Table of Contents
144 Magnolia Street
Aly Yanishevsky
Less Than THree
Theo Hall
Incident Report / Orange
Nina Wattenburg
Signs
AUnnesha Bhowmick
Boston
Aly Yanishevsky
Pinwheel
Lennie Manioudakis
Vigil / Black Coffee
Alec Bode Mathur
When it Rains
AUnnesha Bhowmick
Carbon Dioxide
Jocelyn Olum
Saturday Morning
Ella Markianos
Alyona Gomberg
144 Magnolia Street
Aly Yanishevsky
I swear I’m smarter than Sean Kelly, even though he remembered his address on the first day we were tested on it, and I accidentally said 441 Magnolia Street instead of 144. I knew how to count to 100, and besides, Sean’s address was 3 Greenwood Rd. Anyone can remember the number three.
I don’t know how it happened. I stared at those faded numbers on the porch forever that morning. I had to squint even harder than usual to see them in the pale wash of the street lights. The house slowly lit up as I stood there. I saw the bathroom light flicker on and our makeshift curtain go up in the window—Carmen’s morning shower. The cars woke up, too, and made an easy beat for my counting. One-forty-four, one-forty-four, one-forty four. The tinny whir of the cars on Quincy St, the soprano squeaking of the busses that needed fixing, the sleepy rumble of the orange line—it all came together like a rhythmic morning song.
The windows above our unit began to light up; the Garcias on the 3rd floor always got up later than us. I heard the oldest kid, Joey, put on his 8-track like always, and suddenly the Jackson 5 were my backup singers. One-forty-four, one-forty-four, one-forty four to the tune of I Want You Back.
“Maria! Breakfast!”
Mama’s voice pierced through the brisk air like an arrow. I skipped up the sooty brick steps and wrestled with the front door. If I didn’t get to the table quick enough, Evelyn would start eating my oatmeal, groaning about how much she hated it and why couldn’t we just have pancakes everyday like the O’Malleys. Our door didn’t quite fit into the door frame. It was a little too big, but we had no choice but to keep jamming it in. I felt bad for that door. It never did anything wrong. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to live on Magnolia Street, number one-forty-four, one-forty-four, one-forty-four.
“Maria, it’s 7 o’clock already, what’s taking so long?”
I stood on my tiptoes and rattled the doorknob one, two, three times. Then I kicked it twice as hard as I could and rattled it again until it finally gave in. Sorry, door. I shuffled inside to find Carmen standing in the hallway with her arms crossed, trying to make herself look tough.
“Mama told you to stop banging on that door like two weeks ago. You know Mr. Hernandez is gonna get mad if you break it.”
Mr. Hernandez, our landlord, was always mad. I didn’t see how I could possibly make him any madder. Evelyn was already hovering her spoon over my bowl when I turned the corner into the kitchen.
“Stop it, that’s mine!”
She dug in anyway.
“Evelyn, cut it out, you don’t need two!”
Evelyn turned her chair to face me, her feet planted firmly on the ground. She could finally reach the floor without having to scooch forward, and she was very proud.
“I’m bigger so I need more. Nine-year-olds need one-and-a-half bowls, and five-year-olds need only half. That’s how math works.”
I glanced at Carmen, who was already standing by the door with her backpack on. She nodded, with her arms still crossed.
“Yeah, I’m seven and I ate one. Now eat it quick, we’re gonna be late.”
Must be something you learn in 1st grade, I thought. I stuck my spoon into my oatmeal, unhappily without strawberries, while my sisters towered over me, waiting.
“We’re. Gonna. Be. Late,” Carmen grumbled, tapping her nails on the railing like Mama.
I closed my eyes and took a bite, channeling all my energy into imagining the strawberries that should’ve been in my bowl. Sweet and plump, but just tart enough to make me scrunch up my nose, and juicy enough to stain my lips red, just like at Tiffany’s house. I always savored my oatmeal; I was the only one who actually liked having it for breakfast. Mama and Papa knew how much I loved raisins, so they bought them for me to put on top of my oatmeal every day. Some strawberries would’ve been really nice, though.
“Maria! Stopping eating and get your coat on!”
Mama stood at the door holding out a little black jacket.
“What about the polka dots?” I asked.
“It’s not raining,”
I stuck out my lower lip just enough to look cute, but not too whiny. She sighed and picked up my favorite polka-dot raincoat from the closet. I grinned as she slipped it over my arms. I could see my sisters rolling their eyes from outside.
By the time I kicked the door open again and walked down the steps, Carmen and Evelyn were already halfway up the street. I hopped onto the sidewalk and began to walk as fast as my legs could carry me.
“Wait, wait!” I cried, chiming into the already audible schoolyard squeals at the end of the street.
I longed to hear the satisfying thud of my little black boots on the concrete like my sisters, but Mama quickly caught up to me.
“Hold my hand, Maria. Slow down.”
My sisters’ laughs grew fainter as they ran even faster up the street. I begrudgingly grabbed Mama’s hand, never straying from my counting song. One-forty-four, one-forty-four, one-forty four. I felt like that little girl on Sesame Street who always recited her grocery list on the way to the store. A gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and a stick o’ buttah! If she could remember her list, I could surely remember one number. Even the pigeons we passed bobbed their heads to the beat.
The brick school building grew closer and closer as we made our way up Magnolia and turned onto Priesing Street. We eventually met up with Carmen and Evelyn, standing in front of the bright blue front door. Mama gave us all our hugs, said goodbye, and sent me off with them to walk me to my classroom. She made them wait there and take me to the Pre-K2 room just because I “got lost” this one time last month. I was really just exploring the school a little bit before the bell rang. I would never skip class or anything.
My sisters quickly ran off once we got to room 005, and I sat down at my desk in the front, imagining the look on my teacher’s face when she heard how I could already count past 100. And the look on Sean Kelly’s face. I giggled, swinging my legs back and forth in my chair. I repeated my address over and over again in my head, listening to the class just long enough to hear Miss Mclaughlin call Maria Martinez?
Alyona Gomberg
Less Than Three
Theo Hall
In my dreams we love each other
I press the top of my head to yours
We stare up at the cold night sky
Count the tiny stars above us
The soft green blades of grass below
Running down abandoned streets
We laugh like innocent hyenas
Peek in the shattered windows
Hold our breaths at every creak
Carve our hearts in the dead trees
We sit on my sheets and breathe
My fingertips tap your perfect nails
I show you the oddities on my wall
You take this poem I’ll never finish and
Leave a smell of hope and flowers
But when our cheerful dance falters
You tell me all the good in the world
Give me your shoulder to lean upon
And I open up my every caring sense
Let you shout injustice and disgrace
In my dreams we love each other
Awake, I don’t know where I am.
Alyona Gomberg
Incident Report / Orange
Nina Wattenburg
Incident Report
I alert the police that I have been robbed.
When they arrive, I am standing in the living room
wearing BB cream and a tasteful outfit
with all my possessions gathered around me
They look at me suspiciously
I don’t look upside down
as I often am
lying on the ceiling
playing dead
spending money
being difficult
It’s not really mania, I always explain
It’s just caffeine
but we all have to wonder
So the two policemen come into my house and I give them tea
What is this? Some black citrus blend?
It’s called Prince Wladimir, I inform them
I think it’s Russian. See? I’m even serving it to you in a glass.
Isn’t that delightful?
And what’s been stolen?
The sofa sticks to my thighs,
I look at them.
I open my mouth
and I wish the emptiness could tell them
sometimes I wish I were upside down
Orange
whole and different
sweet and weird
dig in your fingernails
peel my acerbity away
If I woke up tomorrow
and you were beside me
I wouldn’t even know what to do
I think I’m having the wrong dreams
In the end, I would hand you a fork
turn my back
take off my shirt
leave you staring at my skin
August Kane
Signs
Aunnesha Bhowmick
We were at the train station. It was 3:25, five minutes before our train. We swung open the doors leading to the tracks. I walked alongside Mimi who strode towards two black boxes with “Verizon” printed across the top in red. The boxes were attached to a crumbly brick wall stained with black residue. Mimi moved a hunk of metal to reveal a stripped black panel.
“Huh,” I said quietly. “What’s the point of having telephone booths if there aren’t any phones?” I waited for Mimi to respond. Instead I watched her turn the piece of metal over in her hands and hold it out to show me. I read it.
“No Waiting in This Area”
It was mustard colored and dented at the corners. The words felt familiar and I recalled that it was the same sign that was hung up on certain part of the platform. I also recalled that most people ignored it. I informed Mimi of this.
“No, no, no, I know that!” She said this with a hint of annoyance as if I was missing the whole point. Well, I was.
“What?”
“Remember how I’ve always wanted a sign like this?”
“You have?” I didn’t think too much of it. “Yes, you must have mentioned it.”
A brief moment of silence passed as Mimi stood there staring at me with the “No Waiting in This Area” sign in her hands. I stared back.
“So… you want me to steal it?” I asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. Yes. I want it.” she responded, her eyes slightly crazed.
“Ok. Can you even fit it anywhere?”
“Yes! My backpack’s big enough.” I gave the backpack a glance and then returned to her. I shrugged.
“Then take it.”
“What?! I can’t just steal it!”
“Who even wants it? Just do it now, no one’s watching.”
“What if there are security cameras?”
I scanned the area. I saw one and I seemed to be front and center in its frame. I pointed it out.
“See? I can’t take it.”
“Oh, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“WE GET ARRESTED FOR PETTY THEFT!” she quietly shrieked.
“For stealing a sign?” I asked, doubtful and unimpressed.
“Yes! And it would go on our permanent record.”
“Breaking News! Local girl arrested for a stealing a sign no one was ever going to need.” She rolled her eyes at me. “Okay, fine! Don’t steal it.”
I heard the train starting to pull in. I thought I saw her move to put the sign back so I began walking down the station. After walking ten feet and feeling an absence of my friend, I turned back, confused. “The train is here!” I rushed over to the broken phone panels where the sign was placed. I looked around as people began pooling towards the doors of the train.
“If you really want the sign, take it. It’s now or never.”
A sharp inhale. In a matter of seconds, the backpack was on the ground, unzipped with a plate of metal wedged between a biology binder and math notebook. The bag was rezipped.
The train was not crowded. I climbed up the stairs to the top floor of the train as I customarily did on my lonely commute home. I enjoyed the view. Immediately as I set down my backpack, my shoulders were pleased to be relieved of the heavy weight. My biology homework was waiting to be done, so I unzipped my bag and removed my binder. Instead my fingers came in contact with cold metal. I smiled to myself in satisfaction.
Alyona Gomberg
Boston
Aly Yanishevsky
Ode to Man-Spreading
I just love it when
I sit on the train, a working woman,
My binder and papers sprawled
Across my lap, ready to be
Marked done on my to-do list,
And some great and glorious knight—
Some guy—
Charges down the aisle and
Makes his move.
Like a hero on his steed,
Galloping off to the palace
To pick up the princess he has won,
He barrels into my seat.
In a sea of passengers,
My head barely extends past the headrest.
My cheeks are round and rosy,
And my skin bright and youthful,
But my hoop earrings,
My business casual mini skirt
Are what transform me into a prize.
And thus, like a predatory bird,
Fierce, noble, valiant,
He has made his selection.
I wish I had a tattoo on my forehead:
I’m 17! I’m gay! Just go away!!!
But I think that would make it worse.
O, eager intruder,
The smell of marijuana laced
Into your breath complements
My perfume so nicely.
The pack of cigarettes peeking out
Of your grimy back pocket
Just screams elegance.
Ah, yes, this is the man for me!
I look around, keeping my eye
On the train conductor
At the back of the car,
Just in case.
O, go ahead, Sir:
Press your knee even deeper
Into the side of my thigh.
How romantic, how genteel of you
To bless me with your intimacy,
However unwanted it may be.
Life looks so idyllic
From this square foot of space
On the 6:05 to Newburyport.
I marvel at the utter perfection
Of our world, with my head
Smushed against a dull plastic wall,
And my legs squeezed shut.
The Bright Side of Life
He squats over the stone ledge
of a statue in the park,
Cheetos and a Redbull by his side.
Fumbles with his old iPhone 4,
presses a button on his speaker
so feeble the sound might
knock it over
Always look on the bright side of life
Rocking
back and forth, side to side
drunkenness or dancing?
Musty blue flannel
army green backpack
collapsing at the seams
poster board and a Sharpie
He whistles the tune
Always look on the bright side
Bag of cheetos crinkling,
leaves in the wind wheezing,
lungs running on exhaustion
Rocking, rocking
Swaying, swaying
and then he
Stops.
Always look
Face is taut,
wrinkles forming and
glasses sinking into tired
valleys of skin. No song
left for the iPhone to play
moves his Redbull
crumples his Cheetos
slumps onto his side,
a half inch of cardboard
between graying head and stone,
and lays down to rest
Always.
The Wall of Macy’s Smells like Urine (but it’s ok, i don’t mind)
On the corner of Summer Street and Washington Street
every day i turn 40
happy birthday happy birthday
happy birthday
they give me 10¢ or maybe 25 if i’m lucky
or if it’s a busy day at the Primark across the street.
They brush right by me
casually holding iced coffees
bubble teas some dumb shit
i don’t know i don’t know
i don’t know
they walk right by
Wednesday rush hour you know?
or maybe Thursday i’m not really sure anymore.
You brush right by me
you’re on your way home from work
at that non-profit around the corner next to Sweetgreen
you got out early today so
it must be Wednesday
i can smell your Lancome perfume.
You know i walked into the Macy’s near my spot
on the sidewalk to find the one you wear
but they kicked me out 10 minutes after i walked in
bastards bastards
bastards.
August Kane
Pinwheel
Lennie ManiouDakis
One moment I was me, and the next I was in a cafe, swirling up and down and around. It was hard to make sense of my surroundings. There was a haziness around the setting, like a foggy stage-play, and I began to lose the familiar sense of self that every human being possesses. A cup of coffee spun in circles and began to sing. I introduced myself, and it didn’t reply.
I couldn’t tell the difference between me and that cup of coffee. I was looking at my body from an outside perspective, but I didn’t know where I belonged—that mountain of flesh and blood and bone, or the ceramic mug and its steaming contents. There was something in my brain that had turned off. Something about the dreamland—this dreamland—was different. Maybe it was me that was different. Maybe it wasn’t. Something wasn’t right with this, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
My sense of self spun further and further away. I began to panic.
Then, somewhere in my mind, a door opened, and my parents walked through. Their faces were blurred. I knew they were my parents, somehow, but I didn’t understand that connection. Our memories remained, but our relationship had disappeared. Memory took work. Only one moment from the past existed at a time. First I remembered a girl I went to elementary school with, and then she was gone, replaced by an uncle I’d only met twice. Then a close friend entered my mind, and I tried to ask him who I was, but I didn’t have a mouth or a brain or even a face. I was a floating consciousness, and he was flesh. We could not exist together. I realized that interaction was impossible, and so I observed. He sat down on the floor and keeled over like a dog or an infant. I reached out to comfort him, realizing that my body had returned to me. Now it was my conscience that was gone. I was a shell.
I knew something else was wrong. I couldn’t quite tell if I was awake or dreaming. Rationally, I knew I was asleep. But I could not process that. I was not ready to break the fourth wall into reality and morning. So I let the situation control me, and suddenly I was in two parallel existences, flying in one and drowning in the other. The euphoria of the sky and the terror of the water clashed, clawing at each other in a fight for dominance. Neither could win, but neither could lose. I was aware of this, but they were not. I was stuck in this oxymoron. I was stuck, but I was free. This became my state of being for a short while, until finally, I escaped it.
The flood of feelings suddenly exited my mind, leaving me in a state of confusion, disbelief, depression. I was waking up. I tried to stop it but I felt as if I’d hit my head and was lying in a daze, concussed and unable to discern what was going on. I slowly came to consciousness, but I did not open my eyes for a long time.
Alyona Gomberg
Vigil / Black Coffee
Alec Bode Mathur
Vigil
I'm sitting vigil as the snow hits the window
(you're in another state and there it's just raining)
I've made it a part of the ritual of missing you
painting my nails in the dim light of a street lamp
and the red glow of the numbers on my alarm clock
I’m not one of those girls who’s trying to fix you
I just don’t know how to tell you that it matters
That you’re safe and you’re sad and you’re drunk
Alone at four am and that most of your radicalism is a cry for help and that you’re calling
me
I have listened to our song on repeat
The bass competing with the sound of the train tracks and the crack of thunder as the rain comes my way
You always take up more space than you mean to
and I get distracted ride the last train to the end stop
We are cyclical
A repeating pattern of notes and silence
Days and months of nothing bleed into moments that become everything
and I hang on your every word like the last sound of a symphony that clings cobwebby to the air of the hall
Trapped beneath the balconies trying to make the moment hang on
As people file out tripping on coats heading home
Black Coffee
I'm in love with the city where I knew you
The streets we wandered through
The mingling of bitter, cold and sweet on the tip of my tongue
The taste of the pancakes off your plate when it's late
And I'm over thinking this
I want you in the little ways
Blurred edges in the morning shared space as the day breaks
Black coffee from two mugs with cracked glaze
Coming home to your quiet grin when you're not thinking and
The way you tuck back your hair when you are
The songs that you sing that I know by heart
Alyona Gomberg
When it Rains
Aunnesha Bhowmick
i
In the forest
When it rains
Puppy gets sleepy
Mommy gets sleepy
Daddy gets sleepy
The sky?
Well, it gets weepy
And I?
Well, I just lay there
On the forest floor
Sheltered.
Obviously.
Everyone has their eyes closed
Obviously.
So no one knows
That the sun has chose
This. Moment.
To wiggle out of her
Cloudy closet.
ii
Inhale.
What can I smell?
I know the world is wet
The dirt, the leaves,
The wood.
All drenched.
But I can only smell the smoke.
Smoke. Salty. Smoke.
It clings to my clothes,
To my hair,
To my painted nails.
My hands soak
Up all the smoke
No matter how many
Clorox Wipes I use
Not even the rain
Can wash away the fire
I tended to.
iii
Through a curtain of my black curls
My tent lights up in my eyes
You can still hear the rain
Pelting the trees of Maine
Every slight movement
Reminds me of how sticky
It can be. Humidity,
Every time I shift my body,
I am reminded of every itch
Left by every bug bite
In and out of sight.
It does not feel like afternoon
The day will not end soon
Yet everyone is still sleeping
Even though the heavens
Have stopped weeping.
Alyona Gomberg
Carbon Dioxide
Jocelyn Olum
a dollar for a bottle of seltzer
raspberry lime is extra but I ask for it anyway
adhesive label melting in the sunlight
anticipation written in the neon colors
outside I stand in the humidity
condensation drips down the plastic
I press it to my forehead
coolness echoes
through my skin like loose-leaf tea
diffusing
into me
gently, slowly and then with enthusiasm
I give the bottle a shake
white foam rises to the top and spills over
like a frozen river rushing down mossy, green plastic slopes
a heart filling and overflowing
a second, a minute, an hour,
I stand rapt by an endless stream of
lime-flavored whiteness
fluid runs down the sides and into my lap
gas escapes into the atmosphere
I press my sticky hands together
and close my eyes
Alyona Gomberg
Saturday Morning
Ella Markianos
I was stepping off the platform when he called, on my way back to the apartment. I looked at the name on the phone screen. Then I looked at it again. I stared as the people bustled past, as the train sped by, as everything bled together in multicolored urgency and sound. A few times someone would bump into me with the same height, the same hat, the same round eyes and I would think it was him. I saw him in the need and the urgency of the people around me, and I saw him again through the metal slats as I walked through the turnstile, and in the cigarette butt next to the little dandelion in the crack in the sidewalk.
The phone rang and rang and rang through the busy streets as I refused to answer it. It seemed to me I couldn’t answer it, I couldn’t entertain the possibility of answering it, because if I did that made him real. He wasn’t allowed to be real; I said to myself that this was for both of our survivals. I meant it was for mine.
The phone refused to stop ringing. It rang as I turned the lock to my apartment and flopped on the couch. It stayed in my eardrums and ricocheted inside the roof of my mouth, a constant restless presence. I turned on the television. It was turned to RuPaul’s Drag Race, and I tried to focus my eyes on the screaming queens and pots of makeup. I wondered what he would’ve thought of it; the buzzing in my head told me he would’ve found it amusing.
I wondered what he would think of me now: my natural hair chemically treated, skin wan, in too-expensive clothes in a too-expensive part of a too-expensive city. It had only been five years, but Chicago seemed so far away I wasn’t sure it had been real. I came back home on the holidays, but I’d stopped trying to know people there. I didn’t miss home anymore as much as I missed home being home.
I wondered what he looked like now. The last time I saw him his eyes had been shining with too many held-back tears, his newsboy cap askew and his glasses taped together at the ends. His face had always carried a strange kind of openness, and his eyes were an intermediate color that couldn’t seem to decide whether they were blue or green or gray. His gaze used to project as if he was not only seeing you but seeing through you, and he’d always been wonderfully frank. His mouth had this funny trick where it really could and would form any shape under the sun, and he could make the most incomprehensible and wonderful things come out of his mouth. I wondered if he still sang.
The buzzing in my head continued until it reached a crescendo, bouncing around in my head, and so I turned off RuPaul and checked my phone. He’d left a voicemail waiting to be read. I began to listen. It went something like this:
“Um… I. I know we haven’t talked in a really long time, and I know there’s a reason why, but I was sitting in this stupid cute little café in New York–did you know I was in New York? You probably didn’t. You’re probably still in Chicago, God only knows why I left that city. And anyway, I was sitting here, and I was looking at the menu and they serve pancakes for lunch that are three inches thick and the size of a dinner plate, and I can’t finish them because there’s just so much of them. You’d probably be able to finish them if you were here–I swear your stomach is actually bigger on the inside. Somebody decided to name this place Snack Taverna–who the fuck names a restaurant that? You’d love it. But I was just thinking about you, and I was wondering what you’re doing these days, because it seems to me that we’ve been through an awful lot of shit together for me to not know where you are. But I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are. I really do. I’m sorry about–I’m so sorry about what happened and I feel like there’s a chance we’re old enough to forget about all that now. I just wanted to know how you are, yeah, and maybe sometime we could talk? Have a nice day. Yeah. Bye.”
By the time I stopped hearing his voice my heart was threatening to beat out of my chest. There wasn’t buzzing in my head as much as there was tingling, a vibration spreading throughout my whole body. I felt something warm in my chest and I was hungry for pancakes: I think I had forgotten the effect that his voice had on me. His presence that was not allowed to be filled me in so many places.
It seemed unreasonable that he was in the same city as me. I’d always thought that Patrick leaving Chicago was like a fish jumping out of the sea. The fact that he’d jumped out of the sea and walked back into my frame of existence seemed preposterous. If any fish could grow legs and lungs out of sheer determination, though, it would be him. What was even more preposterous, though, was that he’d managed to walk his way on his own two legs right across the street from me. I could see the Snack Taverna across the street if I looked out my window; it was where I spent late nights and early mornings, the whitewashed walls and reasonable interior a stark contrast to most of this Godforsaken city. Being in there was like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cool day. It seemed only fitting that he’d managed to wander his way in.
My whole body still seemed to be vibrating with an unnameable sort of energy. It filled my eyes and my ears and my chest and my toes and the insides of my nostrils. I was suddenly famished, and there was a restaurant across the street. I convinced myself that it wasn’t possible for him to be there. I’d imagined it; he existed in a different plane of reality. I’d walk in, and I’d buy a nice big stack of pancakes, and the spinning in my gut would stop.
My feet propelled me across the well-lit street and through the door. The bell chimed when I came in and the waiter, Nikos, came up to greet me. He was a lithe, broad-shouldered Greek man with one of those ridiculous hipster beards flecked with grey and a smile that showed all his teeth.
“Hello, young man,” he said. He held my gaze with the kind of familiarity that comes from often seeing each other but never really knowing each other. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Where would you like to sit?” I glanced around at the tables, my gaze resting on the corner booth where I normally sat. But sitting alone at the table next to it was Patrick.
“Actually, I’m with him,” I said, pointing to the corner.
Nikos looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Alright then. Go ahead.”
I sat at the table facing him. I didn’t really remember walking to the table or taking a seat, but I was there. He didn’t notice me. He was staring at the giant pancake with thoughtful frustration, as if he could make it disappear with the sheer power of his mind. I took the opportunity to stare at him. His face still had that openness, but he contained a sharpness I’d never seen before, an acute laser focus. His cheekbones poked out of his face, and he was all angles; he’d lost a lot of weight. His hair was cropped short and bleached a shocking blonde, and he had a kind of new and unexpected awareness. He looked a little like a coil ready to spring loose. He wasn’t wearing a hat. He had always worn a hat when I knew him. He looked as out-of-place as I’d expected among the yuppies and trendy kids of the area, with ratty blue sneakers and an engulfing checked green blazer that I remembered from our Chicago days. I think it might’ve been mine at some point.
I held my breath, unsure as to if I was allowed to speak. His eyes darted up into mine. “You’re here. How are you here?” He looked at me like he was trying to pull my brain out through my nostrils so he could examine it.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“No, seriously. I just called you twenty minutes ago, and now you’re here. Don’t you live in Chicago?” He pursed his lip and did that thing where he crinkled his nose when he was trying to figure out a really tricky problem. It felt too nice to be that problem after so long.
“Don’t you?”
“No. I just moved into the city. Chicago is… the music scene just isn’t what it used to be. This is where things are happening, I guess.” I was angry at what he was saying. I think I was angry because that’s exactly why I decided to come here, all those years ago. I was angry because he didn’t know that, and because he couldn’t have known that.
“I’ve lived here for five years. I guess for the same reason.”
Patrick frowned. “That’s a while. Wouldn’t I,” he said, his head tilted, “Wouldn’t I have known?”
“No,” I said, somehow wishing I could have taken the word back, “I left just after. After, you know–”
“–Yeah, I know.” Our heads had somehow gotten much closer while we were talking. To avoid looking at his eyes, I looked down at the half-eaten, frankly delicious-looking pancake.
“You said you couldn’t finish the pancake?”
“No,” he said, smiling that little smile of his. I looked back into his eyes. He had laughter lines now. “You can have it, if you’d like it.”
I matched his smile. “I’d be honored.” He slid the pancake across the table cautiously. I took a bite. It was even better than it looked: the velvety texture combined with strawberries and maple syrup infused with bourbon (this was Greenwich Village, after all) melted into my mouth. I made an obnoxious noise of appreciation. Patrick laughed, fidgeting with his hands from across the table.
“Your hair,” Patrick said, looking me in the eyes again. “It’s different.”
“Yeah? So is yours,” I said through a mouthful of food.
“Do you like it?”
“Yours, or mine? Yes to both, I suppose.”
He looked at me again like he was trying to work out my gears and cogs. “Really?”
“Really. You look good,” I said, then cringed inwardly a little. He raised his eyebrows at me. We both laughed, but we weren’t sure what we were laughing at. I felt a terrifying sort of warm growing inside of me. The lines around his eyes grew, and I felt that if I dropped his gaze, I would fall into some sort of chasm. He checked his watch.
“I’ve… Shit! I have a meeting near here like, right now. I’ve got to go. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to stay longer. Can I get you anything?” I could tell he was telling the truth–he’d always been an abysmal liar.
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“Bullshit. It’s cold outside. You want a hot chocolate.” I couldn’t help but agree. “Hey!” he called to the waiter. “Can I get a hot chocolate for this young gentleman?” He smiled at me as if we were sharing a joke, and I thought maybe we were. “I have to get going, can I pay now?”
Nikos grinned and winked at me. “Sure. Is the hot chocolate for here or to go?”
“For here,” we said at the same time. I was giddy with something I didn’t understand. Patrick paid Nikos the bill.
“Bye,” Patrick said as he was standing up. “I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah,” our bodies came together in an awkward crush of a half-hug, him standing and bending down, me sitting and raising myself up. “I’ll see you soon.” He walked out the door, glancing back at me for a second with a small smile and a wave. He was carrying his guitar case; it was the same one, after all this time. I just sat there, staring at the space where he had been.
After a while, Nikos came back with a hot chocolate and a smile. “He seems like a good one.”
“He always has been.” Nikos looked at me with a little shake of his head, and went to serve another customer.
I took the hot chocolate in my hands and took the first sip. It filled my throat, my stomach and my chest. It was hot against my tongue, and I wasn’t sure if the feeling was burning or warmth.