking about your boyfriend at home, flossing his teeth, Coach’s kids asleep in their brightly colored bedroom, the nightlights glowing their hair. His wife up late watching romantic, foreign movies with her knitting and warm, red wine. You won’t use the microwave, iron and ironing board, hairdryer, or coffeemaker. You will use the small humming refrigerator for alcohol and teeth-gritting fruits you won’t eat: berries black, straw, and blue. You will not use the phone or the alarm clock. You won’t even use the free wireless. You will leave your phone in your bag. You will zip your heart into the mesh pocket of your suitcase, close it so it can hatch new, in reverse—paling from hot-pink to ecru. Sadly, no, you won’t be able to sleep in this room. Not after all that sweating. Not after he throws his arm across you while he snores, softly. Satisfied. Before you check out at eleven you will go to the window above the grumbling air-conditioning unit and shove the thick, rough curtains back to look out and see the wet flowers torn up from the hard rain, the strong, short, summernight storm. We will slip the receipt beneath the door and that small flutter will startle you. You will think it’s a bird and beware! Birds in rooms are bad luck. Nevertheless, we hope you enjoy your stay! Part of you will. The part that won’t? It will not leave you. It will stay and stay and stay.
Room 1 Rate Information
$189.99 per night plus taxes – Starting 08/08
$189.99 USD Total before Taxes*
*Local Taxes will apply.
Two Cherries under a
Lavender Moon
The produce section sprinklers hissed on, sending the cool mist into showers across yellow pattypan squash, snake-green zucchini and wild, dirty, white-tasseled scallion ends. Astrid and Henry were standing with their hands gripping their cart handles. This is how they met. It was eleven o’clock at night. They both palmed their three-pound green-globe cabbages. Henry waited patiently as Astrid bagged hers; she moved to the mushrooms as he bagged his.
“The cabbage is on sale. The sign doesn’t say it, but if you tell the cashier she’ll ring it up for you,” Astrid said to Henry over her shoulder.
No one else was in the produce section. Two aisles over, a young man was waxing the floor with a noisy machine.
“Oh! Oh, thank you!” Henry said. Astrid was excited by his excitement and he was a great weirdo to find at night in the produce section.
“I used to boil it, but not anymore. I fry it with bacon or in bacon fat, at least. And the purple cabbage doesn’t taste the same if you do that. It’s too tough. I like to shred the purple cabbage and eat it raw. I make coleslaw with it,” Astrid said.
“Coleslaw, all right. Awesome,” Henry said, before she knew he was Henry. At that point, she’d decided she was going to call him Cabbage.
Astrid saw Cabbage in several different aisles before she left the grocery store that night. The first time, she smiled at him again and he did the same. The second time, she smiled at the ground while walking past him. She reached up for the oysters, got two small cans. The third time, she acted like she didn’t see him at all.
* * *
The following Wednesday, after ballet class and drinks with friends, Astrid stopped by the grocery store, thinking about seeing Cabbage again. She’d thought about him in flashes since seeing him the week before. She’d been busy. She’d made enough food so she didn’t have to think about what to make for dinner every night—roasted a chicken that would last for two days, used the leftovers in a big pot of white chili. She’d gotten food out with the drinks and friends that Wednesday. Tapas and a strong, minty mojito. She was practically bubbling over as she wheeled her cart to the produce section. And there Henry was, over by the apples. Apple Henry. Astrid said hi first.
“Hi. I remember you! Coleslaw!” Henry said. Astrid wondered if that’s what he’d been calling her in his mind. Coleslaw. She hoped so.
“That’s me,” Astrid said. Only the two of them in the produce section again. The same young man was waxing the floor with the same noisy machine, this time, three aisles over.
“I made your coleslaw, by the way. I got green cabbage last Wednesday, but then went somewhere else and got purple cabbage and found a recipe on the internet. So technically I guess it wasn’t your coleslaw, but it was inspired by you. Do you mind if I ask your name?” Henry said.
“No. I don’t mind,” Astrid said.
Henry laughed a little.
“Okay then, I will! What is your name?” he asked, opening his arm across the air like a magician’s assistant. She’d already decided she would’ve let him saw her in half.
“Astrid.”
“Henry,” he said.
“Hi, Henry.”
“Astrid’s purple coleslaw,” Henry said, almost like he was speaking only to himself.
“Ooh! Sounds psychedelic. I dig it.”
“Astrid’s purple coleslaw,” he said again.
“I’m making zoodles soon. Like, lo mein noodles but zucchini noodles instead. Zoodles,” she said, pointing over to the zucchinis.
“Zoodles?” Henry said, guiding his cart over to them.
“I have this thing I hold in my hand and turn…makes it into these spirals. Like noodles,” Astrid said, miming the movements.
Henry picked up a zucchini like he’d never seen one before. He turned it over in his hands, smelled it. Astrid wondered if she was in love with him. Maybe this was what love felt like. It’d been so long, she barely remembered, but it did feel something like this, didn’t it? Like watching someone look at something for the first time?
Astrid joined him by the zucchinis and put six of them in a plastic bag, tied it, placed it gently in the top of her cart. She wished she knew Henry better. Wished they’d known one another their whole lives. Yes, she was sure she was in love with him. This is what it felt like. She wanted to tell him to buy an eggplant. She wanted to see him standing across from her, holding the biggest, darkest-purple, glossiest one.
“You’re full of supermarket goodness,” he said to her.
“I like how you say supermarket. I say grocery store.”
Henry looked at Astrid the same way he looked at the zucchini. She checked his finger for a wedding band. No.
“Let me know how your zoodles turn out,” she said. And although she wanted to stand there and talk to him, she also knew how men were. So, she turned away from him and waved without looking back and decided to forego the rest of the produce she needed. She went across the store to the frozen section so she wouldn’t accidentally run into him in the other aisles and she breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t.
Because yes. This was definitely love. And to prove it, she got on Facebook that night and happily typed Henry into the search bar. She scrolled through a lot of Henrys and didn’t see a picture of Cabbage Henry. Her obsessiveness nipped at her heels before finally sinking its teeth in. Drawing blood. The next night she cranked Lana Del Rey, put on extra eyeliner, and went to the grocery store just in case. No Henry. But the Lana Del Rey and the extra eyeliner made her feel sexy and powerful. Cool. As cool as the wind on her face as she drove home with the windows down. She was crying her eyeliner off and that was okay because the smudginess made her feel even sexier and more powerful. She mouthed the words after she finished brushing her teeth before bed. Sexy and powerful. She let her teeth smooth and catch for too long on her bottom lip. She drifted to sleep imagining herself and Henry out of the grocery store, in the California desert instead. Henry, bearded and Jim Morrison–mysterious, feeding her grapes. The poetry of their tongues. Their mouths—two cherries under a lavender moon.
* * *
The following Wednesday, after ballet class and drinks with friends, Astrid put on extra eyeliner again and went to the grocery store. Saw Henry in the produce section. She w
ondered if Henry were a ghost, haunting it. Only on Wednesdays. Like, every Wednesday, no matter what, he would be there in the produce section, waiting for her. Was he even real on the other days? She recognized his back easily now. He was skinny and almost-tall. He was standing there in an expensive-looking navy-blue polo shirt. She touched his shoulder to make sure she couldn’t put her hand right through him.
“Astrid the Zoodler!” he said, smiling.
“Henry! I keep finding you here! Here in your supermarket,” she said.
“You’re a supermarket dream,” he said, winking.
“You…are,” Astrid managed to get out.
“Well, the zoodles were fantastic. Did you think I’d really make them?” he asked.
“Yes. I trusted you.”
“What’s for dinner this week?”
“How about dessert? Strawberries?” she asked, lifting a big plastic box of organic ones into the air with both hands. She held it over her head, looked at him.
“I love strawberries.”
“With…chocolate and a light fluffy cake and some whipped cream. Some dark coffee, afterward,” she said.
Henry pulled out his phone, started typing.
“I’m writing this down,” he said and laughed like he couldn’t help it. A cough, really.
So We Can Glow Page 14