I’m at the happiest mall in America, in a food court place called Fields of Cheese. He is ordering the Goatherd. He says “everything...but onions.” I smile at him when he turns around. He’s way too skinny, like Scott, like every guy I look at now that I’m fishing in the sea for so many fish. Sometimes I get vertigo.
My shoes are written on. My friends do it drunk and I do it to their shoes too. He stares at them, and says he likes them. I say, “better ugly” and that opens things up. He starts yacking but all I can think about is what I heard on the news last night—a report about disease brought on by drought. Like invisible people, these disease atoms seize you and kill you while you are doing something like choosing a pizza and flirting. Maybe you never liked choosing anyway, maybe you wish somebody would do it for you, but you are not ready to die. Some people get into total denial, the news anchor said. Biting their split ends and pulling off the ones that feel broken. He didn’t say that, I just know.
Someone skinny like this needs a pillar to lean on, so I smile at him as much as I can without looking desperate. He looks pretty bad with pimpled planets lined up in varied sizes along his chin area. Scientists say that if humans just splashed sex hormones into each other’s faces, we’d heal and live like animals again. Our brains are depressed and taking too many meds just trying to hack into our spirits again. That was Scott, the police said. His brain was already ruined by the time we met him, and then his body. All the boys I like have little bits of Scott somewhere down inside them, but I have to search.
Skinny kid tells me he’s allergic to onions: white, purple, red, and pearl. He doesn’t answer my questions. Still, I’m all ears, over to his table. He blushes like a girl, and soon I’m saying things real soft. So is he—but his things aren’t as interesting—the usual. We’re whispering lizards, eating stringy cheese together. That is how things start I say to myself. His eyes follow my mouth, trace my lips. His symptoms are bad, but I won’t tell him. He’s not even knowing how much is wrong, every little thing that is and isn’t.
Meg Pokrass lives in San Francisco. Her stories and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming here: 3AM, Mud Luscious, Juked, Toronto Quarterly, Wigleaf, Elimae, FRiGG, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, Eclectica, The Rose & Thorn, 34th Parallel, Bent Pin Quarterly, The Orange Room, among others. Meg is also an editor for SmokeLong Quarterly. Links to her work and writing prompts can be found at megpokrass.com.