Solitude

Solitude

I press my hand against the rough wall, sliding it this way and that, and close my eyes. Linda, from woodshop. “Jesse,” she would say and hand me the sandpaper––but what color was her hair? Red? Linda with red hair would call me “Jesse,”––yes––and we were working on a shelf, no, birdhouse. “Jesse?” She smiles and shoves my shoulder. “If you won’t sand the edges then we are going to fail,” my arm tingles where she touches it, “Brennan’s a stickler for precision.” I laugh and grab the sandpaper, glide my hand against it, rough like the coarse wall. “So are we not going to talk about the big crush you have on me?” She blushes and pushes back her blonde hair. Pushes back her red hair. “That’s big talk, Jesse,” she purses her lips when she pauses, “for someone who couldn’t take me on a date even if you wanted to.” No it was meaner––crueler––purposeful. She wanted to hurt me, she needed to hurt me––they were like that. Women, girls. Cruel, and purposeful. You could give them your entire heart and they’d still reach for your wallet. “Big talk, Linda,” I’ve got her now, “for someone who puts out in the locker room.” She stands from her chair, tears forming in her eyes, the sandpaper shifts between my fingers and I let my hand drop from the wall. “Screw you!” She storms out of the woodshop. She probably knows now. She brings it up at book club. She and her nosy friends whisper about me. Ironic, twenty years later and I bet she talks about me. Probably regrets not going out with me. Better stories for the dinner table. I press my hand against the cool leg of my bedframe and shut my eyes again, she’s just handed me a plate. Dinner time at the Reynolds’. Actually, she’s probably married now. He’s in finance, yes. Last name Taylor.

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She turns and looks at me. I am boring and white Mr. Taylor. There is another couple with us. Woman From Book Club, husband works with Mr. Taylor. “Lucas always gets a kick out of this one,” she turns to the couple across from us. “Do you know I used to go to school with Jesse Flondman?” The couple’s jaws dropped. I grip the bed frame harder. “You’re joking,” says Woman From Book Club, “did you know him personally?” “Yes,” she pauses for effect, “he actually asked me out once.” She laughs with glee and pushes back her red hair with streaks of grey. I smile and laugh along with her. “You know some say you can see signs of those kinds of things early on,” explains Man From Work, “did you notice he was a bit weird?” Linda nods excitedly, “he was always making weird comments. Bit of a loner, too. Total freak. And he was completely obsessed with me!” She laughs again and places her hand on my thigh. I look over at her and smile, “maybe if you hadn’t led him on, honey, he wouldn’t have given you the time of day.” The table looks at me, confused. You knew what you were doing, the others did too, it was on purpose. You did it on purpose, to get to me. Wrapping my hands around the leg of the metal bed frame, it morphs into a metal dinner fork which I plunge into the hand she had placed on my thigh. Horror filled her eyes for a moment before she continued, “Anyways, Maggie, I cannot wait to hear your opinion on the chapter we are supposed to discuss this Saturday.” I have no effect on you. You brush me aside, like I am nothing––a party trick, a bad habit––but you know my name. So you must think about me. Think about the days when you were young and pretty and the weird boy liked you. Mr. Taylor doesn’t give you that kind of attention––working late, and later, while you grow old living off stories of desired women. The door creaks and I open my eyes. He looks from me to my hand, which is still clasped around the bed. He passes me 116

a tray filled with tasteless nothings. “Eat up,” he says. I glare at him, his face that I have memorized with every line and scar. He knows me, my name, my record, my story––but I confuse him. I can tell. I’ve seen him shudder sometimes. He is strong in body but not in will, that makes me feel better. He leaves. I begin to eat, and I move the food around in my mouth, feeling the texture but not the taste. I close my eyes once more and I am sitting at the table with my mother. She takes a long drag from her cigarette and asks why I haven’t finished my food. “I am not hungry,” my voice says higher, prepubescent, I am only thirteen. “You should eat more,” she says coldly, “you’re so pigeon-chested you might as well put some meat where you can.” She is ugly and old. Dad left because she is ugly and old. She pushes her brown-grey hair behind her ear, “Now you’re not talking to me?” I’ve watched her over the years, watched fat collect around her shoulder-blades. And she calls me ugly? They’re all the same. Two-faced, ugly, and purposeful. I spit the bitter nothingness back onto the plate. I’m not hungry. I look around the small room. I know every inch, splinter, crack. I know what every hour feels like. Every bubbled leak on the wall is a juror, I see their faces at night, contorted with disgust. Linda is always here, but sometimes it’s Lacie or Sasha or Annalise. But it usually starts with Linda. Because I knew she liked me too. I could tell she wanted a taste of the ugly, the deprived, the troubled. I’m too smart to be left all alone. Sometimes I whisper my thoughts to the springs in my mattress. We cry out at night, stretched and constricted and unheard. If I could throw Linda onto the bed, she would hear us scream, she would see me, she would understand. I close my eyes and drag my hand against the wall. “Jesse?” She asks, “can you hand me the sandpaper, we have to get this done today.” I push it towards her and our hands touch. “When will you admit you love me, Linda?” 117