It was all very normal, that day. I woke up with a sense of optimism that had not graced me for weeks and weeks. I drew back the covers and petted my cat who greeted me on the side of the bed with a purr and rubbed against my ankles as I set my feet down to the floor. I couldn’t help but think of my friend, Pat, who had helped me nurse my cat to health after we found him all alone in a ditch. They used to walk together a lot, down country roads and back alleys. There was Waylon, small, dirt-crusted, barely visible. We would have missed him if he had not been mewing loudly. There is not much to do in a small town, but Pat and I used to make do entertaining ourselves.
I hadn’t seen Pat for a while now and wondered how he was. He worked at the local movie rental, which I didn’t have a need to visit, what with my own wide array of tapes. I used to work there too. The benefit of working at the rental place was you got to keep the old ones they didn’t want anymore, making room for the new. I couldn’t stand to see them go to waste. “Coyotes don’t have a tape player,” he used to say, shrugging, as he put the tapes in his bag some nights. We weren’t sure what kind of animals scrounged the landfills in this desert town, but coyotes seemed as good a guess as any. Maybe vultures, I suggested, and Pat shook his head like he didn’t like the idea. “They don’t deserve them.” I gave an incredulous chuckle. Are you saying they have tape players? I’d asked, and he shrugged in an exaggerated way that laughably suggested it was possible.
But I had moved on since Pat, had found other friends, and Pat had grown distant like the memory of us was fading. It was lonely in a small town. It was too crowded in a small town. Everyone knows you and sometimes that’s a bad thing because one person says a thing about you and suddenly half the town believes it, true or not.
So that morning, feeling warm with good memories, I made myself a big breakfast of oats and fruits, scrambled eggs, toast, and microwave mini sausages. Waylon meowed and I gave him a sausage. I scanned the news and shut my laptop soon after. It was all depressing and I shouldn’t ruin a good mood with other people’s sorrow. I left the dishes in the sink and went to message Lyria, another friend from college. Sometimes we talked over IM because she lived far away now and she never remembered to call me back when I tried the phone. That’s this day and age, I suppose. The internet is changing things.
So that’s where I talk to her most. I sent her a message, and, seeing she was inactive, I left the computer to brush my teeth and put on my shoes. I picked out my heeled black boots that made me feel confident. It’s hard not to smile when your steps sound so intimidating that people have to listen to you. They can’t pretend not to notice you when your feet announce your presence.
I returned to the computer. Lyria greeted me good morning and said something about having to go to work soon but asked what I was up to. I told her that I was in a good mood. Thinking of reconnecting with a few people. She took a while to respond, the typing message blinking on for a moment, then off again, then on, then off.
Sounds good, but don’t get into any trouble.
Well, I wasn’t planning on doing that, but it was sweet she was concerned I suppose. It’s hard to tell over messaging. There isn’t any way to tell if the person is being playful or sarcastic. Or actually concerned. But I figured she only meant playfully. Lyria was a bit of a fairweather friend since we graduated in this little town. Sometimes she’d come to visit in town but hadn’t told me ahead of time. Once, I ran into her at the grocery and dropped a head of lettuce in surprise.
“Lyria?” My voice had risen a bit high and alarmed a few people and I got embarrassed. “Lyria!” I said, in a more moderate tone. “What are you doing here?” She’d stood, shocked for a moment, then smiled widely and came to give me a side hug.
Lyria had explained she’d taken a last-minute trip to see her cousin, Whitney, who was leaving to move to Canada soon. Whitney, I noticed, had sidled up to Lyria with fall fruits in her basket. “I’m sorry, I should have called ahead. I just wasn’t sure if I’d have much time and didn’t want to disappoint you,” Lyria said. Whitney waved in greeting, a small, hesitant wave, as though she thought I might turn at her and bite. I smiled warmly. “No, not at all. I’m Lyria,” I said, reaching my hand to Whitney, who seemed to relax a bit and took it. “I can’t believe you’re here. I don’t want to intrude,” I said, calmly, but holding myself awkwardly. I really didn’t want them to feel uncomfortable. I have far too few friends as it is to scare away my best friend. “But maybe you could call if you’ve got time? Go to Vincent’s?”
I noticed the droning of the fluorescent lights above. Buzzing. Why did they do that?
Lyria nodded enthusiastically and smiled widely. “Yes, of course. We could actually go tonight, don’t you think?” Whitney flashed her a look I didn’t like, clearly balking at the idea. We did, after all, meet at Vincent’s, and had a great time. Even Whitney warmed up to me. Whitney and I never hung out really, but we’d gotten a coffee a couple of times after that. I’ve been in such need for friends, that I feel like each new interaction is an audition that I’m continually failing over and over by something out of my control. I’m perfectly friendly. I’m a little awkward, maybe into some strange things, but I’m easygoing, I like to think.
Lyria’s forgetfulness happened more than once. The second time, she didn’t have an excuse and merely acted like she’d been there all along. I never found out why she was actually there, but it was clear it wasn’t for me. And then there were the unanswered calls, and sometimes she messaged in short, clipped tones and I wasn’t sure why. She always came back around, but since I never see her in real life anymore, our friendship is like trying to hold wisps of air. Is she really there for me, or does she not care? Am I an annoyance in her life? Or a comfort?
It’s hard to say because some messages we share are personal and open. She seems to trust me to that extent.
But that’s all the more why I missed Pat. We spend days together, killing time, sharing stories, just being kids. He was a true best friend. And, yes, more than that for a while. Which is why we are not friends anymore. And why it’s been hard for me to talk to him.
I walk to my destination. I live in town, only five blocks from the video rental. It’s chilly but the sun is out and I’ve put on a leather jacket that keeps out the cold breeze. My shoes make their hollow clonk clonk clonk on the pavement. There’s this game I play sometimes when I’m walking among other people. It isn’t entirely pleasant, but the thoughts leap to my head anyway. I consider whether, if I had a superpower to do so, I would kill them. It’s not a serious thing like I actually want to kill anyone. Just, if my emotions were tied up in these powers, who would I maybe-unintentionally smite? A woman with a baby sidesteps me a bit, head down. Safe, I think. Women with babies are a cheap shot. A man stands outside his shop messing with the display. He frowns as he sees me, as though remembering something he doesn’t like. Smite. Not for the frown, but for the time he called the police on me for stealing, which I was not. But I was hanging around, loitering, so he probably thought I was up to no good. I only go in there on Sundays anymore when he’s at home with his family. A couple trots past in long wool coats, looking elegant and beautiful. Smite. They look like the type who would think themselves above me. Or else pity me. Rich people are often that way. If I smited them would I be able to take their money, I wonder. I don’t see why not. Maybe I’d just smite rich people all day and take their billfolds. Then I could move out of this stale old town.
I stop in the coffee shop and feel a gush of warm, steamy air as I go through the door. The barista looks at me with a polite nod while making someone else a latte. I wait patiently, trying not to be distracted by his taut biceps. I do not know him but I have seen him here before. I brightly greeted him when he came over. He gave a shifting glance to the woman at the counter grabbing the latte. Maybe he was into her instead.
“Can I help you?” he said, a little loud. I realized I’d stared at the woman a moment too long and he was waiting for me to order. “Sorry,” I said, blinking a little. “A hot coffee and two maple cookies in separate sleeves, please.” He rang it up without a word, took my payment, and got to gathering my order. He gave me a side glance as he got the cookies and I gave a smile.
“You’re Dani, right?”
“Yes,” I said surprised. “How’d you know?”
He shrugged and I had to not look at the shifting of the muscles in his shoulders.
“I’ve seen you around,” he said simply.
“Can’t seem to leave,” I say with a nervous chuckle. He laughed a little at that and I waved goodbye. Safe, I thought. And next time I’d leave a tip.
I was feeling good about myself as I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the alluring smell of coffee wafting through the cold air. I pocketed one of the cookies for later and held the other in my hand with the coffee.
The door of the video rental opened with a lazy ding-dong sound and the girl at the counter welcomed me in before seeing me, then she became a little stiff as though she wished she could retract it. It was weird, being here. I used to come every day for work. I was good at it, I think. But now, I can’t work here. I don’t think this girl knows me, but judging by her reaction, maybe she does. Maybe I’d forgotten her face over the past couple of years and we used to work side by side. Such a weird thought. Someone you saw every day, slowly fading from memory. So one day maybe neither of you would recognize the other, and it was like those times never happened.
Sometimes I wish that would happen for Pat. Or for me. If Pat forgot me, we might have a chance to start over. If I forgot, then, well, maybe it just wouldn’t hurt to miss him.
I waved politely at the girl and she gave a small smile. Smite, I think. She’s already judging me, probably for my unfeminine looks. I look at the new arrivals for a moment, sipping the coffee, wishing I’d thought to put sugar in it. I wiped the plastic lid and decided I’d give Pat the coffee too. We’d shared enough germs over the years. A sip or two wouldn’t hurt him. I read the back of an action movie and put it down, noticing the girl was gone from the desk. At least she didn’t seem to distrust me with the merchandise like the old man. But, then again, I thought, there are no movies in the plastic cases. They’re all in the back, of course. That made me feel not as good about myself again. Why don’t people trust me? I think, sipping the coffee again and wiping the lid again with my sleeve. Pat trusted me, for a while. And it seemed like before Pat, more people trusted me. But after? It was the loneliest time of my life. Such small things break people’s trust.
“Dani?”
I turn to the sound of Pat’s voice. It’s him, all 5’8″ lean muscle hidden behind the blue polo. He looks unsurprised to see me, but his tone says differently. I smile gently and tuck my hair behind my ear in a late attempt at daintiness.
“Pat,” I sigh. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, without humor. “They’ve called the cops. You’ve got to leave.”
I furrow my brow in frustration and look down at the coffee. I hand it and a cookie to him. “I just wanted to do something nice for you,” I said. “Like old times.”
I saw his face soften the smallest bit. He looked just as he had the day we broke up, his harsh cheekbones and a narrow jaw that made his smile even more joyful when he laughed, the messy brown hair that seemed to have mysterious cowlicks I could never quite find, the scar above his right eyebrow where I…
My arms sagged with the coffee and cookie still in them. I noticed three workers watching from the counter unabashedly. They all know about me, I think. Even though I don’t know them, they all know me. A sort of rueful pleasure runs through me. It feels spiteful. Smite. Smite. Smite. And Pat? I see the reflection of police lights approaching in the glass. I won’t be able to see him again. Not until he forgets my face someday.
He’ll never forget my face.
I could splash the hot coffee on him. Scream at the employees, watching me like they’re so much better, like they’ve never lost something they love and went a little mad. Knock over the shelves, break the glass. None of that would be satisfying. I look at his face, darkened with embarrassment and anger. There are no more laughs for me. No more killing time or sharing stories. I feel a little hollow. There’s nothing there that I recognized anymore.
Smite.
