The Mare

Ginger

When I called her back, her mother put her brother on the phone again. He said, “She’s not here.” It was dark by then, so I said, “Where is she?” And he said, “I don’t know.” His voice wasn’t scared but almost high-spirited, as if he were delighted by some funny thing. He said, “My mom says Velvet’s going to live in a box on the street.” I said, “But she’s not doing that now, is she?” And he said, “Nooooo.” I said, “Then tell her to call me when she comes back, okay?”

I got off and felt how bad I wanted to sit outside in the cold and drink. I put on a jacket and a scarf. I poured myself some pomegranate juice, mixed it with lime, soda, and a ton of sugar. I went outside and drank it and thought of Michael.

We kissed with our whole mouths, but the feeling was delicate, too delicate for sex. He touched my face and we held each other. I sang a song to him, a nonsense song from when we were teenagers, and he looked it up online to see who it was by because I didn’t know. It was so gentle, like something young springing from inside age, smiling and sweet like I was never able to be in middle school, or high school, or when I knew this man nearly two decades ago; in that foolish moment, the hard glass of my girlhood became flesh as if for the first time.

Middle school; where Velvet was.