Ernest Wishes Rebecca Cobo

by Caroline Webster

I open a text “it feels like I either never left home or I’m never going back.”

That’s the big empty West, or is it everywhere I’ve ever been, or is it the inside of this peculiar brown house, the green of which I so desperately cling to.

I’d rather sit back against clapboard, my feet wrapped with weeds and tomatoes of the garden to scare away deer from sunup til late in the night, than live in the blanket-warm house:

my parents argue their every inhalation— I don’t want that kind of pressure on my lungs. My brother lifeguards at the city pool— I don’t want that kind of sun on my neck.

There’s a falling apart that happens to people and houses left silent. A cohort of ghosts shaking striped-wallpaper pipes, a ringing toilet that echoes in the ears. I curl up in dirt under the dining room window, darkened forest of mint encroaching on metal doors to the under home,

nearby leaves of sickly basil easy to pinch at the stalk, peonies lolling heavy on their stems, heads down for the ants who crown them.

There’s something nostalgic always in honeysuckle: elementary school’s wet wooden earth, creek racing tin foil boats, ground ivy bouquet, white clover wreath, my hair.

Cilantro does not taste like soap: thirsty and spotted or fragrant and strong I will be a mother who grows her own herbs.

Either I never left or I’m never going back but both ways I’m here and both ways I’m never getting out.

I blame Ki-woong because he called me a pussy for not drinking enough, and now look at him, he’s collapsed on the fl oor with a puddle of vomit by his parted lips, and now look at me, I’m clutching a cup of revoltingly cheap soju and Bud Light and apple juice that screams Korean-American, and now I’m looking at you. I force myself up from the couch, partially because of the couple making out next to me, and partially because I want to get a better look at you. I take another swig of my drink and recoil in disgust, but I ignore the sloshy consistency and nauseating aftertaste and down the rest of it. Won-seok looks at me. He’s the most sober one here, obviously. He’s wearing a sad, pitying expression and says something, but I can’t hear him over the roar of blasting J-pop music, indistinguishable screams and laughs, and my spiraling, buzzing mind that’s submerged in feverish fantasy. “Whaaat?” He leans closer to me. “You good?” I roll my eyes. “Do you think someone who’s good would be drinking this shit? God, I fucking hate alcohol. Is there more?” I laugh, showing him yet another empty cup. Won-seok gently pulls me to his side, trying but failing to make eye contact. “Hey. We should head back now.” No can do, because I haven’t stopped looking at you. I didn’t think you’d come, but there you are, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, someone playfully touching your arm, but you’re having none of it. It makes me smile wickedly. Deliriously. I really should not be, but I am, I’m looking at you. Fantasies of us being together again whisper in my ears, deluding my mind, consuming copious amounts of saccharine sweets to cope, glossing over with superfi cial lies and lamentations. And Won-seok backs off because I fl ip him off and am clumsily making my way across the room to you, my legs sluggish and sleepy but my mind racing and raging, my body on fi re either from the Asian-glow or anger, and it’s not long before you notice me, and the person fl irting with you gets a hint and moves on. “Hey,” I say, a little too forcibly and tense, but I say it, and it feels like a breath of fresh air, and I want to say so much more, but I’m afraid if I do, everything that’s been boiling at the surface will explode, unlocking and unleashing painful memories. You’re smirking at me, mouth curled up charismatically, and I can’t help but think about how many times I’ve kissed those lips, heard those lips tell me promises, or maybe lies. “You’re a wreck,” is all you say, and honestly, you’re right. I can’t even imagine how I look right now–makeup smeared, rosy face glistening with sweat, and what’s this, a remarkably large stain on my new shirt? Fantastic. Naively, I was hoping the dim lights would hide my disheveled appearance. And even though it’s an insult, and even though you said it so I would shut up, my heart is palpitating with such excitement, because at least we are talking again. I sneer. “Say so yourself.” But it’s not true. Because you look beautiful, untouched, you stand out in this crowd where everyone is falling apart, you have fallen together like the dovetailing, meshing last chords of a song. “What do you want?” you ask, straight-forward as always. I want you, I think to myself. “I just wanted to say hi.” “You always want to say hi when you’re wasted,” you say matter-of-factly. “So? Why does that matter?” “Well, it tells me that you’re still hurt and foolish and,” you grimace a bit before saying the last part, “still in love with me.” “I’m not in love with you. I never was.” But both of those are lies. Sighing, you run your hand through your hair, and it gives me a thrill to see you do it again. “Hey… I know things ended on a bad note,” I start, “We fought a lot, and we’re diff erent or whatever, and… you were losing interest, but-” “Things will never be the same,” your voice cuts through, “and you know I don’t have any intention to get back together again.” I dig my fi ngernails into my palms. “But why?” I feel pathetic, but I can’t help but entertain the possibility of being with you again, someone so ideal, so fl awless, so consummate, like chiseled Michaelangelo’s David, or a perfectly-oiled machine. “You and I are incompatible on so many levels.” You’re glaring at me, bitterly. And it’s warranted. I’ve asked you why several times before. “As I said previously, you live in this fantastical, magical world that exudes ignorance. You wear rose-tinted glasses and distort reality. You smoke and drink like you eat and sleep.” You’re listing things off , fi ring bullets off straight to my heart. My eye twitches. “Okay, you don’t need to say it like that--” “You’re not built for reality, nor will you ever adapt to it. You’re Alice in Wonderland. You--” “I get it, okay, I--” “Are pathetically reliant on lies and hallucinations as coping mechanisms. You--” “I get it! Shut up!” I pray I don’t cry. I can’t cry, defi nitely cannot cry. “I know I can be awful, but you’re bad, too.” Even though I don’t believe you’re bad. “Insensitive, snobby, cold-hearted,” I blurt, even though I don’t believe you’re those things. It’s just what Wonseok tells me to think. I take a step closer, close enough until… if I angled my head the right way… I could… “Kiss me,” I say. “What? No, I’m not going to--” “Please! Kiss me.” You sigh your sigh again. “No.” “Pleaaase?” I whine. I know you’re dismissing me because I’m desperate and drunk, because I’m all the things you say, and you may be right, but I’m still hopeful that maybe… “No.” I grab your shoulders and my face is in yours, and I hear your breath hitch in the midst of the drunken disarray, but it’s all behind me, and I swear to God sometimes time really does go slowly, because