But then I wonder how I can tell her that I turned him down. Mom and Diana, their smiles in the car, off fantasizing about me landing a catch like Raffi. No, they wouldn’t understand.
Especially because part of my turning him down is because I know who I really want to pursue. But I blew it with Erebuni with that line about pride.
I need to get out of here. I’m feeling ill, like my stomach has disappeared. There’s no way I’m going to enjoy any of the food now anyway. I head back to the kitchen.
It smells like comfort, with football kuftes browning, crisping at the edges. Pots full of the rice mixture for sarma. Some people are laying out grape leaves one by one, spreading the tips with care. And Erebuni is there, checking out Janette’s sarma filling. They exchange a pleasant word or two, then Erebuni sees me. Her expression changes from warmth to something I can’t read. Concern? I wonder if it’s how I look. My mouth, my throat, feel hollow.
I make my way toward my tripod, disassemble it, and go to grab my purse, feeling Erebuni’s eyes on me, wondering if I can get away with a brief goodbye.
Arek and Janette are absorbed in conversation. Arek is wafting the steam from Janette’s pot toward his nose and sighing. “Just like Medzmama’s. Uh, you know, like Medzmama’s cooking, and my Medz was a master cook. Never mind.” Janette looks on, stoic.
Vache nods his head toward my tripod. “Heading out?” he asks, a note of surprise coloring his voice. “You haven’t gotten a chance to taste anything.”
“I’m feeling unwell suddenly. I can’t eat right now. Sucks.” It’s not a lie at all, so I’m convincing in my delivery.
Janette and Arek don’t hear me since Arek is now wrapped up in trying to re-compliment Janette, and I feel like he’d lay himself at her feet just to get her to crack a smile. I’m glad they don’t notice me leaving.
Erebuni says, “Let me carry this,” and before I can protest, her hand touches the tripod, and I surrender it to her.
Vache puts on a smile tinged with disappointment. I wave to him. “Bye. Sorry again for leaving so quickly.”
I step briskly, and Erebuni has no problem keeping pace.Once we’re out into the unremitting night mist, Erebuni asks, her voice welling with concern, “Are sure you’re okay? Can you drive all right?”
“This kind of thing happens sometimes. I’ll be fine. Wow, it’s cold out here.” I let out a violent shiver.
We reach my car, and I open it up using an actual key, like it’s the year 2000 (which it was the year this vehicle was minted). I reach for the tripod, and Erebuni willingly hands it over and is looking at me as if wanting something. I don’t say anything, and instead lay my equipment carefully across the back seat.
She says, “Well, I’ll light a candle for you tonight. Stomach, you said?”
Somehow—maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the ice-cold mist—I’m not feeling an ounce of compunction about asking weird questions, so I say, with a flicker of a joke, “Stomach, yeah. Hey, are you a witch or something?” I’m not sure it didn’t come off accusingly, so I add, “Because that’d be pretty cool.”
Her expression is at once pulled out from whatever tangle of pity she was caught up in before. The corner of her mouth quirks up. “I dabble in the Wiccan arts.”
So hot. I knew it. Witches always held a certain type of fascination with me throughout childhood, but my interest was snuffed out at every angle. My mom never let me dress up as one for Halloween since it was bad luck to tempt the dark arts that way. We do not worship Sadana in this home, she’d say. Our Halloween decorations were gourd- and corn-filled displays, not so much the ghost and bat type. Dad allowed me to portray only the good type of magical—fairies, mostly. I would beg to watch witch movies and mostly be denied, and would read witch books under my covers after saying goodnight. In middle school I even drew ashort-lived witch comic,Sorcery Academy. Then high school came along, and I stuffed that obsession into a back corner of my closet along with my well-loved stuffed animals and remaining dolls. The cool kids were not into witch stuff, and I was dying to be one of them. It sort of worked, and they let me hang around the edges of their friendships. Don’t talk to a single one of them today. So of course Erebuni’s a witch.
“Do you do curses-for-hire? ’Cause I have a bunch of people on my naughty list whose hairs I have access to.”
She laughs, and the air fizzes around us. “You are a funny one, Nareh. If you’re interested, I’d love to show you sometime.”
“You have no idea,” I say, and that felt good, saying exactly what I meant. And the possibility blooms that I didn’t blow it with the weird pride line. She invited me to her house, I think. That’s not something you say to someone you’ve assessed to be a weirdo. Hope wells in my chest.
A gust of wind growls by us, and my body spasms with the cold. I move to the driver’s side of the car, grip the handle. Part of me wants to stay here, chatting with her about her witchiness until everyone has left, every car gone, all the lights out. But I already said I was sick, so I probably need to keep that up.
“I’ll make it happen. I’m good at that,” she says. Damn, why is it so sexy to hear her say that she’s good at something, especially when that thing involves me possibly going to her place and seeing her magic (I can’t believe that’s a sentence I’m thinking in real life).
This time when I pull away, I do look back. She hasn’t moved, and we lock eyes for a moment. I don’t know if it’s my wishfulness painting it the way I want, but what I see is obvious. Longing.
For an instant it lights me up, colors the dark streets insplashes of electric reds and golds. Instead of driving, it feels like I’m running lightning fast.
What would that mean, though? If we liked each other. If something happened. Or would I stop myself from making anything happen because of how difficult it could become? I honestly don’t know.
10
I have plenty of apples and pears, but my heart yearns for quince.
????? ???,?????? ???,????????? ?? ????? ?????:
—Armenian Proverb
