Catherine Forrest lives in the Baltimore area of, Maryland, USA. She edits medical journals by day and moonlights as an essayist and fiction writer. She publishes essays twice-weekly in Shelf Life. You can also find her at catherineforrest.com.

 

 

She blew a stream of smoke through the gap in her front teeth and past her lips, exasperated, staring at the ceiling while he droned. Enid wondered why she’d invited him in the first place. She’d been walking around the neighborhood, down to the end of the street, then around the lake and back, and he’d seemed—not cool, but appealing. Tall, with tousled brown hair and lively eyes, and dressed like a wizard. Now she had second thoughts.

“And anterograde legs,” he was saying. He had been talking about time travel, but now he was on the subject of bird people. The topics were supposed to be related, somehow. She rolled her eyes but he didn’t notice; kept on talking.

“Are you serious right now?” she interjected. He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you come back to my place to talk to me about time traveling bird people with posterior-grade legs or did you come up here to fuck?”

“Anterograde,” he said, while his mind caught up to her. “What? I thought you wanted to hear about my novel.”

“No one wants to hear about your novel,” she said, stubbing her cigarette out in the overcrowded ashtray. “How are you a writer if you don’t know nobody ever wants to hear about your novel?”

“Well that’s . . . okay, that’s mean,” he said, and finally shut up.

“What’s your name again?” she asked, irritated.

“Damien,” he said.

“Damien? That’s your real name.”

“Yes, it’s my real name,” he said, defensively.

“Your parents named you Damien?”

“No, but it’s my real name.” Now it was her turn to shut up. He had kind of a point. When she didn’t answer, he continued. “My parents named me Llewellyn, if you must know.”

“Okay. I think I’d go by Damien, too.”

“Did you bring me back here to fuck?”

“Yeah,” she said, “Why not?”

“To your mom’s place though? We could have gone to mine.”

“What?” Enid flicked her eyes up at him from the depths of the messenger bag where she’d been fishing for another cigarette. “This is my place.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

“How old are you?” she retorted.

“Twenty-six,” he said, as though that wasn’t completely ridiculous. She let out a harsh cough of laughter.

“I’m forty,” she said. He eyed her suspiciously, as though to figure out if she was telling the truth. As though she’d lie about being forty. “What?” she asked.

“You’re not old enough to live here if you’re only forty,” he said.

“The fuck does that mean?” she gave up digging for her lighter and waved the unlit cigarette around, then mimed a gimme gesture. He handed over a Zippo.

“This is an assisted living building,” he said while she flicked the Zippo to life and sucked the flame to the tip of her cigarette.

“Yeah, well,” she said, handing back the lighter. “I need assistance with living. You don’t have to be elderly for that.”

 “Oh,” he said, considering. “Are you disabled?”

“Are you here to fuck? Or what?” 

#

Afterward, she lay on her back in her narrow double bed with a lit cigarette, not smoking, but watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling and dissipate. He had offered her his vape pen, but she declined. 

“It’s weed,” he’d said, but she obviously knew that. She was irritated all over again. The anger never lifted for long. Every medication she knew about that didn’t come in pill form just took the edge off for a bit. She didn’t want to be irritated with him. She had no alternative.

“So when they look at themself in the mirror,” he started up again, “They’re expecting to see their birdself but they see their manself. Get it? Do you see how that works? Because of the time travel.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered. She was trying to tolerate him, trying her best, but he wasn’t making it easy. He was making it impossible. He didn’t even interpret her expletive correctly.

“I know!” he exclaimed. “Because in the far future, they’re all bird—”

“Why are you still here, Llewellyn?” It came out harsh, and she meant it that way, even though she already knew she would regret it when she replayed the afternoon over in her head. Was already regretting it.

“Uh,” he said. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Obviously?” She closed her eyes, blocking him from view as he scrambled up and began rummaging around her messy bedroom for his clothes. Even without seeing him, the noise of him was goading her anger.

“Sorry, I just didn’t know. I’ll get out of your hair.” His quiet acceptance of the rage he hadn’t earned only made her angrier. If he leaves, she thought, if I don’t see him again, I’ll never get this anger out of my chest. She tried to subdue the thought but it wouldn’t subside. Either I unload it now, before he leaves, or never.

“And don’t forget to pay,” she said, crushing her molars against each other.

“Pay what?” he asked.

“Pay me,” she said, cutting her eyes at him. “For this.” She gestured with her half-burnt-down cigarette at her naked body, the rumpled bedclothes, everything.

“Oh,” his face fell. “You’re a—I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“Well?” she said.

“I don’t have any money on me, I—”

“What, you want to return it? Cancel your order?”

“I’m sorry. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have—”

“Well, you did,” she said, looking away from him and back up at the ceiling. “Anyway I have Venmo.” 

“Right,” he said, walking toward her bedroom door as he tapped at his phone screen. “How much?”

“Whatever,” she said. He left.

It only made her feel worse, in the end, as usual. Everything only made her feel worse. Later, checking her account, she saw he’d transferred forty bucks. The memo field read, “listening about my novel.”