Brio. Spring 2020 // Flânerie Issue

/BREE-oh/, n ​ oun Vivacity, spirit, an individual energy.

The discipline of Comparative Literature is based on the assumption that the study of single texts and cultures is enriched by a knowledge of the texts and cultures surrounding them. It views literature from a broad and inclusive perspective in which philosophy, anthropology, history, language, and literary theory come together, and where the visual arts, theatre, and modern media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to embody those ideas.

Brio​ is a student-founded publication that combines literary criticism with fictive works and visual art. In an effort to represent the wide spectrum of discourses that serve as the foundation of comparative study, the journal accepts submissions from any source and in any language.

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/BREE-oh/, n ​ oun Vivacity, spirit, an individual energy.

The discipline of Comparative Literature is based on the assumption that the study of single texts and cultures is enriched by a knowledge of the texts and cultures surrounding them. It views literature from a broad and inclusive perspective in which philosophy, anthropology, history, language, and literary theory come together, and where the visual arts, theatre, and modern media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to embody those ideas.

Brio​ is a student-founded publication that combines literary criticism with fictive works and visual art. In an effort to represent the wide spectrum of discourses that serve as the foundation of comparative study, the journal accepts submissions from any source and in any language.

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Dear Brio. Readers,

flâ·ne·rie /ˌflän(ə)ˈrē/ noun, ​ see verb [fl​â​neur] 1. : to wander with no purpose 2. : strolling, idling, or wasting time

In creating the final draft of this Spring 2020 journal, it seemed almost impossible to do so without having the bleakness of these past months influence, surround, and live in these pages as well. Going through the motions of a new version of daily life in this unique time of uncertainty, fear, and overall boredom, it of course seemed important to maintain our course and publish this journal as is done every semester.

And so, as was excellently imagined by one of our editors, Trisha, we chose the title : Fl​â​nerie. For however our readers interpret the meaning of the word, and for those varying associations, it seemed the most symbolic of our current situation.

Rather than using this word with its common connotation for feelings of idleness or a lacking of purpose, I think it most fit to use it as in the interpretations of a few 19th-century writers. Sainte-Beuve wrote that it was the “very opposite of doing nothing”. Along with writers such as Honore de Balzac, Marcel Proust, Walter Benjamin, and more, we agreed that this interpretation of the inspiration that comes from spectatorship encapsulates this issue of Brio. as well as the paused and morphed version of the world we are living in right now.

Through the poems, languages, songs, stories, and everything included in this journal, we can see that the world of the artist and the observer are to persevere regardless of surrounding idleness, collective boredom, and even the unproductivity that lives in moments. We hope that our readers may enjoy this issue and explore the art of fl​â​nerie, whatever that may mean to you.

Happy Reading, Ava McLaughlin Editor-in-Chief

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Terms

by Ava Lulu Costanzo

“Maybe the trains have to run a bit worse till they can run better.”

The MTA’s inefficiency was considered small talk for the time. People bonded, made friends, a few babies were haphazardly created out of these conversations. There had been no thought to side with those in orange vests. By then it was too late for the babies, the conversations, friendships, they all wouldn’t last, they couldn't. Some found that others were the cause of track fires, throwing their trash onto the third rail.

Some of the babies made it, others were suctioned out with a high-speed vacuum or caught in plastic bags similar to the ones that were being used on the tracks. An effort to clean the debris. The conversations were altered in memories with Sean’s statement: “Maybe the trains have to run a bit worse till they can run better.”

“You know they have to take the time to get themselves together. No, yeah it’s shitty right now, but, like, I don’t know, maybe it’ll get better? I don’t know. It’s not like we’re going to stop using the subway, right?” The bow of his top left lip lifted to reveal a carnivorous tooth. A smile of sorts.

It was the silence that made him doubt himself, but the silence was thought; a trait Sean often forgot was part of comprehension. He found himself saying what he felt more than making sure he would feel that way a few hours later. This was how his last relationship came to an end. He had felt there was something off and after a week of feeling this way, while she was brushing her teeth, he told her it wasn't going to work.

He didn't expect that even with no preconceived thoughts he would feel regret. It hadn't felt right, a week should be long enough to tell. By 27, he should be able to tell in a week's time.

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He made the rounds visiting friends, looking for sympathy for his loss. Instead, he was met with confusion, “But, you guys seemed fine?” “If you’re happy with your choice… ”​ This was the first party in ten months he had attended without Miranda. His friends had liked her. The absence of her contribution to conversation and to the general atmosphere was felt. Some friends would wonder if that was why he was so quiet that evening, but the truth was Sean was never really outspoken. He was comfortable in sharing his opinions, but more so with those who were close in proximity and small in number. His friends quickly forgot how before, with Miranda, his contribution would often come out by way of her loud responses. A laugh that made everyone want to know what was funny. A strong opposition that would have others intrinsically pick a side.

On his seventh birthday feeling his dog lick his face for the first time Sean wanted to scream from joy, but he held it in for the protection of the small bones of the animal. Later, with the euphoria of cake, there was a release as he shrieked to the plastic-covered table with the other children. This was kind of like how Sean loved Miranda. Petting her forearm while sitting across from her out at dinner, or tight little pulses, like a heartbeat, while their fingers were intertwined. These were the type of things that Sean considered acceptable forms of endearment, able to be seen by the rest of the world. Outings were sprinkled with quick kisses. Miranda, like the women before her, accepted these signs of affection, not asking for more, but aware that there could.

But when he was drunk these light pettings turned heavy. It wasn’t that he lacked passion, but unlike his emotions, physical release was something that got tangled up in thought. When that same dog died he did not cry. Instead, he 4

simply said, “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” He felt very proud of himself, sixteen at the time, for coming up with such an eloquent sentence to express his hurt. Later there was guilt as if in doggy heaven his dog knew that no tears had been shed over his death. Wherever she was, Sean wondered if Miranda knew that no tears had been shed for her either. He hoped that she hadn’t, it would give off the wrong impression because frankly, he missed both her and that dog.

“You heading out?”

It was going on eleven. Sean was attempting to make an Irish exit from the party. He had left his coat and bag in the kitchen for this very reason. Planned to rinse out his beer bottles, recycle it like the good samaritan he saw himself as, take the leftovers from his six-pack home and be on his way.

But, when he opened the fridge there was no more beer. Sam walked in and saw a coated Sean peering into the fridge. They used to date. Short-lived. No lingering feelings. It was only a couple of dates. Though there always was a sentiment of deep caring that lingered between them. It ended with Sam saying “I don’t think this will make us happy, do you?” Sean was relieved that she was better at verbalizing this concern.

“Yeah, I was gonna get going.” Sean pushed his top lip down into his bottom, making the face of a bulldog. “You had one of my beers, right?”

“Yeah, I had one. You said it was fine. You doing okay?”

“No, yeah, it’s fine. I'm going to get going.”

They said goodbye. Which was caught by someone walking by and thus began a chain of goodbyes. By the time Sean left it was twenty past eleven, another beer had been drunk in the process.

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Her whole body leaned towards the subway pole. Her hands gripping it tightly. Speaking in a whisper so that it took Sean a few stops to decode the trajectory of the couple’s conversation. He figured it to be nothing less than erotic, but couldn’t grasp the details. Sean had first noticed the snacks. A bag of bugles, popcorn, and a red Gatorade, visible only where the items pressed against the translucent THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU plastic held by the man who wore salmon-colored shorts. The woman wore a jewel tone headscarf, wrapped tight and knotted at the centerline above her brow. As she spoke she swayed and bobbed her head like a docile cat and after every long strand of words unheard to Sean she let her face linger next to the man's, her mouth agape. At times he would fill that void. His lips, which smiled slightly as he listened, would entwine with her’s. When their lips pulled apart, the man’s grin returned perking up his left cheek more than the right, lopsided happiness. The woman would stagger as though she had forgotten she was in a moving train car. Her breath puffing her cheeks so that you could see the weight of her breath as if the whole thing had winded her. Though quiet neither did much to conceal their intoxication. The man’s weight rested greatly in his head, which leaned against the pole.

He was not as animated as the woman. His excitement showed through a firm pulsing grasp of the woman’s right forearm, which Sean was able to see through the reflection of the subway car window as they rushed through the dark tunnels.

When they exited the train Sean had the urge to leave with them. Wanting to keep his gaze and mind full of their unbashful want for each other. But he stayed. And then the train stalled. The conductor said it was being held momentarily by a train dispatcher which later turned into a single malfunction. Images of the couple entertained Sean as he sat and waited, but his imagination, hazy with drink, quickly 6

became bored with the unreal. No other person on the train told a good story. Just screens and casual conversations. Some attractive women.

“We’re going to need everyone to proceed to the back of the train and exit from the rear doors.” There was a collective groan, but everyone complied. What else were they going to do stuck in-between stations like that?

“Sean!” Sam was tilting her head out of a large muddy champagne minivan from across the street. “Oh good, it is you!

Want a ride?”

Sam and Sean lived a few blocks away from one another.

“I thought you’d be home by now.”

“Major train delay.”

“Ugh! The worst!” Sam was drunk.

“You’re not going to that guy’s place?”

“I was gonna, but then he said his girlfriend was gonna be there, so.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, but like, she seems crazy and it’s not like I’m trying to be in a relationship with him. He’s just like really hot.” Sam showed Sean this guy’s Instagram. Sean rubbed his jaw in response to the sharp cut of the man’s bone structure.

“It’s just like weird fucking in their bed.”

“Wait, they live together?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, this is why she’s crazy. She pretty much invited herself to live with him. And he doesn't even want to be in a relationship with her,” “Clearly.”

“Like he was gonna break up with her, but now she’s living with him. Isn't that wild!”

Sometimes Sean wondered how his friends were h ​ is friends. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if 7

something actually awful ever happened in their lives, would they react the same way they do to the petty drama that hovered above them?

Sam leaned in, her phone lighting up the back seat, “Have you seen those videos of sea urchins that look like vaginas?”

It took Sam twice as long as Sean to get out of the car.

Checking to make sure everything she entered in with was in its place, nothing left behind. Sam invited Sean up to her’s, but he passed knowing it would be more alcohol and weird internet videos.

In July, when the streets were crowded and the nights were warm, when the subways first began to act up, Miranda and Sean lied under the afternoon sun in the park by the Hudson. They had found a spot under a stubby tree that if they were to stand their heads would be in the foliage. They had both brought a top sheet. One was laid down to stop the grass from leaving imprints on thighs which would later itch.

The other was bunched up around Miranda’s feet, which even in the July heat were cold. Menial conversations filled the time.

How it felt to have growth spurts as children. Movie taglines.

When did movies start to use them? How biting the inside of your cheek was the worst. The tongue healed quickly, but the wet inner flesh of the cheek took time.

The sun softened towards Jersey, beating down on the couple if it weren't for the tree. Sean and Miranda’s bodies decomposed towards the ground. First, their spines hurt from sitting upright, legs fell asleep, arms ached from keeping the torso lifted until they dipped with the small rolls of the ground. The sheet that was wrapped around Miranda’s feet inched its way up and splayed over the couple. Miranda's arm 8

suspended upwards to tent the sheet over their heads. It was between these two sheets that Sean’s fingers traced the bodice of Miranda. Saliva transferred between their mouths, back and forth till there was a break, a breath, and this concoction was ingested.

There was no thought to the fact that they were outside.

What surrounded them were white and grey stripes above and a baby blue below. Sean could hear the bikes zipping by, but even the innocence of children walking along with their guardian felt shielded by the sheets. It wasn't till a sparrow ransacked a paper bag with half a sandwich in it by their heads, hearing the sound of its little beak ripping apart the paper, throwing the debris to the side, that Sean remembered where he was. Those children, those cyclists were all nearby even if Miranda’s eyes were soft with the words “it’s alright.” Sean could not tell if this unspoken statement was in reference to others being around or if she were speaking to something more innate in him. All at once the sheet above them became constricting to Sean. Small droplets of sweat had formed on the back of his neck and he said “it’s getting stuffy, yeah?” as he pushed his way out of the top sheet. Left Miranda blanketed as he stood up to let the grass peek through his toes and cool him.

When he looked down at her she had the sheet pulled down to her mid-chest, a wiry smile pushing through tight lips. He thought she was going to be upset, thought he saw her chest surge with a sigh, but all she said was, “Well, what do you want to do tonight?” her head resting in her hand.

“Ahhhh, I guess see what everyone’s up to.”

The months following this day were filled with Sean scrutinizing the things that Miranda did. He was unaware of his judgment. To him, they were things he had never noticed, little bits made visible through time. How she yawned like a lion, not trying to hide the shiny pink of her tonsils. The smell 9

of nail polish, which seemed to be out all of the time. That or the purple liquid that removed it. Or how she would crunch her toes right before painting them. How she reveled in the cracking of her joints. By the time the weather cooled down these traits accumulated into a figure that fogged the person Sean had first known to be Miranda. Then he left this Miranda, this foggy form, to dissipate with the steam of the shower. The smears a hand left removing the condensation from the bathroom mirror was the only way Sean saw the pink toothbrush, white foaming mouth, hurt eyes of Miranda, but even that was not taken in for long. He did not look at her as she left. She was just gone. Sean did not re-enter the bathroom until all the steam had evaporated. It was as easy as he hoped it would be.

If it weren’t for the neon orange form-fitting dress splayed against the black leather, black interior, black steel of the car, Sean would not have noticed her. Would have not slowed down as he walked to his building’s front door. Would not have seen where her arms stretched out towards. How her eyes remained closed while she spoke and listened to the man whose hand swayed over the outline of the orange-clad woman.

The man, like the car, was camouflaged; black slacks, black polo shirt, the texture of his dark hair matched the fuzzy carpeting in the car, like woolen astroturf. His arms created a stripe of black against her orange silhouette. The seats leaned back, angling their bodies so that their heads were weighed down by gravity so that words seemed to spill out making even a known fact look like a secret. Sean didn’t need to know their secrets, they wouldn't have been of interest to him. He didn’t even consider what it would be like to have a car like that, more expensive than anything he ever owned. It wasn’t even an attraction to the woman, but as he walked by he wished he was 10

in that cramped dark car with them, in the backseat breathing in the intimacy of it all.

Sean kept his coat on when entering his apartment.

There was no one there to ask if he was comfortable and thus make him uncomfortable with the fact that his coat was still on. He used the restroom in it. Slumped into his couch in it.

All the time growing warmer. Once he noticed the perspiration seeping through his shirt he found it was time to remove it. He left a small explosion of his clothing resting on the left arm of the couch.

He should have stayed longer at the party. It took him long enough to get home, he should have just stayed. He hadn’t really spoken to people. He had wanted to. Or he had wanted to before he got there. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone at all.

Why did everyone bring wine? Are people not drinking beer now or something? Oh shit! It was Christine’s birthday party.

Did I wish her a happy birthday on her birthday?​ Sean searched through his phone. No, he had not. He saw that he had also not responded to her last text from a month prior.

Sean wondered how his friends were h ​ is​ friends. He wondered what would happen if something actually awful ever happened in his life, would he react the same way he does to the petty drama that hovered above him? Then underneath the past conversations with Christine was Miranda. Still Miranda in Sean’s phone. He never deleted an ex’s number. He could never without their knowing single them out like that. He scrolled to the beginning and read through all their conversations until the end. “Well, then when won’t you be home so I can get my things? I’ll slip the key under the door once I’m done.”

He had sat in Sam’s apartment knowing a few blocks away Miranda was in his.

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“Well if it’s bothering you so much why don't you go over and talk to her?”

“What would I say?” “‘Hey, I fucked up.’”

“But I don't know if I did. Would we have worked out in the end?”

“Does that matter? I mean, yeah, you probably wouldn't have married her, but that's not the point.”

“Well, what is the point then? Cause I thought we were doing all this so we could find someone to die old with.”

“You know Rasha? Well, she has a friend, I’ve never met him, but Rasha told me he used to date with the idea that if the person wasn't his “person,” his wife, then he would end things.

But he realized he was doing himself a big disservice, actually, Rasha said he said he was doing himself and his future wife a big disservice by not dating these women.”

“Okay.”

“Because he wasn't taking the time to learn about who he was when he was in a relationship. So by the time he would meet his future wife maybe he'd be a shitty boyfriend who couldn’t keep her, let alone marry her.”

“You don't separate your laundry?”

“No, that would take forever.”

“Well, then how are you going to learn how to do your laundry when it comes time to do it properly.”

“Cause I'm going to marry someone rich so I won't have to do it. Or they can do it. Or I’ll be rich. I'll probably just keep using the sheet that makes it so the colored clothes don't bleed.”

Sam had the luxury of a washer and dryer in her apartment. It was in her Tinder profile. She said it was the thing that most people started conversations about. She also lived with four other people. This was not in her profile. Sean 12

was just glad that the couple wasn't home. He stayed there till everyone was back home, settled, making dinner. It was an unnecessarily long amount of time away from his apartment considering there were only a few things Miranda had left at his home.

“She's probably trying to see you.”

“No. Those were her favorite books that she lent me.”

Sean had expected a nasty note or something taken.

Some violent act. But the only things that were out of place were the empty spaces that had housed Miranda’s things.

There wasn’t even a lingering sense of resentment.

Slipped between the grey and white striped sheet set, Sean felt the comforter weighing down on him. This soon became secondary and the gentle weight was no longer comforting, just there. There was no one else there to watch the expansion and deflation of breath against the inside of his cheeks. The steam and knocking of the radiator echoed that his whispered secrets fell onto no one else’s ears. No soft looks telling him that it was all right. He ran himself tired with the thoughts of who wasn’t there, with who he had been to make that happen. His mouth interrupted his thoughts, just forming the shapes of the words as they came to him till his breath caught up telling himself that “maybe it all has to feel a bit worse till it can feel better.”

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cLaustrophobic b​ y Cindy ​Qiang, 16'' by 20'', Oil painting on canvas

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I Cipressi Calvi ​di Clara Hillis

Si afferma che gli alberi vecchi di cipresso calvo diventano cavi col tempo. Questo avviene mentre l’albero muore. L’esterno può sembrare sano e giovane, ma l’interno è eroso, deteriorato.

I giardini di Villa I Tatti sono stati accerchiati da quegli alberi, non della varietà calva, ma di quella italiana. Stavo in una nicchia immersa nel giardino, murata dalle siepi fitte. Ero venuta nella villa per un’intervista della Fellowship, qualcosa collegato al Rinascimento, un’opportunità prestigiosa, altamente competitiva…

L’intervista è stata dimenticabile. Ero certa di essere stata dimenticabile.

Ero certa di non ricevere la Fellowship. Ero convinta di non esser stata presente nella mia propria vita da mesi. Mi sentivo un cipresso calvo — marcia, vuota.

Il silenzio dei giardini mi ha consolato. Una forza invisibile mi aveva tirato là, mi aveva fatto vagare nei labirinti dietro la villa, nell’unico posto privo delle Fellowship, delle interviste, delle aspettative degli altri.

Ero così presa nella mia coltre di tedio che ho notato a stento la fragranza di bruciato. Dapprima, credevo di immaginarla. Che crudele scherzo della mente! Quanto erano spietate queste allucinazioni rompere questo raro attimo di tranquillità. Per un momento, il tedio è tornato. Poi ho visto le fiamme sfiorare il fogliame a meno di un centinaio di metri da me.

Il fumo vorticava sulla mia faccia, increspando la mia vista. Le colline da ogni lato dei giardini sono rimaste rigogliose, viventi. Da dove stavo nel centro del labirinto, la villa pareva parecchio remota, quell’edificio di uffici, conferenze, e documenti. Possedevo un’immobilità serena, come non mi ero mai sentita di prima. Per la prima volta nella mia vita, ero elettrizzata. Avrei lasciato tutto il giardino prendere fuoco. Non ne vedevo l’ora.

Si afferma che quando un cipresso calvo diviene cavo, dà l’opportunità a una specie nuova d’albero a crescere dentro del suo vuoto. Oppure, le creature dei boschi vengono a fare i loro nidi lì, in un rifugio solido e più vecchio di quanto si immagini. Pian piano, il cipresso riprenderà la sua pulsazione, e la promessa di vita animerà la corteccia di nuovo

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Bald Cypresses

by Clara Hillis

They say that old bald cypress trees grow hollow with time, as the tree dies. The outside appears healthy and young, but the inside is worn down and decayed.

The gardens of Villa I Tatti were surrounded by those trees, not bald, but Italian cypresses. I stood in an alcove set deep in the gardens, walled-in by hedges. I had come to the Villa to interview for a fellowship, something related to the Renaissance, a prestigious opportunity, highly competitive…

The interview had been forgettable. I​ h ​ ad been forgettable. I was sure I hadn’t gotten the fellowship. I was convinced that I hadn’t been present in my own life for months. I was a bald cypress – rotten, empty.

The silence of the gardens consoled me. An invisible force had pulled me there, had made me wander the labyrinths behind the Villa, the only place free of fellowships, of interviews, of the expectations of others.

I was so caught up in my pall of tedium that I barely noticed the scent of burning. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. What a cruel trick of the mind! How ruthless were these hallucinations, to break this rare tranquil moment? For a moment, the tedium returned. Then I saw the flames grazing the foliage not a hundred meters from me.

The smoke swirled in my face, rippling my sight. The hills on all sides of the garden remained lush and living. From where I stood in the center of the labyrinth, the Villa seemed so remote, that building of offices, conferences, and documents. I possessed a serene stillness, one I’d never felt before. For the first time in my life, I was electrified. I would let the whole garden burn. I was excited for it.

They say that when a bald cypress grows hollow, it gives a new kind of tree the chance to grow inside its hole. Or woodland creatures can make their nests there, in a solid refuge, one older than you could imagine. Slowly, the cypress regains its pulse, and the promise of life animates its bark once more.

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Ant in the Shower

by Karel Clark

I found a friend in the ant in my shower As hot water streamed down my back And I gaze outside the glass wall Letting

my

mind

drift

through my past My eye caught its

detecting antenna​, Its

bold speck of a figure Against the beige shower wall Its ​unknown defiance of liquid gravity Making me realize the tragedy That I will never be as u ​ nthinkably ​bold as the a ​ nt​in the shower.

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Croissant and Fortune Cookies ​by Cindy ​Qiang, 16'' by 20'', Acrylic painting on canvas

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Arthur

by Tim Brinkhof

“I am like the truth,” he said to himself, knowing there was nobody around to hear, “ugly and unwanted.”

As his feet shuffled over the cobblestones, which were wet and slippery from the rain, Arthur once again had the idea it was through these kinds of muffled conversations people had with themselves, in the early hours of the morning and under the influence of alcohol, that the art of philosophy must have been born.

On the one hand, he thought it difficult to believe that the key to heaven, the human soul and Plato’s world of forms was to be found in a tall glass of ale. On the other, he found it equally hard to deny the fact that his philosophical hunches had grown significantly since he first began drinking several years ago.

Coming up the decrepit stairwell of his building, he almost stepped on a rat. The scabby little thing would have been caught beneath his boot were it not already missing half its tail. Drawn forth by some invisible force, it wrung itself through a tiny crack in the plastered wall, and disappeared into nothingness.

Arthur quickly followed suit. Prying open the door, the metal frame of which screeched against the tiled floor, he retreated into his Spartan home. Spartan, for it was small even for a single inhabitant.

A rusty bed frame filled up most of the room, and what bit of space was left was taken up by a kitchen sink, a desk, and multiple piles of books, some of which were stacked all the way to the ceiling, and in the absence of light could easily be mistaken for actual people.

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The sight of such a place would have made any other person miserable, yet Arthur, upon stepping into his humble abode, could not help but smile.

“I was thinking we could leave Berlin this weekend, go up to the mountains. What do you think?”

“I think your breath smells awful.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I’ve brushed my teeth so many times my gums are bleeding, and if I have another mint I might throw up. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“You could try keeping your mouth shut.”

He closed his mouth and she began to kiss him on his neck, her lips slowly trailing upward to a sensitive spot behind the ear. Looking down at their naked bodies on the bed, Arthur realized that her beauty captivated him only half as much as his own ugliness did; his short, pale, pudgy body, covered in spots, pocks and moles, awkwardly grinded up against her smooth, slick skin.

“Helen, do you like me?”

Helen answered with her hand, which she shoved into his face in order to push him off of her. “Okay,” she exclaimed, “that’s enough for one day,” and got up.

Watching her trying to comb the knots out of her hair, he could not help but notice how much she and his mother were alike. Both were vain to the core, and belonged to that petty yet ever-growing class of people whose futile and frivolous pursuit of earthly beauty blinded them to a much higher one: the truth.

Before completely losing himself in thought, though, he could just perceive Helen carelessly scattering the contents of her powder box all over his desk.

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“Careful!” he cried, the instinct of self-preservation taking hold of him, and pounced onto her like a puma.

“Have some trust in me. I’m always cautious with your stuff.”

“This is not just ​stuff​, Helen,” he said, snatching his writings off the table and cradling them as though they were a newborn baby.

“Oh, my apologies,” she said, with false humility and reverence, “I meant your great gift to mankind.”

Much to her dismay he, busy reorganizing his papers, did not hear the remark. “What are you getting so dolled up for?” he asked, absentmindedly, staring down at the neatly-typed title decorating the topmost page: T ​ he World as Will​.

Helen smiled. “Why, for you of course.”

Arthur never laughed; he cackled. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?

But really, what is the occasion? Do you have a performance today?”

“No,” she said, straightening herself in her seat before declaring, deftly and ladylike, “Otto Urs is going to paint me.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow.

“He promised last night.” Smiling, she turned to catch the look on his face, but, much to her displeasure, it was still buried in the papers. “Actually,” she added, after a pause, “he made me promise, told me I had the features of Eros. You know, the incarnation of love itself. Why are you sneering? Do you not believe me?”

“Oh, no,” he cackled. “I believe you, alright.”

Pouting, Helen turned away from him. “Well, I don’t care either way. You don’t know the first thing about love.”

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“And Otto doesn’t know the first thing about Greek mythology, or he would have known that Eros is a male,” he said, removing a fake tear with his finger. “But now that you said it, I a ​ m​ struck by the similarities!” He cackled on, malevolently, but his cackle soon receded way back into his throat; the way she pronounced Otto’s name did not sit well with him. “Do you actually think he is a good painter?” he inquired, seriously.

“Don’t ask me,” Helen replied, knowing he despised the man, the way he despised a good many people. “Ask Berlin.”

“If I were to ask Berlin I might get lynched. I’m asking you.”

“Well,” she started, in a very different, steady tone of voice, “his color palette is most pleasing to the eye and his use of light and shadow are quite revolutionary. But the real beauty of his work lies in his simplicity. With a single stroke does what other painters do with a hundred. And with the plainest of scenes, a look, a touch, a smile, he shows us the whole world, and more.”

Taking his jaws apart, which had been clenched together throughout the time that Helen spoke, he told her, “In your own words, please, if I wanted to hear my mother talk to me about art, I would lie down and wait for a nightmare to come claim me.”

Helen groaned. “Why do I have to tell you in my own words? I’m not a writer. Your mother communicates the feelings inside of me better than I ever could.” She then asked him, quickly, thus leaving him no time to respond to her previous remark, if he could pass her cigarettes.

“Where are they?”

“In my coat.”

Watching his naked body slide across the bed, she added, “Would you like me to put in a good word with your mother?”

22

“Don’t bother.” He almost interrupted her. “She’s dead to me, so I might as well be dead to her, too. I can’t find them.”

“The left pocket. On the inside.”

Arthur pulled out something, but it wasn't cigarettes.

“What is ​this​?” From the tone of his voice, you’d almost think he found a severed head.

“What is what?” Helen asked, rather nonchalantly.

His trembling fingers pressed against the hardcover of a fancy manuscript, coated in red linen, adorned with an elegant golden imprint that read, ​A Lady Travels: Journeys in England and Scotland, From the Diaries of Johanna Schopenhauer​.

“Oh, Christ.” (She’d forgotten about the book).

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, waving it around like it was on fire.

“Where do you think? Your mother gave it to me.”

“But you haven’t read it, have you?” He pronounced the word ​read as though the verb denoted some sacrilegious act.

“Of course I have! What else was I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” he yelled, his big, balding head growing redder and redder with the second. “Burn it, dump it into a canal, feed it to a bunch of goats—anything but r​ ead​ it!”

“Who are you, a member of the inquisition?” Helen yelled in return.

“I do not know why you’re making such a big deal out of this; it’s a good book. It’s a very good book, in fact.” She folded her arms to solidify her statement and then engaged him in a staring contest. She would have won, too, were it not for the unappetizing bits of foam 23

that started dripping down the corners of his mouth. “Okay, fine,” she said, unfolding her arms again. “It’s not a very good book… But I won’t tell her that.”

“Because you’re trying to curry favor with her,” he lashed out at her.

“Because she’s my friend,” she lashed back at him.

“Because you want her to set you up with Otto.”

“Because that’s what friends do.”

“Oh, Helen—poor, ignorant, misguided little Helen—you are everything that is wrong with this world!” he flung his hands up to the plastered ceiling in a faint search for God. “Tell me, what’s more important: being nice to someone, or telling them the truth?”

Helen clicked her tongue the way she always did when she no longer saw any use in debating him, not because she believed his argument to be infallible, but simply because she thought he was being facetious.

Only a few things in the world annoyed Arthur as profoundly as that click of the tongue. “Answer me, Helen.”

“I really don’t see the—” “Will you read what I wrote, too, then?” he said, shoving T ​ he World as Will ​into her face which Helen, almost instinctively, waved it away like a glass of spoiled milk.

“I cannot believe you!”

“I promise I’ll read it,” she said in a half-baked attempt to console him, “just not now. I—I have to get ready for Otto.”

“Sure, Otto…”

24

Every time a silence came to hang over them, it stayed around just a little longer than the one that preceded it.

“What did she say after I left?” he asked at last, in a defeated voice.

“You mean last Friday?”

“Yes.” “That she would not be taking alms from you like a beggar.”

“Of course that’s what she said. Would you listen to her? The best-selling women’s author in all of Germany—the old crone is completely hysterical!”

“You’re not being fair.”

“I only said I would give her the money necessary for basic provisions, bread and water, but no more than that.”

“And that’s exactly what she meant when she said she would not take alms. You cannot expect a human being to live off bread and water alone.”

“And why not? I myself have been doing it for years, and get along just fine.” “‘Fine’ isn’t the word I would use,” she said to herself.

“Well, it’s not my fault you two are spoiled to the bone,” he retorted, hugging himself. “I should have known. She wouldn’t allow me this victory unless she gained something from it herself.”

“Arthur, I don’t understand,” Helen said, leaning over to roll up her stockings. “What does your mother want your money for in the first place? Her estate is enormous. The food, the amusement, it’s the stuff of nobles.”

25

Arthur smiled a sinister smile. “And who do you think pays for all of it? A salon, my dear, is nothing but a glorified tavern. All people do there is drink and talk nonsense, and that is why I normally stay away from them.”

“Well, you know what?” Helen exclaimed as she threw on the rest of her undergarments, minding not to let them touch her face, “I like them.” Then she added, in such a way as though simply believing it made it so, “And I like your mother. And I think Otto has an absolute gift for painting. I could watch him work for days and just—” “Oh!” he shouted, lost in his own head, oblivious to the world around him, which included Helen. “They claim to be enlightened Epicureans, but they’re nothing but degenerate hedonists! The exaggerated hugging, the insincere compliments, the meaningless small-talk and repetitive chit-chat, so much precious time wasted.

And they have the nerve to call it high culture!”

“But why does your mother need your money?” she reminded him.

“Right,” he said, returning from the world within his mind to the real one, and he cleared his throat. “While salons are costly, they’re not very lucrative. My mother wants to provide the finest of the finest in order to attract the best of the best. And so she wastes her share of my father’s fortune to play musical chairs with Goethe and Schelling and whoever else happens to be in fashion. And now that her creditors are closing in on her, she wants m ​ e​ to become the latest sponsor of her abominable escapades, and give her my share of the inheritance, which I have handled respectfully and responsibly, so she can continue to desecrate my father’s corpse? If I believed in hell, I would send her there.” By the end of it, he was red like a lobster, bits of foam dripping down his chin.

Helen shook her head. “Just a mother and her son, yet you quarrel enough for a family of fifteen,” she observed, handing him a towel.

26

Arthur shook his head as well, but in an opposite direction. “More often than not, it’s the smaller families that quarrel the most,” he said, wiping the foam off his face. “When two people are confined into small spaces together, they slowly grow into each other’s opposites.”

This time it was Helen who laughed, and the sound, which was both rare and deadly, made Arthur perch his ears like a little rabbit listening for an approaching fox.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked.

“It’s just—” Helen giggled, “I just realized how you and your mother are alike.”

“You’re delusional,” he said, waving her away like a glass of spoiled milk (or fresh milk, since he only drank water).

“She might be wasteful, and you’re stingy.”

“I’m not stingy,” he objected, “I just consider many things in life to be unnecessary luxuries.”

“And she might be social, and you’re somewhat of a hermit.”

“So remind me how we are like reflections in a mirror, would you?”

“Because you both think you’re the smartest people on this planet.”

Having reduced him to silence, Helen put on the rest of her clothes quickly.

Just when she was ready to leave, Arthur held out T ​ he World as Will​ once more. “Could you please read something? Just a tiny bit.

Anything.”

She hesitated. “Okay. But you read it to me, while I have my cigarette.”

27

He read to her while she smoked, and from the animated way in which he spoke, she got the impression he had read it aloud to himself many times before: “As I was walking down the beach, I came across a field covered with skeletons, the skeletons of large turtles, in fact, five foot long and three foot broad. As I observed them, a group of live turtles emerged from the sea. But as they crept onto the beach to lay their eggs, a pack of wild, starving dogs appeared at the top of the dunes.

They rushed at the turtles, lay them on their backs, tore open their unarmored bellies, and began to devour them alive. The cacophony of cries attracted a tiger, which began to attack the dogs, biting off their heads. I looked at this carnage, and at the skeletons, and in my mind I imagined this whole thing repeated thousands and thousands of times over, year in year out, and I thought to myself: is it for this that these little turtles are to be born? What offence could they possible have committed, while still in their mothers’ wombs, to deserve this punishment?”

By the time he was finished Helen, ash spilling on her skirt, stared at his naked self in shock and awe. “What was that supposed to be?” she asked.

“A new passage I added to the book,” Arthur said, ever so lightly.

“It’s an anecdote, a story that tells the idea rather than explains it.

Do you like it?”

“No, it’s awful!”

“Why?” “Why do you think?” she put out her cigarette and wiped its residue off her lap. “Because it’s grotesque!”

“But do you get the point?”

“What is wrong with you?”

28

“Some of Otto’s work is grotesque as well, yet you adore that!”

“Otto’s work is different.” She made for the door, but Arthur got up to block her way.

“And why would that be?”

“Because it has a point! This—” she pulled the pages out of his hands and waved them around in front of his face—“does not. This is just pointless suffering.”

“But that is the point!” Arthur clarified, angry and happy at the same time. “The point is that there is no point. The point is that life is pointless suffering!”

“Well, what a point that is!” Helen shouted, and threw the pages up into the air.

Shrieking, Arthur left his post at once and began dancing around the room in a frantic effort to collect his words.

“You know,” she told him as the watched his performance, “if marriage is as awful and boring as you always say it is—if I really have to spend hundreds and hundreds of nights in a dark, tiny bedroom—then the least I could ask for is a husband who writes funny or uplifting stories that make me want to smile, not shoot myself!” She then grabbed her purse and yanked open the door.

“And besides,” she added, “your story doesn’t make any sense. Who has ever seen a tiger at the beach?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and left.

The last page had slid under the bed. Arthur, still fully naked, dropped down on his knees and extended his arm, but couldn’t reach it.

29

Puzzled Man ​by Cindy ​Qiang, 20” by 24”', Ink on Paper

30

Dans les yeux de ma mère par Alexia Leclercq

Ma mère m'a murmuré «eres un girasol» Mon père voyait que j'étais jaune Il attendait que mes pétales fleurissent Mais il a été aveuglé par les rayons du soleil Incapable de voir à travers l'illusion Mon père n’a jamais vu mes larmes pendant la nuit J'avais des feuilles fanées et des tiges meurtries J'étais incapable de grandir J'avais suivi mes envies Et ils m'ont traîné dans la terre Girasoles ciegos Girasoles muertos J'ai passé un million d'années À la recherche d'autres tournesols Ils murmuraient «je t'aime» Et je pourrais me perdre dans leurs pétales J'ai passé un million d'années Creuser dans la terre en colère Envie de lui trouver Lui il ne se fanerait pas à ma vue J'ai passé un million d'années à me demander pourquoi Ma touche douce meurtri leurs cœurs fragiles Et je les ai transformé en plantes carnivores Qui me mords J'ai passé un million d'années À la recherche Sans réaliser Que mon coeur était plein de semillas de girasoles 31

In My Mother’s Eyes

by Alexia Leclercq

My mother whispered “you’re a sunflower” My father only saw that I was yellow He waited for my petals to flourish But was blinded by the sunlight Unable to see through the illusion Father never saw my tears at night My leaves wilted and stem bruised Unable to grow I had followed my urges And they lured me into the dirt Blind sunflowers Dead sunflowers I've spent a million years Searching The sunflowers would whisper “I love you” I would lose myself within their petals I've spent a million years Digging Through the angry dirt Wanting to find him He would not wilt upon my sight I've spent a million years wondering why My soft touch bruised their fragile hearts And turned them into carnivorous plants That bite I've spent a million years Searching Without realizing My heart was full of sunflower seeds 32

The Neighborhood School

by Karel Clark

Sunlight streams through five large windows, illuminating children squirming in their criss-cross applesauce positions on a multicolored carpet. Some of them rock from side to side, some fight with one another, and all of them make some kind of noise that creates one outburst of child-blabber.

Their teacher sits on a wooden chair in front of them.

He darts his head and his pigtail bobs to the left. “George! Stop that!” His voice rises above the sea of jabber.

“Billy, get up and get in line!” His pigtail bobs to the right and his pointer finger jabs the air in the direction of the classroom door.

One by one, the teacher calls a student's name, and they gather at the classroom door. Some are mesmerized by a corner of the classroom that contains a bunny as big as its cage. They squeal and wave as the bunny stares off into space, occasionally twitching its ears.

Their teacher marches to the front of the door, squarely facing his children.

“Shhh Shhh Shhh” The teacher loudly shushes. “Shhh Shhh Shhh” the kids mimic, sounding like water rushing from a faucet.

“Mmmm mmmm mmmm” The teacher hums in the same pattern as he shushed. “Mmmm mmmm mmmm” The students imitate, pressing their lips together. “Mmmm mmmm mmmm” The teacher’s voice and his students’ voice merge into one.

The teacher leads his class, now a low-pitched swarm of humming, through the door as they disappear down the hallway and their buzzing gently fades to silence.

33

Corona Park

by Rebecca Karpen

We played with kinetic sand As we were hiding from the snow.

You stayed right by my side 'Til my mom drove me home.

It doesn’t feel Like it was more than 6 years ago.

I sat back with my head high, My smile far too wide, And I don’t think I’d ever loved anyone As much as I loved you, In the gift shop, When you said that I was cool.

We’re talking again now.

I’m happy we’re friends But Corona Park Was one of the best days of my life And I’ll believe that until The end.

I was singing “Fearless” As I skipped in my blue dress Along the stained glass windows Of the great hall that was always closed.

My dad sang his apologies And I cried at the first time he had ever said, “I’m sorry.”

Justin said I looked like a fairytale And I took all the plastic fish.

I didn’t get to eat my cake 34

But I think that was fine.

We lost about an hour When we thought we’d misplaced Dylan Klein.

My sister and I were on the Jumbotron, Thousands of people Saw our faces on the screen.

My mother laughed And I guess I did too, They blasted Natasha Bedingfield And she got booed.

I guess they’d never had a pocket Full of sunshine in their lives.

My mother streaked to the sky, Rode a capsule in '65 And lay under the Tent of Tomorrow In the center of the center of the world.

She saw flying cars And underwater fathers, She held her mother’s hand As they trudged through grasses That arose from the ashes of a wasteland.

And Corona Park might’ve been the best day of her life.

Corona Park waved me home, The first outstretched hands After Berlin flown.

Corona Park held hands I know, I kissed the ground, A holy home.

We played with kinetic sand 35

As we were hiding from the snow.

You stayed right by my side 'Til my mom drove me home.

It doesn’t feel Like it was more than 6 years ago.

I sat back with my head high, My smile far too wide, And I don’t think I’d ever loved anyone As much as I loved you, In the gift shop, When you said that I was cool.

We’re talking again now.

I’m happy we’re friends But Corona Park Was one of the best days of my life And I’ll believe that until The end.

36

In Need of Citrine

by Karel Clark

I can feel my fingers getting colder, the blood draining to preserve my heart That’s when I know that my thoughts have started started to overwhelm I can no longer do my part of controlling the pounding in my left breast that threatens Threatens to expose my smile that is too big and twitching at the corners with all my teeth showing This is torture this is not normal this is that wretched beast that I try to push back into its corner that I thought I had control over and had been dormant for weeks but you are invisible like air so I think you’re not there but then you whirl inside of me like the wind on the street that stirs the leaves but reaches me and picks up my hair and drags me everywhere get a grip on yourself I am in control I am in control but the storm still blows and I am crouched in the corner crouching shaking sweating switching places with the beast And she does her part she twirls her baton she enchants the audience with a wave of her palm she casts a spell she bows her head she closes the curtain she bids farewell she

37

Glass Jar ​by Cindy Qiang

16'' by 20'', Oil painting on canvas

38

The Wait

by Tyiana Combs

“Okay, can you set the timer for five minutes?”

Roman nervously asked Hayden as she went to take a seat on the floor. For reasons unknown, she had always found the floor to be the most comforting spot in her times of distress. And in that moment, more than ever before, she desperately needed the cold embrace of the bathroom floor to calm her nerves as she waited for the longest five minutes of her life to pass.

“Five minutes. Got it. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Hayden responded.

Lost in her head, Roman had almost forgotten that she wasn't alone in the small room, but suddenly she was snapped back to reality. The floor, and all its chilled, comforting glory, wouldn’t save her this time. But she didn’t want to think about that, let alone talk about that, until she was absolutely forced to. And she wouldn’t be forced to until those five minutes were up.

“If I’m being honest,” Roman answered, “I’d rather not.

Can you put on some music? I need a distraction.”

“No problem. If a DJ is what you need, then a DJ is what I’ll be,” replied Hayden with a smile that showed off his too perfect teeth.

Time Remaining: 5 minutes​- Now Playing: F ​ reak in You ​by PARTYNEXTDOOR “So pretty, girl, you belong in a gallery… What's your fantasy?”

Hayden was a horrible DJ. But at least he was a really sweet boy. Which, come to think of it, was probably what attracted Roman to him in the first place. That was a lie. What attracted her to him were his 39

lips. Full and firm and pink and perfectly contrasting to his sharp bone structure, which sort of made him look like Handsome Squidward whenever she looked at him for too long. So she tried her best to limit the amount of time she spent actually looking at his face. She didn’t even make eye contact during most of their interactions, especially the intimate ones.

She also didn’t make eye contact as she asked him to skip that particular song, even though out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him nodding along to the lyrics. But Hayden, because he was a really sweet boy, did as she asked.

Time Remaining: 4 minutes 28 seconds​- Now Playing: Poetic Justice ​by Kendrick Lamar, Drake “You can get it, you can get it. You can get it, you can get it. And I know just, know just, know just, know just, know just what you want.”

Granted, her standards had never been particularly high. Roman had the bad habit of falling for guys that fell for other girls. Yes, she had come to terms with the fact that she might never be the ideal woman, with her skin a little too dark and her curves a little too straight for the standards of the present day. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t tried to fit in.

Like how in the past Roman had tried to dumb it down to be the average girl next door, despite her GPA being higher than those of the guys she wanted to impress. Or how she’d spent hours listening to the favorite musicians of a guy who wouldn’t even go on a 30-minute date with her. How she’d lost herself multiple times trying to find love from boys and made the feminist in her want to kill them both. And apparently when she’d finally been given the attention she so desperately wanted, craved even, this is where she ended up. Sitting on a cold bathroom floor in the middle of the night having her 40

existential crisis narrated while she waited for a pregnancy test with Handsome Squidward.

“Can you play the next song?” Roman asked.

Time Remaining: 3 minutes 56 seconds​- Now Playing: Zaddy b ​ y Ty $ Sign “She keep on callin' me zaddy. She keep on callin' me zaddy.

She keep on callin' me zaddy.”

No offense to the genius Ty $ Sign, but the last thing she needed to think about at the moment was a zaddy or a daddy or a father figure in general. In all honesty, Roman placed a lot of the blame for her current predicament on her own father. Some serious damage had been done when the first man who was supposed to love her decided to decline the offer.

And twenty-one years later, her dumbass was still trying to pull herself from that wreckage. Because his decision and subsequent rejection had led her to search for missing love in places she knew it wouldn’t exist. And somehow that search had led her to the bathroom floor.

“Next song.”

Time Remaining: 3 minutes 34 seconds​- Now Playing: Sexplaylist ​by Omarion “Girl you don't have to say shit. Girl you know why I played this. Girl this is the sex playlist.”

It was becoming increasingly harder for Roman to overanalyze the mistakes of her past with these particular song selections.

“Hayden, please tell me this isn’t your sex playlist.”

Roman said, breaking the silence that had been lingering between them.

41

“I’m sorry,” Hayden began, “but you asked for music and this was the first thing that came to mind. It’s the usual go-to and I don’t happen to have a playlist curated for this specific occasion.”

Hayden was a horrible DJ. But he was right in saying that this was the usual go-to and Roman guessed that's why they were in this situation in the first place.

Time Remaining: 2 minutes 56 seconds​- Now Playing: Neighbors Know My Name ​by Trey Songz “Sometimes she call me Trey, sometimes she say Tremaine.

When it's all said and done bet the neighbors know my name.

Sometimes she call me Trigga cause I make her body bust. They might think my name is ‘oh shh’ I make her cuss.”

Well, this song wasn’t much better. But it made her think, what would she even name this thing? Technically speaking, Roman was still hoping that this thing wasn’t actually a thing but, if it was, it would need to be called something other than a t​ hing​. It’s not like she ever planned to reproduce. Having heard her mother recount time after time how painful childbirth was, Roman decided it wasn't an experience she wanted. But she guessed names were something to be considered now. To at least kill time, if nothing else.

Deep, deep down in a part of herself she didn’t like to explore often, she had always loved the name Nathaniel. It was strong, employable, and she could tell the t​ hing​ that it was named after Nat Turner. Being named after the leader of one of the most famous slave revolts in history seemed pretty badass. Roman also liked the name Hampton, like Fred Hampton, as in Black Panther Party homage. Both were better options than Stormi. But that’s what happens when a 42

20-year-old has a baby. Roman was 21 and much wiser when it came to naming.

Time Remaining: 2 minutes 08 seconds​- Now Playing: D ​ eja Vu ​by Post Malone, Justin Bieber “And you can drop your panties. Leave them shits at the door.

Dior falls on the floor. I swear we been here before.”

Post Malone on his playlist? Disappointing. Well, at least this was all settled now. If Hayden didn’t skip that song without her having to tell him to, Roman would be getting an abortion.

“Oh wait, I thought I took that one off. Next,” Hayden blurted suddenly, as if reading her mind.

Time Remaining: 2 minutes 05 seconds -​Now Playing: ​Drip

by Luke James, A$AP Ferg “Never never never be afraid of the shit that you're going through. Don't underestimate your ability to push through.

Deal with your emotion (oooh).”

Never mind. Guess she was back to square one. Wait, what if he could read her mind and he’d heard every thought that had gone through her head? She wouldn’t be able to relax and would continue internally panicking until she had an answer. So she stared at Hayden’s Squidward-like profile so intensely that he turned to face her. She was thinking of the number 4.

“Hayden, what number am I thinking of?” Roman asked hesitantly.

“1,831?” He guessed with a confused shrug.

Okay, maybe he wasn’t psychic. Maybe she was just a paranoid, possibly pregnant freak that needed to calm down.

43

And even though it was pretty clear he hadn’t heard what she thought a minute ago, Roman still felt the need to apologize directly to Kylie Jenner… in her head. Because from what she saw on Instagram, even though it admittedly was a curated highlight reel of life and devoid of all the realness of reality, Kylie seemed like a pretty okay mom. Actually, she seemed like a great mom. Her daughter, Stormi, was walking and talking and getting Chanel purses as birthday gifts. Kylie appeared pretty hands-on as a parent. Roman didn’t know if she’d even want to touch her offspring that often. She’d never changed a diaper before in her life — a fact she was oddly proud of. She often got irritated when kids asked her questions that could easily be Googled and she knew these modern-day kids knew how to Google.

When she played house as a kid, Roman never had the desire to be the mom. She preferred to play the bougie aunt that drifted in and out of town but always came bearing the best gifts for holidays and birthdays to compensate for her absences, easily upstaging everyone. But Roman was an only child, so that idea was out the window and the money she would’ve spent on those gifts got to stay in her account. Which was good considering she was barely old enough to drink, yet somehow already thousands of dollars in debt thanks to student loans, predatory lenders, and a shit economy. How was she even supposed to afford a kid and balance a course load?

But aside from the obvious logistics, Roman was just scared.

She knew that she’d never be as good a mom to anyone as her mom had been to her. With an Aquarius sun and a Gemini moon, Roman could truly be a bitch sometimes — selfish and standoffish with a strong tendency to ghost. She assumed ghosting a child would be frowned upon. And with abandonment issues from her Libra father, which she still hadn’t completely acknowledged let alone worked through, 44

Roman didn’t know what she’d be like as a parent. She could see herself being too protective as easily as she could see herself letting the little thing play with fire. She could see herself being too closed off just as easily as she could see herself unloading way too much. She could see herself wanting to shape the perfect human and stifling it as a result just as easily as she could see herself just letting the universe have its way in the upbringing. The one thing she couldn’t see herself as was being enough.

Time Remaining: 1 minute 08 seconds​- Now Playing: ​Yeah Yeah b ​ y Jaden Smith “You know you're gonna wake up faded, girl. All these thoughts 'bout you being naked, girl. This is no relationship, we're just relating, girl.”

She’d been thinking so much of herself that she hadn’t even really thought of Hayden. In fact, she probably only thought of him just then because his name, Hayden, rhymed with the name Jaden, whose song was playing and she was slightly satisfied that he was on this playlist. Roman didn’t even know what Hayden would want in this situation. Hell, she didn’t even know Hayden’s middle name or his shoe size or his aspirations in life besides graduating from Wharton and honestly, she was beginning to feel like those were all things she should know if he’d possibly impregnated her. Well, at least she knew he was a fast runner since he’d made it to the pharmacy right before it closed once they decided to finally take a test. In Roman’s defense, she just hadn’t had time to learn much about Hayden or discuss those trivial matters with him. They didn’t discuss, or even talk, much in general. Either he would send a text or she would send a text and they’d get in, get off, and get out. But really, she didn’t want to know those 45

things about him. She was slowly starting to realize that maybe she didn’t want a relationship, or what a relationship came with, as much as she once thought she did. And she definitely didn’t want what was possibly in her body and maybe she was terrible for thinking that, but if the narration in her own head couldn’t be honest, then what could?

“Hayden,” Roman began, “let’s just say that hypothetically I am pregnant. What would you want to do?”

She turned her head slightly to the side and saw him rubbing his hand along his non-existent beard in what must have been his attempt at contemplation.

“To be honest, I don’t really know,” he finally responded. “I mean, I definitely wasn’t planning on having kids anytime soon, but we can adjust. I have a pretty good internship. And a trust fund. And I’m sure my frat brothers wouldn’t mind a baby staying in the house. It could even be like our mascot or something! We could get little onesies with our letters on it and everything! That’d be really cute actually...”

As Roman listened to the delusion spilling from Hayden’s mouth and with a glint sparking in his eyes, she couldn’t help but think that maybe she should have done this alone. Taken a test solo in her dorm and then told Hayden all was well even if it wasn’t — handled this how she wanted to handle it if it needed to be handled. And her handling definitely would not have included fraternity onesies or baby mascots. Hindsight was 20/20.

“Next song please,” was her only response.

Time Remaining: 45 seconds​- Now Playing: N ​ o Guidance b ​y Drake, Chris Brown

46

“Six God talk but I ain't tryna get preachy (no, no, no). I seen how you did homeboy, please take it easier on me. 'Cause I don't wanna (no) play no games, play no games.”

Roman wished it was Drake who had gotten her pregnant. It was supposed to be Drake who got her pregnant.

That was the plan. Earlier that year she had entered a competition for her and a friend to meet Drake. The idea was that she’d win and they’d get flown out. After spending the day with Drake, where her charm would be at an all-time high, they’d all have dinner and she’d say something incredibly witty that’d really win him over. So when he walked them to their rooms for the night, he’d walk past his own suite and follow Roman to hers like Fitz did with Olivia in that one episode of Scandal. ​And since Drake didn’t believe in using condoms if the vibe was right, and Roman would make sure the vibe was right, all the pieces would fall together and secure her work-free future. She’d meet Sophie and Adonis, Drake’s first baby mother and their son, and all together they’d be the modern blended family. The Will and Jada for Black millennials. The Barack and Michelle with fewer credentials; less White House, more trap house. ​ESSENCE m ​ agazine would get first photos from their wedding and Roman would end up on a future little Black girl’s vision board. She really didn’t know where she went wrong.

“Next.”

Time Remaining: 22 seconds​- Now Playing: G ​ od is Fair, Sexy Nasty b ​ y Mac Miller “Your divinity has turned me into a sinner. God is fair (pleasure, pleasure).”

47

God! Prayer! Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier?

Roman silently began praying to herself.

Lord, she thought, if you can get me out of this situation, I promise I will not under any circumstances open up my legs for another man unless he’s my husband. Unless of course that guy from my History of the Roman Empire class tries to talk to me because in that case I’d have to do it. Same goes for Drake and Reece King because who wouldn’t have sex with Drake or Reece King — like I’m sure even you would. I’m sorry, I’m getting distracted but the point is that if you can fix this, I will be on my best behavior. I promise. Amen.

Okay. She felt good now. She felt better.

“Time’s up.”​ H ​ ayden told her.

She felt like she was gonna be sick. And in this particular situation, she didn’t think that was a good sign.

“Okay, cool. Great.” Roman rambled nervously. “But before we look, I just want to say that whatever happens, we’ll be fine. Hopefully I’m fetus-free and nothing will happen but if it does, we can just… decide from there.”

“Wow, you actually seem kinda calm about this,” replied Hayden. “I’ve lowkey been freaking out on the inside these past couple of minutes, but it’s really nice to know at least one of us isn’t on the verge of a meltdown.”

“Yeah, I’m our rock I guess. Surprisingly not freaking out internally at all.” Roman lied. “But I do have one request.

You have to look at the test first. I’m not completely ready to know the fate of my future just yet. I just need a couple more seconds of ignorance.”

“Of course.”​ ​Hayden told her as he stood up and walked over to the counter. Somehow his walk across the white tile floor felt longer than the entire five minutes they had been waiting. This was it. Why was her heart beating so fast? Was 48

she about to have a heart attack? Did that happen this young?

That would be so unfortunate because— “Shit. You’re pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Shit. She was pregnant. She needed a drink. Wait, she wasn’t allowed to do that anymore. But that wasn’t fair.

Wasn’t the mom supposed to be stress-free while pregnant?

And Roman’s go-to stress reliever was usually a glass of wine.

Sometimes a bottle if the occasion called for it and this occasion was screaming. And self-care was important, Roman determined, so she decided her night was going to end with her cradling a bottle of Moscato one last time before she was forced to cradle a child. She was sure moms in the 1970s and 1980s did it and their kids turned out fine, right? Millennials were… actually maybe she shouldn’t— “There’s a line here clear as day.” Hayden called from the counter to where Roman remained stunned on the floor.

Wait.

“A line? As in one line? Like a singular line?” she asked him.

“Yup. Right here.”​ H ​ ayden sighed as he tossed her the test.

Despite all his excitement over custom onesies a minute ago, Roman thought that she had never before seen Hayden look so pale as she finally and fully made eye contact with him.

She was even tempted to leave him in misery for another minute or two, but she didn’t think she’d be able to hold in her joyous laughter for that much longer.

Hayden was a horrible DJ. But he was a really sweet boy.

And apparently, he sucked at reading pregnancy tests.

49

The Spring 2020 issue of Brio. Literary Journal was edited by:

Ava McLaughlin​ ​is a junior majoring in Comparative

Literature with a minor in Film Production. She enjoys writing fiction but never poetry. She is the Editor - in - Chief of Brio.

Laurel Martin ​is a​ senior in History & Anthropology with

minors in French and Art History. She admins a meme page on Facebook.

Trisha Gupta ​is a junior in English & American Literature

with a minor in Chemistry, on the Pre-Health track. She loved studying abroad in London, and enjoyed getting to see the tulips in Amsterdam!

Will Wise ​is a senior majoring in French and Politics. He is

our photo editor and cover designer. He also cannot make a respectable french omelet despite his major.

Visit our website : w ​ p.nyu.edu/cas-brioliteraryjournal/ 50