“He thinks he’s funny. Sometimes a little reserved and puzzling too. It’s like two sides of the same coin; I just never know which version of him I’m going to get.”
She drains another glass, raising her hand to motion the waiter to refill her drink.
“Have you fucked him yet?” She asks pointedly as the poor server tries to keep their composure. Her expression morphs in a fraction of a second from light-hearted to interrogative.
The water I drink goes down the wrong tube, allowing me long enough to think while I cough.
“I… I haven't yet.”
She swirls the rose liquid, by holding the delicate stem of the glass.
“Soooo… you’ve done other stuff? Do tell!” She tucks her hand just under her chin, leaning forward as the intensity she once displayed just melts away to giddy interest.
“Well…” I begin pushing the cuticles deeper into their beds, just beneath the table’s linen. There’s no harm in telling her about what I did with the mystery stranger, while weaving in Eamon. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about it anyways.
So, I kind of unload it on her. Telling her about the office-like detention center at the zoo and how he first explored my body. She’s shocked but insistent that I keep going. I move onto the steakhouse date and the movie followed by shared cherry pie. Then I recall the steamy rendezvous at last night’s Halloween Bash. I left out the part about his face being covered because, rationalizing that there may or may not be two people in this story. Sorting through that just isn’t in my wheelhouse right now.
Her mouth hangs open and for a moment I was a little worried about being too graphic, considering our new friendship and current setting.
“Huh. No shit?”
Her reaction was similar to how I responded in college when I learned; dresses and skirts were consideredgender-neutralup until the 18th-century.
I shake my head, “No shit,” repeating her words right back.
“Well… Sláinte! I guess it’s good that we get along so well.” She winks as she raises her glass in a celebratory gesture before draining the Rosé.
I smile politely and nod, unsure how to counter the odd choice of words.
When lunch is through, Mairead moves at a slower pace. She is also in the mood to try on clothes. The spending crazed-girl gawks over mannequins draped in sparkly, sequin dresses and literally squeals, whenever we come across a collection of furs. My friend has a very particular taste in fashion, but to each their own.
Peeling a hot pink, cocktail number off the display, Mairead skips off to the dressing room.
“Wait right here. Tell me what you think when I come out.”
I make myself comfortable on the circular ottoman, within the horseshoe of changing rooms. Checking my phone to see if I have missed any messages, I confirm there’s nothing.
She pops her head out of the small room. “Can you zip me?”
I stand despite my aching feet protesting for me to sit back down and go to assist the sprightly girl in the extremely loud dress, covered in strawberries. As I glide the zipper up and fasten the clasp to the dress, I can’t help but notice a thin lined tattoo on her shoulder blade. It’s a skull with shamrocks for eyes. I, myself, don’t have any tattoos, so I wonder what encouraged her to pick this particular design. I didn’t want to be rude and question her choice in body art, especially when she’s already treated me to such a lavish day. I keep the question to myself and tell her she looks nice in the outfit.
She, of course, bought the dress. Using the same black shiny card to pay as all the other times. Could it be her father’s card? I wasn't jealous. Just curious… what it’s like to have parents that help you out. Her dad seemed nice when I met him at the Craft Bazaar. Dressed in head-to-toe designer labels, it kind of explains his daughter’s ideology.
My parents worked very hard. We always had a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and truly everything we needed. After I got out of the hospital, we moved out of my favorite childhood home and into something much more conservative. Maybe the house was too badly damaged after the explosion, but it never really made sense why we constantly moved.
The house I still see in my dreams was my grandparents originally. They decided to move back overseas, where their ancestors originated, to spend their remaining years living on a houseboat along the Mediterranean Sea.
Back when my hearing was intact, I remember my mom playing a grand piano in the great room. If my memory serves me right, my dad used to cook in a massive, shining kitchen with a chandelier above the island. I was little so some things were a little fuzzy, but after I the accident and the relentless bells began… we led much different lives. No more music in the halls, no more grandiose cooking spaces. Things were simpler. Nothing flashy. As soon as I became acclimated with a new house or school, we moved again… always within Boston.
I know my parents were trying to do right by us. Instilling the importance of family over lavish things. Anytime I was sick, dad made his homemade Italian penicillin to make me feel better. He learned the recipe from his father. My mom tried to be present, never missing a school function. As I got older, our parents worked longer hours.
I still had Theo, and I wouldn’t ever exchange my time with him for any designer bag or sports car. I just wish I understoodwhy they cut me off. I’ve always had the sense that Theo was the favorite.
Yes, they offered us both college but sometime between him graduating and his death, it changed. Like I did something wrong and now my parents won’t help me. Do they blame me for their favorite child’s death?
Okay. Spiraling. Get a grip Cindel. You're loved. You’re here. That should be enough… but why do I feel like it’s not?
By the time we get to the third floor, I didn’t feel so good. Maybe because I was having an existential crisis over why my parents didn’t love me as much as I wanted them too. Yet, my body ached and I found myself feeling both overheated and freezing. Regardless of the number of times I took on and off my sweater, I just couldn’t regulate my temperature. A mild headache was starting to set in that quickly began to wrap itself behind my eyes, causing my vision to become slightly distorted. I took up residency in a small chair in the corner of a high-end jewelry store.
