iv. damian

written by rohan srinivasan

The bell announced the end of seventh grade. Damian wanted to play Roblox at Micah’s house. Micah wanted to go to the bonfire. Damian protested. Micah said that Josie would be there. So, they went to the bonfire.

Ocean Beach was sunny. The waves looked like strands of whipped cream. Damian wanted In-N-Out. A double-double and animal fries.

They locked their bikes. Micah tried to text Santi. The service wasn’t good. They walked along the sidewalk searching for the group. Micah spotted them huddled toward the Richmond side of the beach. He waved. They waved back. Micah ran toward them without checking to see if Damian was coming too.

Damian only liked one person in this group. The rest were assholes. Always pretending to be fly even though they weren’t. But for some reason they liked Micah, so Micah worshipped them. They usually ignored Damian. Damian and Micah would hang out with them during lunch. Sometimes they would skate together on weekends. The only topic they cared to talk about was heuz. Hoes, get it?

Micah told them he had three on his roster. Damian knew that was a lie. But since Micah lied, Damian lied too. He said he was seeing a girl from a different school. They all sniggered and asked Micah if Damian was capping. Micah said Damian hadn’t even kissed a girl yet. Damian knew Micah hadn’t either, but he didn’t say that out loud.

Josie was the only one who didn’t laugh at him. She defended him, saying the rest of the gang were virgins too. Damian wondered why she hung out with these jerks. She was the only girl in the group. And she made it apparent, too. She wore crop tops and lashes and hoops, just like a popular high-school girl would. Plus, she wasn’t an asshole. She was sweet.

Damian liked her. He sometimes thought he loved her. But he’d never had another love to compare it to, so he couldn’t be certain. He’d made a big mistake by telling Micah. Micah still teased him about it every day.

Damian reached the bonfire. Kendrick was playing on the speaker. Micah had already finished dapping half of them up. Damian was happy to see that Adrian was there. Adrian popped up now and again. Damian used to think Santi invited him to things. If Adrian was Damian’s older brother, he’d also want to show him off to his friends. But Santi confessed once that he never really wanted Adrian to come. Adrian invited himself to their hangouts. Santi said Adrian didn’t have many friends. Most of his homies from school had either moved away for college or were working stupid hours. They all thought Adrian was a bum.

Damian guessed Santi said this crap because he was jealous. There was no way Adrian didn’t have friends. Santi just didn’t know about them. Damian was glad Adrian came despite Santi’s resistance. He felt special knowing that Adrian chose to hang out with them.

Damian and Micah didn’t agree on a lot, but they both thought Adrian was the dopest person they knew. Adrian had natural rizz. Adrian told the best stories about the parties he went to. Some ended in dodging gangs and bailing friends out of jail. Damian and Micah—who had never been to an adult party—would huddle around, listening with their mouths wide open. Adrian was who Santi’s asshole friends wanted to be. But Adrian already was that cool. And he was nice too.

Adrian dapped Damian up and said his haircut looked fire. Damian blushed. Adrian towered over Damian, so Damian literally and metaphorically looked up to him. Damian thought Adrian was extremely handsome. Maybe Adrian looked more handsome than all the other guys in the group because he was older. His features were much more mature. He didn’t have braces or acne. If Damian was gay, he’d definitely have a crush on Adrian.

Josie said hi to Damian next. She gave him a tight hug and told him she was glad he came. She said she would miss sitting next to Damian in science class. Damian started to get a hard-on. Josie let go too fast. Damian’s penis was still standing tall. Santi noticed first. He pointed and laughed. Josie glanced down. She seemed amused.

Damian’s face was on fire. He covered his boner and started kicking up sand, running as far away from the group as possible. He was angry at himself. He was kind of angry at Josie too, for causing that to happen.

Someone was yelling his name. He thought it was Micah, so he turned around. It was Adrian. Damian was even more embarrassed once he realized that Adrian had seen his boner. Adrian caught up to him and put his arm around Damian’s shoulder.

Adrian asked Damian if he liked Josie. Damian hesitated then told him yes. Adrian chuckled and slapped his butt, saying, “that’s my guy.” Damian broke into a smile. Adrian told him he needed to lock in and make a move. Damian asked him what to say. Adrian said that he would hype Damian up to Josie, then Damian should swoop in. Damian was happy with the plan, so he followed Adrian back to the group.

Josie smiled at him sympathetically while the others made jokes about Damian’s shrimp dick. Adrian changed the conversation by sharing a story about when he did shrooms and ended up naked on Twin Peaks. Everyone ooooo’d and aaahhh’d and forgot all about Damian’s boner.

The group split up. Damian pretended to be part of Micah and Santi’s conversation. Really, he was just watching Josie and Adrian talking. Whatever Adrian was saying was working. Josie was giggling.

Finally, Adrian got up and held out a hand to Josie. Damian was tingling with anticipation. He wasn’t nervous anymore. Adrian had his back.

Josie stood up, but Adrian didn’t guide her to Damian. The two of them quietly ducked out of the group. Damian’s smile dropped when he saw Adrian lead her to the parking lot. What part of the plan was this?

Damian tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for them to return. Conversations passed in front of his face (not that any were directed at him).

The sky was dimly lit by the time Damian saw someone walking back toward the group. He could make out that it was Adrian from the brawny build. No Josie, though.

Adrian knelt by Damian and whispered in his ear, “Come with me.”

Damian guessed that it was finally time for him and Josie to have their moment. He excitedly followed Adrian. Micah stumbled behind, asking where they were going. Damian pushed him away, but Adrian said that Micah could come too. Damian was confused. Why would Adrian say that? Micah wasn’t even remotely part of the plan.

Adrian was walking far ahead of them. He strode toward the parking lot confidently, gesturing once in a while for them to keep up. He had a smug look on his face.

Adrian led them to his car. It was parked far away from the others. He put his arms around Micah and Damian. To Damian, he said, “My gift to you, brother.”

Adrian led Damian and Micah to the back window. Damian peeked in and saw Josie sleeping across the seats. She was naked from the waist up. She was smiling and cuddling Adrian’s sweater. Her underwear was pink with a patterned string of hearts. Besides the small stain of blood around her crotch, her underwear looked like it was meant for a young girl on Disney Channel.

Damian remembered that his underwear had childish graphics on it too. Cartoon drawings of The Avengers. He still sometimes shopped in kids’ stores. He should have felt relieved knowing that Josie did the same. So why, then, did he feel like throwing up?

He guessed that Adrian didn’t wear kids’ underwear. Was this what advancing to adult briefs did to you? Did it turn you into a leader? He’d never been close enough to his mom’s boyfriends before to be sure.

The answer had to be yes, though, because Adrian’s arm around his neck felt protective. Like it was ready to show Damian the difference between right and wrong, cool and uncool. Would this be Damian when he was older? Showing some younger boy the legit way to live?

Still, Damian wasn’t stupid. He knew Josie would cry if she found out he’d seen her naked. He knew his mom and Nina and Taylor—especially Taylor—would yell at him if they learned about this.

But they weren’t with him. And Josie was asleep. And even if Josie woke up, she wouldn’t return his feelings. She would hurt him. He was sure of that now. There was no way he would be able to compete with Adrian. And he didn’t want to.

In this moment, Adrian’s arm felt safe, and it was here, actively wrapped around him. Not a yearning. A reality.

Micah was transfixed with Josie. A boner poked through his shorts.

A boner poked through Damian’s shorts too. Damian didn’t hide his erection this time around. He wasn’t sure why he had one. He wasn’t turned on by Josie anymore. In fact, he felt repulsed looking at her.

But both Adrian and Micah had boners, so Damian decided he was supposed to show one off too.

Adrian winked at Damian before directing his gaze back to the window.

Damian followed his lead.

edited by aaron lelito

iii. will. tabby. farouk.

written by rohan srinivasan

I’d like to share with you a story about my dearest friend, Will McCrae. I’ve debated whether I should categorize him as a “friend,” as our association does not fall within the scope of a usual intimate relationship. From what I’ve observed, you can only consider someone a companion once you have molded a vessel of knowledge about them, detailed with hieroglyphics of their character—carvings you’ve meticulously whittled and refined, serving as a reference so that all you need to see is how wide their dimple hangs to make a judgment call of whether they’ve had a normal morning or a shitty one. But Will hasn’t picked up a single tool to outline his knowledge of me. He hasn’t even sourced materials to build out the vessel’s backbone.

To his credit, I haven’t revealed much of myself to him—or to anyone. I would like to say I’m private, but the truth is that I have difficulty communicating with others. I was built to be an observer, to fill my crevices with the lives of others—to absorb their pains and successes and seize them as my own. I feel deeply, but never for myself. That’s where the issue lies. How am I supposed to share parts of myself when I’m already apathetic to what I experience? I would much rather anchor myself around others. I only tremble when the wind wants me to. I moan when the rain decides to beat me down. I am silent until disturbed, unscathed until assaulted. I am subjugated to the will of others, so it only makes sense that my mind is occupied with their daily trifles, as well as the heftier hurdles that perpetually obstruct their paths.

I’ve tried my best for the first two stories to separate myself from the characters. It’s tough to do, since their stories exist in relation to what I hear and observe. Nina was fairly easy, as she’d just arrived in the Haight. Taylor was tougher, though still manageable. But Will . . . Will’s life has become my life. I know too much about him to sever the cord. Still, he deserves uninterrupted narration. He’s a good fellow. Complicated, no doubt. Though with all he’s experienced up until the age of seventy-eight, it’s a miracle he’s not completely washed up. I’ve watched him suffer for a long time, and he at long last deserves a happy ending. Though it’s still up to fate to make the final judgment call, I can at least communicate with you a subsidiary happy ending. An evening gone well. Not monumental enough to obscure his tumultuous cycles of suffering, but satisfactory enough to alleviate his daily woe.

And this adequate evening, this unorthodox dinner party for three—the cause of Will’s temporary contentment—was ignited by a timid knock at his door a few days before the aforementioned event. Will was holed up in Unit Three, the crooked window shades blocking out the afternoon sunlight, the dusty plug-in fan noisily chugging through its final days. He had his headphones on, partially because the young Black man who lived downstairs was experimenting with his keyboard, and partially because the two other youngsters—an Indian woman and a grungy individual—were laughing and cheerfully screaming at each other down in the living room. The unnerving noises and exasperating vibrations traveled up through the creaking walls, disturbing Will’s peace. Will would never tell them to quiet down; confrontation was not his forte. He knew he could leave the house and find a quiet spot in the Panhandle to lay down and relax. But that required energy he didn’t have—energy that had been lost nearly a decade ago. So, Will simply put on his noise-cancelling headphones, plugged them into his Walkman, played a disc from his immense collection of classic rock, and sunk deeper into his bed, imprinting a permanent mold of his body into the mattress. The familiar strums of Big Brother and Jefferson Airplane would take him back to the sun-kissed afternoons in Golden Gate Park, reminding him of liberation and anarchist ideas, of free music and acid and sex. A pivotal period when he was excited by the vastness of his future, rather than hoping for each day to be his last. Nostalgia was a forgiving captain, routing him back to the memories that soothed the horrors of living. Will was too far into this voyage to call it quits. He would wake up earlier than everyone in the house, complete any necessary errands, gather his meals for the day, and then re-board the ship, sailing along an irresistible path until sleep stole him back.

But this afternoon, the unexpected knock interrupted his self-induced peace. Will might have never heard the apprehensive sound if he hadn’t been changing the disc in his Walkman. But the knock startled him so much that he dropped the ragged device, and it shattered on his bedroom floor.

“Crap,” muttered Will, shaking off the sharp fragments that had landed on his feet. He momentarily forgot about the knock in the disarray, but another one followed the first, even more hesitant this time around.

“What?” barked Will, more aggressively than he’d intended. He shut his eyes and reprimanded himself. He hadn’t meant for his tone to come across rude, but having spent so much time locked away, he needed a second to shed the gruffness that had been building like plaque at the back of his throat.

“Um, s-sorry to disturb you . . . I have some of your mail.”

It was that boy. The one always hanging around the living room. Will had sometimes heard his voice mixed in with the conversations between the Indian lady and the grungy individual. He’d run into him a few times when he’d needed to use the bathroom on the second floor, but they’d never spoken to each other before, only passed cursory nods. Will wasn’t sure what connection he had to the house. He wasn’t sure if he lived in one of the units or was a loiterer. He doubted it was the former—the units barely had enough space for one person to breathe, let alone a family. Anyway, Will couldn’t care less if the boy was residing in the house, so long as Will wasn’t disturbed. Will had learned through a bad experience with the tenant in the adjacent unit that it was better to ignore and avoid. Karina—the Asian lady in Unit Five—was the only tenant whose name Will knew; she’d been in the house nearly as long as he had. Back when he’d first moved in and wasn’t as reticent as he was now, he’d introduced himself to her. She’d been friendly and a little scattered, though not by a disconcerting amount. He’d also assumed a base-level of maturity, since she’d looked to be in her fifties. Plus, Will had only ever interacted with Asians whose lives were spot-free, devoid of human errors. He’d wrongfully presumed Karina’s lifestyle to be similar and had accepted her invitation to hang out with her and a friend of hers. He’d followed her to the Park at night—which should have been the first sign that something was off. Once he saw the tent, he realized what she’d brought him to. That one friend turned out to be three, and “hanging out” was code for shooting up. Will had politely declined their offers to partake and had waited near the entrance of the tent for the druggies to reach the non-verbal part of their high. When he was certain his presence wouldn’t be missed, he quietly slipped out and headed back to the Haight. He then lay in his dark room, weeping and thinking about Julie. From then on, he stayed in his room whenever he heard Karina milling about. She tried tapping on his door a few times, but he stayed absolutely silent until he heard her footsteps recede. She got the hint soon enough and no longer attempted to initiate a friendship.

Will should have ignored the knock, but he had already called attention to himself. He couldn’t fake that he was sleeping or out of the room. So, he hobbled to the door, grumbling and straightening out his lopsided T-shirt. He knew he wouldn’t be able to clean up his disheveled room as easily as his appearance, so he only cracked the door open slightly, just enough to peer out at the boy without letting him see the mess inside.

The boy’s eyes widened when he saw Will. Will instinctively reached up to his face. He should have at least glanced at his reflection before revealing himself to the boy.

“Sorry mister McCrae I was sorting through the pile of mail downstairs that no one ever goes through and then I was looking through your pile not like a creep just scanning over it and saw this one envelope and it was marked urgent so I wanted to give it to you quickly in case it was important and you need to resp—”

The boy’s breath had run out. He inhaled deeply, his cheeks red and puffy. He had kind eyes. A sweet face.

Will softened. “And who are you?”

The boy hit his forehead. “Oh, sorry, I’m Damian. A friend of Taylor’s. And Nina now too, I guess. I live down the street.”

“Taylor?”

“They stay in the unit across from you.”

“Ah. The one with all the tattoos?”

“That’s them.”

Will glanced down at the envelope in the boy’s hand. “Is that letter mine?”

“Oh, yes! This is the one I was talking about. The rest of your mail is in a pile downstairs.”

Will took the envelope in his hands and turned it over. Before he even saw the sender’s name, he’d figured out who it was. A note in loopy cursive said, “Urgent!!!” The unique handwriting was enough to confirm to him who had mailed the envelope. Tabitha Franklin. Dear, dear, Tabby.

“Thank you, Damian. I appreciate you bringing this to me.”

Damian beamed. “Of course, mister McCrae. Happy to.”

“Call me Will.”

“Okay, mist—Will. Sorry.”

Will and Damian exchanged another polite smile before Damian bounded down the stairs. Will gently shut the door and turned toward his mirror. No wonder Damian had looked horrified when Will had opened the door. Shabby and unkempt weren’t strong enough adjectives to describe Will’s appearance. His gray, straw-like hair was shooting up in uneven directions, and his beard grew in unattractive patches. The right side of his face was red and splotchy from the pressure of his pillow, his squinting eyes sunk back into his skull. He looked like he hadn’t been out in public for months—which more or less was true.

Will sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, ripping open the envelope. Inside was an invitation card printed on high-quality cardstock. He chuckled as he scanned the over-the-top design, then picked up his cellphone and dialed Tabby’s number. She answered in half a ring.

“Took you long enough, baby.”

“Blame the post office.”

“I sent the invite four weeks ago!”

“Who sends mail anymore? I could have very well tossed it in the trash without ever seeing who’d sent it.”

“Now that’s what the ‘urgent’ message was supposed to prevent. Tell me, Mr. Wisecrack, what was my other option? Texts aren’t getting me anywhere with you.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry, Tabby. My mind’s so scattered these days. I’ve been . . . Well, you know how things have been.”

Tabby sighed. “I know, baby, I know.”

Will traced the outline of his name on the card. “How long did this take you?”

“The guy at Staples designed it for me. Bless his heart. He was very confused why I was making an invitation card just to ask one person to dinner.”

“He and I both.”

“Well, I told him that this fella is special to me. The older you get, the more sentimental you become.”

“Amen.”

“Plus, this isn’t like our usual dinners. I’m not letting you bail this time.”

“I don’t bail. I’m just busy the weekends you invite me over.”

“Oh, baby, please. I know you weren’t visiting a friend in Los Angeles last month. I’m the only one you got left.”

Will paused, knowing that lying to Tabby was a waste of breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush. We’re not here to worry about the past. Seeing your face even a few times a year is good enough for me.”

“What’s so important about this dinner?”

“We have a proposal for you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Not uh-oh.”

“Last time you said something like that, you tried to offer me money.”

“And you’re a big ol’ fool for not taking it.”

“I’m fine, Tabby, I promise.”

“I know you’re fine. I never said you weren’t.”

“So what’s the proposal then?”

“Hah. You’re not getting around this the easy way. Come to dinner and find out.”

“Is this bribery?”

“Maybe.”

“Farouk approves?”

“Of the proposal or the bribe?”

“Both.”

“He’s a darling. He’ll support anything I say.”

Will searched the card. “There’s no date or time on here.”

“This Friday work? Eight o’clock?”

“Uh, yes, it should.”

“Splendid. Farouk’s going to make the lamb you like.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself, baby. Just yourself. That’s more than enough for the both of us.”

So, when Friday rolled around, Will hauled himself out of bed, put away his new Walkman (the only errand he’d completed in the past week), and finally cleaned himself up. He needed to put on a performance for Tabby. Will was certain that if she even suspected how he spent most of his days, or what he looked like most mornings, she would throw an inconsolable fit and make an even greater effort to get him out of the house for dinners. Which was probably exactly what Will needed, though he was tired of being pushed to behave in a way he didn’t feel was genuine. When he was curled up in his quiet, little, third-floor room, with the blinds shut, the air stale and stiff, he could wallow for however long he wanted, without the expectation or pressure to ever get up because someone else wanted him to. He couldn’t help that this was the state his mind desired.

Nevertheless, acting for Tabby was necessary in order to keep up his routine. Very doable, too. A dinner would last three hours at most, even with all of Tabby’s eccentric tangents. Will could manage a performance this brief.

He had been prepared to take the public transit route—a combination of the Muni train, the BART, and the bus—to get to their house in Berkeley. But Tabby had sent him a text saying that they’d ordered him an Uber that was scheduled to arrive outside his house at seven o’clock. Will, with combed hair and a clean-shaven face, dressed in an ironed checkered shirt, opened his bedroom door, and limped down the stairs. His heart rate had already shot up by the time he reached the second floor. He stopped and caught his breath. The musician living on this floor was playing a Beatles song Will knew well. He was adding his own creative flourishes, but Will could recognize the dominant melody a mile away. Man, this song took him back. And it was, coincidentally, a very fitting tune for a dinner with Tabby. Back in ’67 and ’68, the two of them wore this record out. At the time, Will could murder a guitar—he probably could still play, though he hadn’t touched one in a while—and he’d be strumming the melody sprawled out on the Park’s lush, overgrown grass, while Tabby lay across his thighs with her eyes closed, singing along to the repetitive, almost meditative, lyrics, “All you need is love / All you need is love.”

Will carried the fond memory down the rest of the stairs. He was caught off-guard by a whistle coming from the living room. The grungy individual—who Will had now learned was named Taylor—and the Indian lady—Nia? Neela? something like that—were sprawled out on the brown couch, passing a bottle of wine between themselves. Taylor whistled again, and Will realized that this sound was directed at him.

“Damn, looking like a full-course meal! Breakfast, lunch, and dinner!” hollered Taylor.

Will didn’t understand the exact meaning behind Taylor’s exclamation, but given the Indian lady’s laugh, he took the comment positively. He self-consciously combed his hair with his fingers, blushing. He nodded at the duo in appreciation and exited the townhouse, waving down the Uber that Tabby had ordered him.

Tabby, Tabby, Tabby. Once the hottest chick that Will knew. A gal that could make the boys swoon just from the sway of her round hips or a pat to her mighty Afro. Always smacking that peppermint bubblegum behind those glossy, plum-colored lips. A bit of spice hiding underneath all that sweetness—that was Tabby. She was witty and self-assured in her speech, the winner of every debate, whether it was about whose turn it was to cook or what a women-led utopia would look like. Will was never able to keep up with her in conversation. At some point, he gave up trying. He would stare at her in awe, stoned out of his mind, as she hurled rapid-fire remarks that could shut up even the most pretentious Oxford scholar. And he would think to himself in those moments how beautiful she was. Beautiful in a scary way, an untouchable way. Like a Greek goddess who had descended down to the human world purely for her own entertainment.

The only time she relinquished control to Will was in the bedroom. And he never took that opportunity for granted. Sex was an act that needed no intelligent words, no refined thoughts—just commitment to her pleasure. This was Will’s time to shine, and shine he did. He took his time memorizing Tabby’s figure: her tender curves, her dark stretch marks, her thick, ungroomed body hair. He would test every inch of her body, like a soldier evaluating a sensitive minefield, and find the overlooked spots where a soft kiss would make her throw her head back and moan so loud, he’d have to cover her mouth so that they didn’t wake up the others in the house. And when her moan had passed, she’d whisper to him that he was the best she’d ever had. Which meant a lot to Will, given that she was sleeping with others at the same time. It’s pretty easy to fool yourself into thinking that your current lover is better than your last, since you can’t fully remember the passion of bygone orgasms. But to be the best out of all the current lovers—now that’s high praise.

Maybe it was because of this assurance that Will was never jealous of her other lovers. In fact, he was friends with all of the ones that lived in the house. He was sure she was sleeping with a few guys outside of their circle; he was most definitely getting it on with a handful of strangers, both men and women alike. But it didn’t bother him much who else was making her toes curl, as long as he was able to do so as well.

The two of them, as well as all the other bohemians living in that house, believed that love wasn’t meant to be bottled up for one person. A human’s capacity to love was limitless, and sex—sex in its sweaty, nasty forms, in all its power, intensity, and sensualness—was the most natural way of expressing one’s ability to love. Sex sometimes felt like the one thing they didn’t have to work for. The cosmos, God, evolution, etc. had already blessed them with the right tools. They just had to figure out how to maneuver their bodies to bring others pleasure.

But, as with most straightforward facets of existence, humans had to go ahead and complicate this effortless act. The standard, domestic relationship—one boy, one girl—was society’s way of controlling an urge that was uncontrollable. Something that was never meant to be challenging suddenly became this cumbersome obstacle course. You now had to find that “one.” Choose that “one.” Woo that “one.” And only make love to that “one.” Why? What was the point of all these rules and regulations for an intrinsic quality that was designed to liberate you? Making one person feel good was already pretty damn spectacular. If you had more love to give, and if you had functioning equipment, why not make as many people as possible throw their hands up to the sky in ecstasy, even if only for one afternoon?

Of course, that was Will’s thinking before the Murphy girl. Will packed it up after that. Called it a day. Swiftly pulled out of the commune, disillusioned with the silly ideals of freedom and endless hedonism, and ignored those who tried to keep in touch. Which really wasn’t anyone besides Tabby. Leaving the house made Will realize that most of the relationships he’d formed inside of it were conditional. Mornings in the house were meant to hold the prospect of an exciting future, carrying none of the baggage of the previous day. Once Will left, he didn’t serve this purpose anymore. He didn’t excite the pleasure-obsessed folks, and he sure as hell didn’t give them something to look forward to in the future. He was too concerned with the past. If they did speak to him, all he wanted to talk about was the damn Murphy girl. He wanted to break the situation down, decode it, discuss it, search for a new angle to understand it. But the deed was done. The girl had hung herself. And the rest of them had moved on. Why waste any more of their precious time mulling over a tragedy that couldn’t be reversed?

But Tabby had been present for Will. Tabby had found him and held him, whispering words of comfort into his ears. She wouldn’t discuss the girl with him, but she would listen and softly stroke his hair.

Life had inevitably taken them in diverging directions. Will had met Julie. Tabby had met Farouk. Will had started his own bar in the Haight. Tabby had gone to law school and become a public prosecutor. For several decades, they had had little contact. An occasional Christmas card, a letter when one of them found an old photograph—frivolous, superficial, cursory interactions. Up until Julie died.

From then on, Will had burrowed himself in his sorrow—closing the bar, cutting off Julie’s family—but Tabby had fought harder than ever to pull him out of that pitch-black tunnel.

Will loved her. He sometimes hated her for interrupting the cadence of his seclusion, but, man, he loved her. Loving Tabby now was more balanced than it had been when they were nineteen. There was no ferocity to it, no explosive passion. But it was love just the same.

Funnily enough, at the same time across the Bay Bridge in a hillside house in Berkeley, Tabby was also thinking about love. She was prepping her lasagna—layering the noodles, careful not to wreck them with any holes or tears. Around the guarded baking tray, pots and strainers and cutting boards piled up. Cooked ground beef and sliced onions decorated the counters and floors. Tabby wiped the perspiration off her forehead, leaving a streak of marinara sauce in its place. Tabby’s mother had been able to make love to her cooking in a way that Tabby never could. Even Farouk was a master of seduction in the kitchen. The two of them had figured out—or maybe they had just been born with the knowledge of—how to peel with love, chop with love, sauté with love. And Tabby could taste that love in their food, though never in her own. Tabby would follow the same instructions Farouk would, but her garlic would never soften as well as his did, her meat would never season as perfectly as his.

Farouk would have happily cooked this meal, but Tabby insisted that she make it. She had restricted him to his study upstairs so that he would not walk by with any disapproving glances or soft criticisms. She wanted to make this meal for Will. She thought the love she had for him would translate to the dish. But she had blown it. The love wouldn’t bubble inside the pan, because this was not how Tabby was meant to express her love. It didn’t matter who was on the receiving end—she was simply not a good cook.

Tabby groaned in frustration as the noodle she was layering tore under her rough handling. She opened the trash can and threw the scraps inside. She then slid down to the kitchen floor, throwing the pan across the room. Slowly, she heard the plop plop plop of Farouk making his way down the stairs from his study. Her head was buried in her knees, but she could hear him entering the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I made a mess.”

“He would have loved it,” replied Farouk.

“He would have pretended to.”

“He would have loved it because it was yours.”

“I can never get it right with him. I’ve never been able to love him right.”

And Tabby cried, having admitted her private thoughts to her husband. Farouk bent down, his old joints cracking with the challenging movement. His beard bristled against her face, and he whispered in her ear, “Let me make it. We’ll say it’s yours.”

Tabby looked up at him. “Really? You think he’ll believe it?”

“Go upstairs. Take a hot shower. Put on some music and relax. I’ll let you know when he comes.”

Tabby looked up at Farouk, at his bald head and bushy eyebrows and round, thick-rimmed spectacles. She kissed his cheek, right above his scraggly beard. “Thank you.”

She did exactly what Farouk suggested. She went to the bathroom, put on some Sade, and relaxed into the hot steam. She took her time after the shower fixing her hair, ironing her favorite blouse, applying light makeup. By the time Will rang the doorbell, Tabby had returned to her sociable self, with the memory of her failed lasagna far behind her.

“Look at this stunner,” said Will, grinning up at her as she descended the stairs. Age might have added deep creases to his face, but it hadn’t touched his charming smile.

“Oh, stop, you,” said Tabby, blushing.

Will threw his arm around Farouk’s shoulder. “Lucky bastard.”

Farouk sheepishly adjusted his glasses. “Wine?”

“As long as it’s red.”

“We found the finest blend in Berkeley just for you.”

“My man,” said Will, patting Farouk on the back.

The three of them settled in the dining room. Farouk poured the wine while Tabby brought the freshly made lasagna from the kitchen. Tabby immediately noticed that Will, as usual, was trying his best to deflect the conversation away from himself. He wasn’t behaving like the depressed, weary man she’d heard on the phone. He was putting on a show for Tabby and Farouk: asking thoughtful questions, laughing when appropriate, cracking jokes aplenty. But she could see right through it. She could see his knee bouncing and his wrist shaking. He was nervous, afraid of exposing how sad he really was.

“Tabby, you made this?” asked Will, his mouth filled with his first bite of lasagna.

“What’s with the doubt in your voice?”

Will looked at Farouk incredulously. “Really? She made this?”

Farouk nodded, smiling and sipping his wine.

“I’m impressed. It’s amazing, Tabs.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Like, really good. Almost Farouk level. Are you sure he didn’t touch it?” asked Will, winking at her.

“The master had to share his skills at some point,” interjected Farouk, saving Tabby from having to scramble for a response. “Retirement treating you well, Will?”

“Oh, you know, same old, same old. You?”

“Hah,” said Tabby. “His retirement ain’t real. He visits campus every day.”

“Only to catch up with my mentees,” said Farouk, defensively.

“And review their research. And attend their lectures. And provide them notes.”

“They appreciate it. They’ll let me know if I’m interfering.”

“As if you ever told your mentors to back off.”

Farouk was silent, toying with his lasagna.

“Let the man be, Tabby,” said Will.

“I do let him be. He’s free to have his own life.”

“Let him be more. Retirement’s enough of a mind-fuck. Anything that keeps us going is a good thing.”

“You act like I’m not retired too.”

“Yes, but you’re not like us men. You moved on from the D.A.’s office like you never even worked there.”

“I don’t care to reminisce.”

“Exactly. You’re built better than us. All there is to do in old age is reminisce.”

“So it’s an age thing or a man thing?”

“Both.”

“I’m old too,” replied Tabby. “I’m rusted, just like you.”

“You’re far from old, Tabs. You’ll never be old. You’ve got that fire in your heart. That shit’s not going anywhere.”

Tabby and Farouk exchanged a glance across the table. Tabby avoided Will’s eyes and took a bite of her lasagna.

Will looked between them. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing, honey. How are you?”

“I told you.”

“No, honey. You never did.”

“Tabby, I told you. Same ol’. How’s the volunteering going?”

“We’re not done with you. What are you doing in that house every day, Will? We’re both so worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay, Will. It can’t be good for you to live in that small room. Do you even know anyone else who stays in the house?”

Will sighed. “Yes, we’re friends.”

“Tell me their names.”

“Why are you quizzing me?”

“I’m worried about you, honey.”

“Fine. Taylor and Neela and Damian. Those are the ones I know.”

“What are their last names?”

Will slammed his fork down. “Holy shit, Tabby, what’s with the third degree tonight? Give it a rest!”

Even the clock held its breath. The table was a tableau, composed of shocked, dejected living statues.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby.”

“No, you invited me to dinner. You made this nice meal. I’ve been nothing but rude. I’m so sorry.” Will voice cracked, and he covered his face.

Farouk nodded to Tabby, signaling that it was time.

With Farouk’s encouragement, Tabby pulled her chair over so that she sat right beside Will.

“Will, baby, look at me,” she said, trying to pull his hands away from his face. He resisted, keeping them firmly glued over his eyes. Tabby stopped pulling and settled for one hand on his shoulder, one hand on his leg. “We don’t want you in that house anymore.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Come here. Live here.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You both have your own lives.”

“You’re part of our lives.”

“The Haight’s all I’ve ever known. It’s a good place to live. You remember how good it is.”

“I remember it being fun when we were nineteen.”

He looked up at Farouk. “You agree with this?”

Farouk nodded. “We want you here.”

“No, this is crazy. I can’t suddenly insert myself in your lives. People will think it’s strange.”

“Hon, we’re too old to care what people think. We’ve emptied out the guest room. It’s all ready for you.”

“This is worse than you offering me money. I don’t need your charity or pity just because Julie’s gone.”

Tabby pulled away, holding back tears. “You can be so selfish sometimes, you know that?”

“I’m not stupid. I know you invite me over because you feel sorry for me.”

Tabby shot up and pounded her fist against the table. “Have you stopped for a second and used that small brain of yours to think that maybe this is about me? That maybe I’m the one that needs you here, not the other way around? Or are you really that dimwitted?”

“Tabby . . .” murmured Farouk.

Tabby held her breath and restrained the emotion spilling out of her. She looked down at Will, who recoiled in his seat. His lips were open, his eyes wide with shock. Tabby couldn’t remember the last time she’d blown up at him. She wasn’t sure if she ever had.

Tabby sat back down in her seat. She gently placed her palm on his. She traced the grooves along his worn-out fingers. Then she grabbed his whole hand, held it firmly in hers, and led his hand up.

“What are you doing?”

Up past her torso.

“Tabby, what are you doing?”

All the way to her left breast.

“Tabby . . .”

And she pressed his fingers against the part of herself that repulsed her. That ugly, ugly spot.

“Tabby, what is that?”

“It got me, honey.”

“Tabby, don’t play with me.”

“Oh, honey, I wish to God I was.”

Will looked to Farouk for confirmation. But Farouk was staring down into his wine, allowing this conversation to remain between old friends.

“No, no, nononononono . . .”

Tabby pulled Will’s weeping face toward her chest. “Shh, shh . . .”

“Not you too,” cried Will. “I can’t lose you too.”

Tabby couldn’t say anything to console him. She couldn’t promise him that her life would miraculously change for the better. She could only pat his head while he sobbed into her favorite blouse—the one she’d picked out specially for him.

And Tabby’s heart broke watching his heart break. She’d held him like this after Julie had died, but Tabby hadn’t been the cause of his pain back then. She could hold him and sympathize, knowing that she wasn’t responsible for the tears. But as much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, the guilt she was experiencing now was regrettably familiar. Tabby had been the cause of his pain once. Back, back, back in the day. And the shame carried over, reminding her of all the terrible suffering she had brought on the love of her life.

For a long time, Tabby was able to ignore her shame because she blamed the Murphy girl. Why did that good-for-nothing heifer have to go on and kill herself? That was never what Tabby wanted. Tabby just wanted her away from Will.

They lived in a house where love was meant to be free. Your heart was supposed to follow the line of dancers, switching partners with ease whenever time was called, letting go of one hand while eagerly reaching out to the next. And, for a while, Tabby believed that that was the life she was meant for. She was usually the one kicking men out. Her life was fulfilled enough with music and political discussions and protests not to waste time worrying if a man wanted to see her again or not. By the time she’d reached her orgasm, she’d already begun thinking about the next part of her crowded day.

Until the Murphy girl, Tabby had never concerned herself with who Will slept with. She knew that he’d got it on with a couple girls in the house, but she was confident that she was the main event. If anything, Will’s promiscuity made his coming back to Tabby’s bed even hotter. She loved it when he took his time pleasing her and pushed back his sweaty blond hair and grinned after ejaculating, as if he’d just traveled to heaven and seen God himself. She was his, and he was hers. The others were just ways to pass time—experiments to explore their budding sexuality.

Until the Murphy girl.

Tabby hated that white cunt the second she joined the house. With her annoyingly long bangs and buckteeth and perky nipples always poking through her tight t-shirts. And her stupid fucking baby voice. She sounded like a doll that had been given the ability to speak, and she would use that silly voice to compel the boys in the house to pick up her chores or carry her on their backs whenever her feet got tired. Stupid fucking cunt. Tabby thought Will would see right through her act, but he didn’t. He carried her on his back, just like the other thickheaded boys.

The whole house woke up whenever the Murphy girl and Will were fooling around. The Murphy girl made their time together a public spectacle, whimpering and whining to the rhythm of his fucking. The others would huddle together and giggle at the vibrations that ran through the walls. Not Tabby, though. Tabby would lock herself in the bathroom and obsess over those revolting noises, her heart darkening with hate.

But she didn’t begin stalking the Murphy girl until she saw that bitch’s narrow face nestled on Will’s lap. The crew was out in the Park, spread out in a disconnected circle, passing around a joint. Will was on guitar; the others were all singing along, completely out of tune. Tabby was stoned, searching for recognizable shapes in the fluffy clouds above. She found a grouping that resembled a dog and excitedly turned to Will to show him. But he was already occupied. His eyes were fixated on the Murphy girl, and her eyes were fixated on him. They were smiling at each other the way steady lovers do. The cunt had taken over Tabby’s spot on Will’s thighs, goddammit. And Will had let her. Worse than that, he seemed to want her there.

The anger in Tabby’s chest was insurmountable. The possessiveness she felt over Will was cataclysmic.

Still, Tabby started easy. She left short, threatening notes—anonymous, of course—in the girl’s dresser. Then she mixed small amounts of bleach in the girl’s shampoo. But that plan backfired when another resident, who was leeching supplies, smelled the toxic chemicals before the Murphy girl suffered any long-term damage. After that, Tabby became more dangerous. She left shards of glass on the girl’s mattress, hiding her smile when that bitch came down the next morning with dried blood on her pale body. She mixed worms in her food. She followed her around the Haight at night, scaring her with unsettling noises and then hiding around a corner before the girl could figure out who was behind her. The Murphy girl would sob on Will’s shoulder, seeking comfort from this unknown predator. Little did she know that this just infuriated Tabby even more.

Tabby stalked her so vigorously that she discovered the girl was from a deeply religious, conservative family down in Santa Cruz. Her parents thought she was studying literature up at the University of San Francisco, on track to become a journalist. They were ignorant of the fact that their daughter was running around with a bunch of hippies, high on weed and LSD, spending most days singing in the Park. The Murphy girl was a great liar—Tabby had to give her that.

So, Tabby set in motion the most menacing step of her revenge. She got the parents involved.

And what a chore it was to hide her smile as she watched the Murphy girl’s dad ruthlessly drag his daughter down the stairs of the house while she flailed her arms and cried out in agony. The rest of the residents stood by silently, including Will. One boy tried to stop the dad and had his front two teeth knocked out. A few hid in their rooms, but Tabby witnessed the whole savage affair. She watched the dad slap the girl’s face until she could no longer tell whether the red on the girl’s cheeks was skin or blood, rejoicing in how public the humiliation was. The Murphy girl was then packed in the back of her parents’ car and driven away, out of Tabby’s life forever . . . or so it seemed.

A couple weeks later, after the house had moved on from the scandal and resumed their serene circles of song and dance, they received a letter in the mail from the Murphy family. The girl had killed herself, and the parents wanted them to know that each and every person in the house was to blame. Maybe she would have lived if they hadn’t brainwashed her with such dirty, lazy, filthy, freakish ideas. The letter ended with a few threats, but nothing substantive ever came from them.

Tabby didn’t predict how hard Will would take the news. She hoped that things between them would go back to the way they were, but the death permanently changed Will. He was no longer the laid-back, lighthearted man that spent hours making love to her. He was quiet and depressed and cynical. When she stroked his hair and kissed his puffy eyes, Tabby faced the consequences of her jealousy. She had allowed her love to become vicious, and it had caused Will immense hurt. What was scarier was that Tabby couldn’t foresee what other grim, grisly acts her love was capable of. She had never loved someone like this before, had never known how ugly and ferocious love could be. Tabby had thought that the Murphy girl was the villain, but she realized that the person Will needed protection from the most was herself.

Though she comforted Will, she never allowed their relationship to progress. In fact, she was relieved when Will found Julie. Julie was sweet and passive, incapable of letting her love become violent. And with Julie’s entrance into Will’s life, Tabby could finally let go of the tightly repressed hope that she and Will would explore their love for one another one day. Once Will was settled in his new relationship, Tabby married Farouk, a man she cared for, but would never explode over.

But now Julie had passed, and Tabby was dying.

With her final days hanging over her head, Tabby’s only wish was to be near the love of her life for the rest of the time she had left. She didn’t want to restrain her feelings any longer, as dangerous as they may become. She didn’t care if she was being immature. She couldn’t think about tomorrow, just about loving him with her full heart right now. And here he was, so close to her, weeping into her chest.

Tabby pulled Will’s face up to hers and kissed him on the mouth. Salty tears mixed with the taste of long-awaited skin. He kissed her back, and they were frozen in their embrace, replacing the weak memory of each other’s nineteen-year-old mouths with this new feeling.

Will abruptly pulled away. “No, stop . . .”

He looked guiltily at Farouk, who was staring down into his empty glass.

“Farouk, buddy, I’m so sorry,” mumbled Will anxiously. “I—I just got caught up in the moment. It’ll never happen again.”

Will glanced at Tabby for support. Instead of agreeing with him, or even acting fazed in the slightest, she simply reached out a hand to her husband.

Farouk looked up at Tabby and her steady, beckoning hand. As he stared at it, he thought of the advice his older brother had given him back when he was in college. Ramy had been visiting Farouk’s dorm and had taken less than an hour to notice how timid Farouk was with the girls. Farouk sheepishly admitted to his brother that the rare times he’d attempted to ask a girl out, he’d been swiftly rejected. The advice Ramy had given him was simple: “Love should be easy. The right one won’t make you suffer for their affection. Love should be easy.”

What a load of bullshit.

Maybe love had been easy for Ramy, but Farouk had only experienced the painful side of it. Ramy wasn’t to blame, though; Farouk was the one at fault. Ramy’s advice might have come true if Farouk had sought out a different partner. He should have realized early on that Tabby’s heart belonged to someone else. But he chose to believe that any missing feelings would catch up to their day-to-day compatibility. Both of them were academic and liberal, with similar viewpoints on philosophy and current events. They would attend lectures together, concerts together, movies together. She wanted to spend time with him. She wanted to sit next to him. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen or spoken to, and she wanted him.

He should have acknowledged the warning signs the first time he met Will. He should have taken notice of how her dimples flared up when Will spoke, or the light that suddenly shined in her eyes. But Farouk chose to believe Tabby when she said that Will was a friend, nothing more.

 By the time Farouk came to terms with the fact that Tabby would never love him as much as she loved Will, he couldn’t back out. They had been married for a decade, and their lives were too deeply intertwined. Farouk loved his work—no doubt—and yet Tabby was still the most exciting part of his day. Listening to her talk was what he looked forward to the most when he woke up. She always mistook his silence for disinterest, but he was more invested in hearing her speak than hearing his own droning voice. He had always been interested in listening to her. Always.

What was he supposed to say then when she finally admitted the truth? When Tabby got her test results back, her first comment hadn’t been about their future together. She’d said instead, “Lord, how will Will survive this?” After the question was asked, the threads they’d both buried away in some shrouded cabinet were harshly pulled out. Denying Tabby’s feelings, working around the feelings, condemning the feelings—all of it was absolutely pointless. There was no time for anger or jealousy or avoidance. Farouk and Tabby were too old to hate each other. They didn’t have enough life left in them to fight the truth or pretend like her love for Will didn’t exist. At the same time, they were too old to dismantle the life they’d built together.

No, love hadn’t been easy for Farouk. Not in the slightest. Love had been devious and cruel—the most despicable, rotten bastard Farouk had ever encountered. But who was he supposed to yell at? All Farouk could do at this point was wait to take it up with God.

One thing Farouk knew for certain: Tabby respected him enough not to leave him. If Farouk had refused when Tabby suggested Will live at their place, she would have never brought up the topic again. If Farouk had insisted that he didn’t want Tabby speaking to Will anymore, she would have quietly abided by his wishes. Farouk knew very little about love, but he knew enough about it to understand that restricting Tabby’s remaining life wasn’t an act of love. Loving Tabby meant blessing her to freely love Will without guilt.

But loving Tabby also meant continuing to be her husband through the end, not separating from her or taking away the support he’d built around her—not when she needed it the most. And that meant Farouk had to bring Will into his own life and love him too.

Maybe this was the cost of love: one person had to sacrifice themselves for two others to find happiness.

So, Farouk stood up and took Tabby’s outstretched hand in his own. He bent down and kissed her forehead. Tabby smiled up at him in gratitude before guiding the two men out of the dining room, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom.

“All you need is love / All you need is love.”

Strumming his guitar, wind blowing through his stringy blond hair, Will was nineteen again in Tabby and Farouk’s bed. He moved like his joints weren’t groaning with every movement. He kissed with the passion of a boy discovering a woman’s body for the first time. He fucked with the vigor of a teenager who believes they’re immortal. Passion and pleasure. That’s all he sought in their bed, and that’s all he received. No caveats or hidden consequences, the sufferings and scars of adulthood forgotten. Will was back on the love train. And, this time, he was steering that shit.

Finally, the bodies found stillness. Six legs were tangled together like loosely braided hair. Sweat and semen dried out on wrinkled skin. Chests heaved up and down. Satisfied sighs warmed the air.

Will reached over to his discarded pants and pulled out a cigarette and lighter from the back pocket. “Anyone want a smoke?” he asked.

Tabby started giggling like a child who’d been offered sour candy. Farouk smiled at the sound of his wife’s laughter.

“Light it up, baby. Light it up.”

edited by aaron lelito

ii. taylor

written by rohan srinivasan

Windy days, rainy days, sunny days. All the same to Taylor. They would dress the part, put on the business casual costume of a working professional who needed to be at the office at eight o’clock sharp, and wait for the bus to arrive. It was a completely unnecessary venture, to say the least, since Taylor worked evenings (at a bar, that too—no pressed shirts needed) and hated waking up before eleven a.m. Usually, at this time, they would be fast asleep, shades drawn, white noise playing from their phone, two foster cats purring beside them.

But not on Thursdays. Thursday was the day of forcing their angry cats off of them, washing their face with ice-cold water, dressing in their thrifted suit, checking their appearance in the cracked bathroom mirror, and groggily walking to the bus stop five blocks away.

Yes, of course this was for a man. Why else would anyone act this insane?

This whole charade began with one of those inconvenient appointments, like a passport photo or a blood test, that you postpone making until it becomes absolutely critical. Taylor couldn’t tell you what they had to do that morning, but they could vividly remember the vulnerable slouch in their crush’s stance, his red-and-white checkered shirt drooping over his belt, his sweet eyes narrowed in on a book he was holding with one hand, his unbelievably pink cheeks, his bushy mustache. This man was not extraordinary by any means. But his unremarkable look, and his self-assuredness in being unremarkable, transfixed Taylor. Taylor missed their stop, only realizing their error once the man stepped off the bus in a wave of other commuters rushing to their offices.

From then on, Thursday mornings were a sacred time, blocked out from responsibility and sleep for the sake of delusion. Taylor wiped away their individuality, put on their commuting costume, blended in with the throng of corporate workers, all to snag an additional glance at the rosy-cheeked man and study the simplicity in his demeanor, his contentedness with his mundane, run-of-the-mill routine. They imagined his upbringing filled with friends and supportive parents and basketball trophies and pretty girlfriends and concerts and minimal anxiety for the future. They dreamed of his morning runs, his board game nights, his healthy home-cooked meals, his meet-cutes with uncomplicated women at the corner market. . ..

Thursday mornings, Taylor was the pursuer.

But at night, Taylor was the pursued, stalked by the man in the black trench coat—a man they swore was the devil.

Our story is about the devil. Fear, in my opinion, always makes a more interesting tale.

---

Taylor saw him for the first time while working a late shift in the Castro. Though they weren’t sure if this individual even was a “him”—political correctness aside. Taylor assumed it was a man, but they’d never been able to see his face clearly enough to confirm. All of the early sightings were splintered. The man was always in a far corner of the club, illuminated for a second, then shrouded by the dancing bodies, the neon strobe lights, the drinks thrown and spilled in the air. This Castro club—especially on a Friday night—did not want you to remember faces. Boys were filtering in and out, shifting around the dance floor, smooching a man they had made eye contact with at the urinals, gasping for air when a song they liked came on, smooching another man when that song ended, bumping into one of the friends they came with, pushing their way out for a cigarette break while the two men they were kissing started to grope each other, humping and grinding and wondering why their tongues had such a similar taste.

Working as a bartender, Taylor talked to hundreds of people a night but never made eye contact with them, looking instead at the flushed skin under their lower eyelashes. No point trying to decipher the color of their irises when the interaction would last a minute at most.

The only reason Taylor processed the devilish man, collected information about his appearance and stored it in the back of their cluttered mind, was because of his trench coat. Taylor was sweating from every pore possible. It was impossible not to with the amount of body heat stored in the confines of this sticky room. Taylor did a double take after this initial glance, pausing their pour and seeking another look at the idiot who would wear a thick coat in the club, parsing through the bodies and drinks and lights, before catching one more peek, even more brief than the last. He was wearing a fedora and black tinted glasses. His eyes might have been hidden, but Taylor knew he was looking directly at them. They felt it in the shiver running up their spine, the tremor in their hand. He smiled at Taylor, then disappeared behind the myriad of obstacles between the two of them. Taylor didn’t see him again that night, but the shiver they had felt stayed with them until they fell asleep. Taylor suspected that they had just stared into the face of pure evil. The monstrous level of fright Taylor encountered in that one stare convinced them that the devil’s heart held no complexity, no conflicted feelings, no hidden altruism, no traumatic backstory. Just sheer, terrifying, vicious, diabolical, despicable evil.

And Taylor—terrified as they were—couldn’t wait to see him again.

Fortunately, they wouldn’t have to wait long. He would appear back in Taylor’s life more than any man they’d ever dated.

Fear is a nasty emotion. The sad truth is that fear lies beneath all human decisions. Humans can choose to carry on with the way they live, but they’ll fear what they’re missing out on. They can have a wonderful life, but then they fear their happiness will be pulled out from under their feet. Even if you don’t actively seek it, fear will find you. And it can throttle you if you let it. But those who seek fear, whether it be by watching a horror movie, riding a towering rollercoaster, tiptoeing through a haunted house, or peering into the face of the devil—that’s a choice to take ownership of fear and have a fighting chance at conquering it. That’s a choice to feel, to experience, to live. But how does one know where to draw the line? Some humans crave the spike of adrenaline even more than they avoid it. The search for thrills guides them to make choices they know could result in grim consequences. Fear is an easy emotion. It’s fast. It’s available. Not like love, which blooms as slow and rare as an olive tree. Or hope, as fragile as expensive china. Ease—and the cursory intensity of fear—is what attracts thrill-seekers, Taylor being a prime example. For Taylor, experiencing an easy emotion was better than experiencing no emotion. And, no, it’s not because they were insane. It was a coping strategy Taylor had inadvertently picked up during childhood—all thanks to their mother.

But, dammit, I’m getting ahead of myself. I tend to do that. The drawback of eavesdropping on so many stories over the years is that I often lose track of how to order events. Bear with me, please, as I sift through my narration. The devil will have to wait. We’ve got to go back a few years first.

Back to the copper plains and dusty diners of O——, California. A town known to Northern Californian campers and Chico State students as a reliable, quiet rest stop. A place to grab a burger, fill up on gas, and promptly get the fuck out of. Yes, O—— was in the bum-fuck of Northern California, but it wasn’t a barren land. O—— had a Walmart (Taylor’s marker that they weren’t living in a third-world village), sports bars, enough cheap restaurants to have some variety in take-out meals. A long river tumbled over jagged stones at the edge of town, which Taylor would lay next to on hot, dry summer days, boiling in their own makeshift sauna, until a couple of horny teenagers would interrupt their solitude. But before the unwelcome company, Taylor would stretch out along the grassy bank and imagine all the people who had traveled along this river, floating along, never stationary. They would visualize gold miners back in the day wading through the water, shaking their glistening pans, tipping their straw hats over their sun-scathed foreheads, with the hope of striking it rich and moving to a luxurious city. History felt compressed in this town, since many houses still carried photos of generations past that had stubbornly lived and died in O——. You’d ask kindergartners where they wanted to be when they grew up, and about half of the class would proudly say O——. By high school, you’d get answers like New York City and San Diego muttered with scorn and frustration, since most knew the farthest city they’d end up in was Chico if they were lucky. Want? Oh, hell no, honey. Life is not about what you want. Life is about making do with the shitty cards you’re dealt.

A childhood strung together by extended-stay motel after extended-stay motel taught Taylor this lesson early on. For a while, Taylor was good about finding the silver lining. They would run around with the other motel kids, play freeze tag and four-square and (very aggressive) dodgeball. They’d make rounds to the rooms, asking the adults if they had any snacks. They’d lick dripping popsicles until their face was smothered in flavored sugar. They would consciously ignore the loud fights between tired parents as well as the drug deals happening behind the building. They would giggle with the teens poking needles into their bandaged arms, twerk to music riddled with profanity and misogynistic remarks. Childhood was fun—minus the constant fluctuation in housing. The inability to form lasting friendships damaged Taylor. Either they were moving to a new motel, or the friends they’d made had vanished by the following week. The decision to find new housing was so fast, so out of the kids’ control, that saying goodbye was usually not an option. Taylor was crushed by the first several moves, and they would spend the following days questioning if the relationship had meant anything to the other.

Detachment was the only solution. Taylor made it a point never to learn the other kids’ names. They would only refer to them as the “playmate for the week.” If they happened to stay the following week, great. If not, they would easily be replaced by the new kid who’d moved in. Taylor was mirroring their mother’s attitude toward people and homes, treating each week as transitory rather than a permanent state of life. Nancy was so adept at detaching herself from meaning that Taylor was never able to figure out what mattered to her, if anything at all. Taylor often wondered whether Nancy felt any form of love toward them, or if years of severing herself from emotional connection had permanently destroyed the intrinsic care she was supposed to feel toward her kid.

Not to say that Nancy was a bad mother. Far from it. Nancy worked ten hours a day, split between a diner and a retail store. Despite her meager salary, she still provided Taylor with a weekly allowance. It was a modest amount, obviously, but Taylor knew many kids whose parents would withhold money from them, guilting them if they ever asked for some. Taylor never had to worry about meals—Nancy would stock the mini-fridge with enough microwavable food to satiate Taylor’s hunger. Nancy never overshared with Taylor, never used them for forced therapy, never involved them in any sort of financial, medical, or housing decision. She would knit Taylor a sweater every Christmas and treat them to a relatively nice restaurant on birthdays. She was well aware of her parental duties and fulfilled them as responsibly as she could.

Almost like she had been handed an offer letter at Taylor’s birth, with strict terms and conditions and core motherly duties laid out, and since then, had been clocking in for her shift as a mother every morning, clocking out before bed. Each act of service was perfunctory, devoid of fondness. No kisses were given, no congratulatory remarks uttered. Birthdays at the restaurant were mostly silent—maybe a few logistical questions about Taylor’s failing grades. Once Taylor had finished their last bite, the bill was promptly paid and to-go boxes requested, the annual ritual completed to Nancy’s satisfaction. Not a second more was spent celebrating Taylor’s existence.

Taylor didn’t take Nancy’s attitude—or lack thereof—personally. The morning after her mother had passed away in a gruesome car accident, Nancy had headed to work with no change in expression or energy. There were no tears, just acceptance. By that evening, Nancy had already taken on the responsibility of sending out invites and booking caterers for the funeral.

Every night after work, regardless of the motel they were staying at, regardless of when she returned home, Nancy would wash her face, change, and carve out one hour of alone time for herself. She would grab her knitting needles, a ball of yarn, her lawn chair, and set up camp right outside the room. Taylor had spied on her after-work routine once and only once. They’d crouched underneath the window, peeked through the cracks between the curtains, and briefly stepped into their mother’s sanctuary of solitude. Taylor imagined that Nancy, who at all times either had their employee hat or mother hat on, would take this hour to decompress, to let her hair down, so to speak. Taylor was half right. Knitting was a charade, a preventative act to shut down any of Taylor’s curiosity, not that Taylor would ever ask Nancy about what she did during her alone time. Taylor watched Nancy furiously knit for ten minutes and make enough progress on her project so that when she came back inside, she could pretend to Taylor that she’d been working on it for the entire hour. After those ten minutes, Nancy rested the needles on her lap, discarded the yarn to the side of the chair, and silently stared out past the motel balcony into the pitch-black night sky. She didn’t play any music or tap her feet to disturb the silence; she didn’t budge at the annoying moth begging for her attention. Nancy was voluntarily immobile.

And it wasn’t the lack of activity that frightened Taylor. Taylor had never taken their mother to be an avid knitter, at least not avid enough to spend her precious hour of alone time working on a scarf that neither of them would wear. The eyes were what alarmed Taylor, making them vow never to spy on their mother again. Because even in Nancy’s hour of alone time, when no one (at least to her knowledge) was watching her, when she could slouch her shoulders, cry about the hardships of her day, point up to the sky and curse fate for putting her in this shitty position, and feel—oh my God, for once fucking feel something—her eyes were still as dry and vacant and apathetic as always. Taylor realized in that moment that the Nancy she saw day-to-day, the Nancy who remained impassive when a customer yelled at her, the Nancy who’d been unperturbed when Taylor’s father had harassed her with death threats—this was the only Nancy that existed. There was no other life force repressed in that body. Maybe at one point there had been—there had to have been—but something or someone, or an amalgamation of somethings and someones, had cruelly murdered that Nancy, replacing her soul with a lifeless, vacuous entity that would appear to be functioning well enough to those around her.

The eyes frightened Taylor, but they didn’t register that their eyes could also look that way one day. Not until Abigail Goldman’s pregnancy and Keith Monroe’s arrest in the ninth grade. Once Taylor witnessed their peers turn from hopeful kids to overburdened young adults, they realized that dreams were lies that teachers had fed kids to keep them from killing themselves too young. Dreams were only meant for those with money or accessibility or both. Over here in O——, a rest stop to a better destination, you had three options: work for pennies and be bitter about it, work for pennies and be delusional that one day you might not have to (you would always have to), or work for pennies and feel nothing. The first two options weren’t great, but the last one, fuck, the last one was horrifying. What were you, if you couldn’t feel? What was the point of living? Was it too late at that point to even consider saving yourself? Were you too hollow, too dispassionate, to even pick up and fire that gun? 

Taylor tried to hold on to hope that Nancy’s soul was salvageable. They flunked out of school, got offensive tats all over their body, came home plastered most nights—anything to get a reaction out of their aloof mother. But nothing could shake Nancy. Not even when she walked in on Taylor riding a fifty-year-old man on their bed. Nancy just held the door open while the man pushed Taylor off, grabbed his clothes, muttered something about not knowing Taylor’s true age (a lie), and fled. Without a word, Nancy started the shower and ushered Taylor inside. Taylor exited the bathroom five minutes later to find that Nancy had already changed the sheets and wiped away evidence of their sinful deed. The incident was only ever addressed again a week later when Nancy took Taylor for an HIV test. Once the results came back negative, Nancy put the matter to rest without any disciplinary action, without even a stock movie speech expressing that they’d expected better from Taylor.

Taylor wanted to scream at Nancy until their voice was hoarse, throw shit at her until she bled. But Taylor knew a tantrum would be pointless—no outburst would ever make that barren woman retaliate. God help them, Taylor would not turn into their mother. They would not give life the opportunity to mold them into another stone-hearted creature. So, when a band of boys passing through O—— offered Taylor a ride in the backseat of their musty, bong-filled R.V., Taylor hopped on without thinking twice, without even saying a goodbye to Nancy. They left behind the once gold-laden river and growing number of pregnant classmates, not following an artistic dream or any of that fictitious crap that guides small-town kids toward the big city. Taylor vowed to live in favor of adrenaline—no matter the source or the cost—afraid that if they didn’t keep up the momentum, their desire to feel would permanently be crushed, and one day they’d be sitting on a lawn chair outside a dingy motel room with emptier eyes than their mother’s.

---

The devil’s appearance was no surprise, really, given how erratically Taylor had been living. Taylor had expected him to show his face at some point. The question was not if, but when. And in true devil fashion, there was no rhyme or reason, no inciting incident as to why he had arrived on that specific day. He came when he felt like it, teasing and testing humans, and he left just as unexpectedly.

What threw Taylor for a spin was how standoffish he was. Taylor expected that when their choices finally reached a tipping point, the devil would embrace them with full force. But he only appeared to Taylor in tiny glances that could easily be confused for a trick of the eye. The devil pursued at a distance. Played hard to get. And Taylor must have never learned early on how to brush off a fuckboy, because they were immediately enchanted. They yearned for a more regular appearance rather than sporadic one-off sightings. They wanted a closer look, maybe even a touch, just so they could experience what his wickedness felt like. The obsession multiplied, and Taylor lived in service of this mania. Cruising around the city, searching for pockets of privacy in Buena Vista or dingy, under-the-radar parties in dark rooms, dropping their pants and waiting for a hand to grab their ass, never turning around through the act, relishing the intense thrill of not knowing who was entering them. And on their days off, working their way through the Castro clubs, loading up on a random dealer’s ket and blow. Speed, too, if they were really feeling it. Taylor was toying with the tough line between life and death, sensation and delirium, challenging their resilience.

But under those strobe lights, while Taylor twirled their naked torso, basking in the unrelenting thump thump thump in their ears, the warm sweat stinging their eyes, their racing heart (how the hell had it not exploded yet?), all they could think of was how good it would feel to scream at the top of their lungs:

FUCK YOU NANCY FUCK YOU LOOK AT ME NOW BITCH LOOK AT HOW MUCH I’M FEELING LOOK AT ME BURSTING WITH FEELING I’M OVERFLOWING WITH IT FEELING MORE IN ONE SECOND THAN YOU HAVE EVER FELT IN YOUR PATHETIC LIFE LOOK AT ME DANCING AND FUCKING AND LIVING WHILE YOU SIT ON THAT LAWN CHAIR AND ROT

But they didn’t say any of that out loud. They just seductively winked at the devil hovering in the corner, then proceeded to black out for the rest of the night.

Contact wasn’t made until Taylor woke up one night to the sound of sirens racing past them. Once the ambulance passed, they found themselves shivering on the sidewalk near Twin Peaks, swallowed up by hazy fog. The bars along Castro Street were all shut, the strip sucked dry of noise and exhilaration, the mounted pride flags dark and asleep. Taylor wiped away the dried vomit streaking their cheek. A light drizzle broke through the mist, masking the foul smell of Taylor’s tequila-stained clothes. They were disoriented, nauseous, and unbelievably sober—a harsh kick in the chest after climaxing from their high.

One other creature was on this deserted road. Across the street, under the misty, faint glow of a street lamp, was the devil. Face covered by a tilted fedora, a long trench coat hiding his figure, completely dry despite the raindrops splattering around him. Taylor sat up, surprised by his assertiveness. They had come to expect the devil only in the corner of their eye. Every sighting before this must have been a warning. This was the real deal. This was Taylor’s judgement day, and a grand punishment had to be awaiting them. If the devil was accounting for all of their recklessness—not just from the past night—Taylor expected absolutely no mercy.

The devil took one step toward them. Then another. Taylor’s heart was pounding, anxiety heightening as he came closer and closer. But Taylor hated themselves because, goddammit, mixed with the dread and apprehension was uncouth, titillating excitement. Taylor wanted to cast off their enjoyment at his approaching stride, but they couldn’t. They’d trained themselves to derive pleasure from alarm. So, the corrupt, unbalanced mixture of emotions, defying everything they knew to be virtuous and good, proliferated through their fingertips, rocketing through nerve endings they didn’t even know they had. Bam, pop, kaboom, baby!

He was now less than a foot away. Taylor tilted their head to look up at him, but his face was shadowed by his hat. Taylor was crying at this point—blubbering, more like it—salty tears mixing with the salty rain, every inch of their body vibrating with fierce desire. They didn’t even know what they were lusting for. But they were shamelessly begging, repeating please please, while he just stood as still as a statue.

 Finally, his head lifted. His illuminated face escaped the hat’s shadow, and Taylor fell back with shock.

The devil—the creature they’d assumed to have horns and a wicked sneer—was completely unremarkable. Your average San Francisco everyman. Joe Schmoe. A man with pale skin and pink cheeks and a bushy mustache you would see on the bus and think to yourself, I bet his life is perfectly uncomplicated.

And the kindness in the devil’s expression, the tenderness in his eyes, sucked out all of Taylor’s excitement, leaving behind unadulterated terror in its wake. No amount of recklessness or risk could ever imitate this level of fear. Because when you’ve grown up like Taylor, in a family devoid of attachment, in motel after motel, the thing you fear most is a loyal hand reaching out to you, caressing your hardened cheek, professing love and care for you, only you, without any deceit.

Despite Taylor’s trepidation, they leaned against the devil’s hand, pressed their cheek against warm clouds, and let him gently guide them to a dream of daisies and daffodils, a family cottage rooted deep in the earth’s soil, a firm bed with white sheets, a mother who anchored her arm around them and whispered sweet nothings in their ear.

Intoxicated by the devil’s touch, Taylor thought to themselves that maybe next Thursday morning they would enter the bus without a costume. They would choose a seat next to him, build up the courage to initiate a conversation. Calmly, of course—not rushed like the thrills Taylor chased otherwise. They would ignore the other stumbling passengers shifting around them, remaining devoted to the charming sounds coming out of his lips. Maybe next Thursday they would finally be ready. Maybe . . .

edited by aaron lelito

i. nina

written by rohan srinivasan

The townhouse was smaller than advertised. Quainter, perhaps. But credit for charm (of which there was little) would have to be given to the eclectic collection of potted plants gracing the stairs to the front door, not the dilapidated, nauseating, mint-green pile of wood Nina saw before her. She figured it was too late to back out of the lease, and even if the landlord agreed, Nina wouldn’t be able to accept the generous offer. The security deposit and first two months were already paid for, as her depleted bank account would annoyingly remind her through automated texts. She was stuck here.

Oh, well. A rightful punishment for signing a Craigslist lease without touring first. Nina had seen the post advertising a private bedroom with monthly rent under $1,000—an unheard of price in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. She’d reached out immediately, and by the end of the day, her signature had sealed her fate. What she had foolishly missed in the post was that all five tenants would be sharing one bathroom. The following day, when she took a closer look at the listing’s photos, she balked at the worn-out furnishings, which could have very well been from the mid-1900s. Grime coated the cabinets, and an unsanitary amount of clutter littered the living room. Nina had wept staring at these photos, but she knew better than anyone that her housing crisis was immediate. She didn’t have a friendly couch to crash on.

“Trust me, it ain’t gonna change the more you stare at it.”

Nina flinched, jolted by the interruption. The voice came from a fairly young (couldn’t have been older than twenty-five), tatted-up, gender-ambivalent individual sprawled out on the street curb. They had shaggy, red-streaked hair and an exorbitant number of facial piercings, which Nina found rather distasteful. They wore a black crop top, baggy jeans, and thin black shades. Sitting beside them was a pre-teen boy with poofy hair, dressed head-to-toe in Golden State Warriors apparel, ogling Nina.

“What—how—how long have you been watching me?” asked Nina.

“Pretty much since you parked your U-Haul,” said the older one. “Was gonna offer help, but you seemed to be in your zone. Plus, I’m pretty damn comfortable here.”

Nina glanced at the boy, who was practically drooling while watching her. The older one noticed and smacked the pre-teen’s head.

“Get a hold of yourself, fool,” they said. “I already told you to stop bothering me and go home.” To Nina, they said, “Ignore him.”

“My mom ordered me out of the house,” whined the boy.

“So? That’s doesn’t mean you gotta come annoy me.”

“Where do I go?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“You’re mean.”

“Oh, girl, you haven’t seen the half of it. Be useful and go carry her things in.”

The boy jumped up, excited to have been given a task, and ran over to the stack of boxes by Nina. He grabbed one and goofily grinned at her.

“Oh, you really don’t need to—,” said Nina.

“I don’t mind,” he said, “I’m Damian, by the way. I live down the street.”

“Nina.”

“And that bully over there is Taylor,” said Damian, scowling at the tatted individual.

“You keep that up, and I’m not watching Big Bang Theory with you tomorrow,” said Taylor.

Damian huffed. He stumbled toward the front door, inundated with the weight of the box.

“Take it to Unit Two,” yelled Taylor.

“He really doesn’t need to do this,” said Nina, once Damian left. “I can move myself in.”

“It’s good for him. He’d be gooning to porn otherwise.”

Nina grimaced at the vulgar comment. She was finding Taylor more off-putting by the minute. “Are you my new housemate?”

“One of ’em. Unit Four. Been here about a year now.”

“How are the others?”

“Units Three and Five were here before me. Unit Three barely leaves his room, so I don’t know much about him. Stay the fuck away from Unit Five. She’s insane. Though not as crazy as the guy who lived here before you,” said Taylor, shuddering.

“What was wrong with him?”

“All I’ll say is that we dated. Big fucking mistake. Things went south, of course. He got obsessive. We had to force him to move out, then changed all the locks once he left. He’d keep trying to break in to his old room.”

“What? You mean my room?”

“Don’t stress. Been a week since his last attempt. Maybe just sleep lightly for the first few days.”

Nina was speechless, sputtering incoherent syllables. Taylor, though, behaved like they’d said nothing out of the ordinary, prattling on about the final roommate in Unit One, “… moved in around a few months ago. He has this moody, mysterious vibe. But he’s pretty friendly and your age, I think. You’re around thirty, right? Anyway, he’s a musician, so you’ll hear a lot of him fiddling with his keyboard, especially since y’all share a wall. Usually, the sort of thing that would annoy the shit out of me, but he’s actually kinda talented. Hot, too. But don’t you dare tell him I said that . . . You okay? You’re white as a ghost.”

“S-sorry. I’m still thinking about the previous tenant.”

Damian returned outside and nudged Taylor with his foot. “It’s one-o-clock.”

Taylor groaned. “Fuck the fucking capitalist system.”

Nina looked at Damian questioningly. Damian whispered, “They have work.”

“Work? Work? No, you silly, naïve child. Not just work. Prison!”

“You work at a bar.”

“If I have to clock-in, it’s jail.” Taylor leapt up and pranced to the door. They paused and turned to Nina. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Nina. Nina Veluri.”

“Neee-naaa,” said Taylor, elongating the syllables. “I dig it. Welcome to the crib, Nina.”

“Thanks.”

Taylor turned to Damian. “Punk. Coming for breakfast tomorrow? I’m making omelets.”

“Last ones tasted like rubber,” said Damian.

“Jesus. Ungrateful much?”

“I’ll still come.”

“Girl, we knew,” said Taylor. They blew Nina a kiss and disappeared inside.

Damian reached for another box. Nina pulled him back and said, “It’s alright. I got it.”

“I want to,” said Damian. “I have nowhere else to be.”

“It’s a Saturday. You should be home watching TV or something.”

“My mom doesn’t like me there when her boyfriend’s over.”

Nina nodded, surmising from Damian’s glum expression that this was a sensitive topic. “I would appreciate the help, but I don’t want you to feel forced.”

“I don’t!”

Nina smiled. She lifted a box, struggling to hold it upright, and followed Damian to the front door.

As the duo entered, Taylor flew past them, bundled in an all-black uniform, screaming that the bus had left and cursing Damian for not warning them of the time earlier. Taylor had just made it out the door when they called back to Nina, proposing a wine-night later that week. Before Nina could follow up and ask which day, Taylor was out of earshot, sprinting down the sidewalk.

“Are they always this . . ?”

“Chaotic? Oh, yeah,” said Damian. “But you’ll fall in love with them soon enough. Everyone does.”

---

Nina’s room was on the second floor. The first floor contained a fruit fly-contaminated kitchen and a connected living room with a stained brown couch. Nina took one look at the filthy common space and rushed up to the second floor. To the right of Nina’s room was the singular shared bathroom for the house, and across the hall was Unit One. Nina didn’t venture to the third floor, but she assumed that there wasn’t much to see there besides the other three tenants’ rooms.

After Nina and Damian finished carrying all the boxes in, Damian settled on the first floor couch to play iPhone games. Nina ripped all the duct tape off the boxes and unpacked as many items as she could. She began to organize them based on where she would place them in her room—clothes by the shabby chest of drawers (there was no closet), books in the far corner where she imagined placing a small bookshelf, wall decorations to the right. But Nina was soon exhausted navigating her bulky items in the cramped, stuffy space. The room didn’t have a built-in fan or A.C. unit, and she couldn’t figure out how to crack open the window. She wondered how much time had passed since she’d started unpacking. Her window faced the fire escape of another building, blocking out any impression of the sun, and her phone was lost in the disarray. She had to search through a pile of clothes to find her misplaced device and was shocked to see that it had only been half an hour since Damian had left her alone.

Nina couldn’t stand another second in the room, deciding it was high time for a break. She attempted to use the bathroom before leaving, but after encountering the piss-stained toilet seat, she decided her bladder could wait a little longer. She made a mental note to find a convenience store later that day and buy every possible cleaning product available.

Waving bye to Damian, Nina exited the townhouse and inhaled the invigorating San Francisco air. It was a bright day, and the gentle breeze fluttered through Nina’s curls. She tied her hair up and strolled down a row of townhouses, all shapes and sizes, pink and purple and magnolia, like enlarged figurines in a little girl’s doll house. She passed record shops, tattoo parlors, thrift stores, psychedelic murals, and anti-I.C.E. posters. She continued down a couple of blocks to a nearby stop for the N Judah line, grabbing a steaming cup of hot chocolate along the way. She waited at the curb, closing her eyes, embracing the warmth of the cup in her hand, unraveling at the touch of the sun’s rays. She loosened her scarf and unbuttoned her peacoat, relishing the graceful motion of her clothes waltzing with the wind.

The Muni train—a modern version of a cable car—rolled in front of her, and she stepped on. She paid the Muni fee with her credit card but noticed that the other passengers were bypassing the machine, as if it were a donation box rather than a fee collector. Once settled on a seat by the window, she pulled out her pocket journal, flipping to a scribbled list of San Francisco restaurants she’d seen online and had wanted to try.

The move to San Francisco was recent (she’d driven her U-Haul up from Los Angeles that morning itself), but she had been dreaming of living in this city for quite some time, filling her room with posters of Golden Gate Bridge and watching Full House until she could recite the dialogue by heart. Pinpointing when her obsession with this city began was impossible. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t fantasized about moving here. Nina still fondly thought of her early visits as a child, recollecting the snippets and shards of walking along an oceanside trail, browsing dusty piles in a used bookstore, smelling fragrant pastries while passing a rustic, locally owned café. She had always been enamored by the charm and natural beauty of the city. Beauty that arose from the jagged cypress trees, the miles of secluded parks and colorful Victorian townhouses, the unintended glimpses of the ocean on steep hills.

And the city’s light. Oh, the light! The way sunshine struck San Francisco, how it lovingly conversed with faces and buildings. Like a blonde roast on a Saturday morning, or an acoustic guitar humming slow jams. Delicate, romantic—comparable to a playful kiss on the neck. Los Angeles’s light, on the other hand, was harsh and percussive, a rough fuck on a Friday night. Satisfying at times, oppressive at others.

Nina had tried explaining this opinion to Vishal when she’d been debating between UCSF and UCLA for medical school. He’d laughed at her, asserting that she was “pulling shit out of her ass” to get him to move. His dismissiveness had been tangled in a much larger fight: he’d said that she was making matters more complicated than they needed to be, especially since she’d been admitted to a school in a city where they were already settled, where their parents and close-knit group of family friends resided. Ultimately, she had listened and chosen UCLA. A repeat of undergrad, when she’d chosen USC over UC Berkeley so that she could attend the same college as Vishal.

Irony, of course, had reared its head in the end. From her vigilant online stalking, Nina had discovered that Vishal had taken up a new job and moved to Chicago the previous month. An almost comical ending to their story. Such is life.

The Muni slid underground, rocking and thrusting through narrow tunnels. Nina planned to get off at Powell Station and walk to a restaurant in North Beach’s Little Italy. Afterward, she would grab a drink at an upscale cocktail bar and then stroll to the Embarcadero—possibly even the Ferry building—if the sun hadn’t yet set.

A bus ride later, Nina was sitting at a corner table in the back of a cozy, family-owned restaurant. Italian singers crooned over the speakers as she dipped fresh Ciabatta in olive oil. She was seated at that odd time between lunch and dinner when only a few stragglers were dining. She hadn’t brought an activity with her, so she pulled out her pocket book and flipped to the very end, the only remaining blank page. She began this entry the same way she had all the others: addressed to Vishal.

V––

Walked around North Beach today. Thinking about our trip here when we were kids. Remember how you threw up on me after eating that horrible Chinese food? Don’t say you’ve forgotten. I definitely haven’t. I had to continue walking around the city with vomit on my sweatshirt. Think I told my parents we had to stop being family friends after that. Who knew that years later we would be visiting this city again to scope out potential wedding venues.

I wonder how there could have been a point in my life when I didn’t love you. Loving you was second nature. As easy as waking up and brushing my teeth. My day couldn’t begin until I received your good morning text. You were so good at sending those to me up until the last couple months. I don’t think I ever told you how happy they made me. I just assumed you knew.

But during our trip as adults, the one where we walked around for five hours and you gave me that life-changing foot massage when we returned to the hotel, you said that San Francisco was the most cuffed-up city you’d ever been to. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I had you, so other couples were irrelevant. Guess it’s those goggles that come in a relationship. You notice only what you want.

All I could see today was others in love. Guys kissing their girlfriends’ foreheads. Carrying their purses. Holding hands.

I wanted you there. Screw the breakup. I wanted your hand in mine. Your lips whispering those stupid nicknames you made up for me. I wanted to gossip about the other couples. Walk through stores with you. Shop for you. Shop for your mom. Eat dinner with you across the table, feel your hand on my thigh under the cloth . . ..

I’m eating alone now. I purposely chose a time when no one else would be here. I’m too embarrassed to dine without you. I swear everyone knows you broke my heart. Which you did. You broke my heart, long before you ended it. V, I need you to acknowledge that just once. Just admit that I wasn’t enough for you—

“No way! Nina?”

Nina’s hand froze. No. This was not happening. Not while she was hiding out in a corner of an unassuming restaurant, in the middle of the afternoon, in a city three-hundred miles away from where she’d grown up. Fate really was a cunt.

Nina looked up from her pocket book, and sure enough, Manasi and—to add on to the already unpleasant surprise—Kritika were walking over to her table. Manasi was excitedly marching over, but Kritika was reluctantly following behind, avoiding eye contact with Nina. Both were completely dolled up, with press-on eyelashes and professionally curled hair, wearing long navy blue dresses. Nina’s mind raced, trying to recall if any important family-friend events were taking place in San Francisco at this time. Kamala’s baby shower should have already happened. Nalini and Dhruv’s wedding was the following year. Had it really been that long since she’d lost contact with them? Were there already events taking place that she didn’t know about?

“Eating all alone?” asked Manasi, her head cocked to the side, overexaggerated sympathy dripping out of every syllable. Nina surmised that Manasi, who—for as long as Nina had known her—had never been in a relationship and was perpetually jealous of those who had been, was delighted at having found Nina on her own.

“Hey,” said Nina, chuckling awkwardly. “Just exploring my new city.”

“I heard from Swathi Aunty you were moving up here! How’s it been?”

“First day.”

Manasi laughed, a throaty, attention-seeking cackle that Nina had always hated. “How funny! What are the chances we run into you today of all days?”

“Wondering the same thing.”

Manasi plopped herself on the seat opposite Nina. Kritika was hanging back, rocking on her heels, looking like she would rather be anywhere else. Nina was glad to know she made Kritika uncomfortable. Served her right for ghosting Nina after the breakup.

Manasi reached over and grabbed a slice of Ciabatta, messily dipping it in the tray of oil. “God, we’re so hungry,” she said, chewing on a mouthful of bread. “Been running around all day and the engagement is taking place in less than an hour. We just had to grab something.”

“Engagement?” repeated Nina.

Manasi stopped chewing, staring at Nina incredulously. “Oh my God! You don’t know!” Manasi glanced back at Kritika. “Kriti, that’s crazy, right? Doesn’t it feel like Tanuj and Anya have been together forever? But, yeah, I guess it’s only been a few months.”

Nina’s heart lurched. Tanuj? Engaged?

Manasi continued, “Oh, it all moved very fast. He started seeing this girl, Anya—she’s a friend of a friend. It was going really well, but then he got a new job up here in San Mateo. They didn’t wanna do long distance without commitment, so he just said, ‘fuck it,’ and proposed. He’s always been spontaneous, hasn’t he? And I think Anya’s moving up to the Bay pretty soon. You might see them around. Didn’t Swathi Aunty tell you any of this?”

“Mom and I aren’t really on speaking terms. As I’m sure you know.”

Manasi reached over and held Nina’s hand. Nina wanted to fling that grubby, oily hand off but simply grimaced. She hoped that if she played it cool, Manasi would lose interest and leave her alone.

“Hang in there, sweetie. If it helps . . . hmm, maybe I shouldn’t.” Manasi looked back at Kritika, whispering, “Should I tell her?”

Kritika’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “Let’s get going. We’re going to be late.”

Manasi smirked. “Oh my God, relax, bitch. I wasn’t going to tell her that.” Back to Nina, Manasi said, “Hon, your parents are here.”

“W-what?” mumbled Nina, dazed.

“They’re here for the engagement party.”

“But they didn’t text me.”

“Maybe they thought you would be busy with the move.”

“I would have made time.”

Manasi rubbed Nina’s hand. “Nina, sweetie, you have to understand their side. You made mistakes that impacted their closest friendships. Vishal’s parents literally just started talking to them again. Plus, you dropped out of med school without even consulting them. Listen, I’m not judging you. But you have to accept that you’ve made some shitty choices—”

“Manasi,” said Kritika sharply. “Stop.”

“I’m trying to help her see both sides.”

“You’re not. You’re just being mean.”

Manasi inhaled sharply. “Kriti!”

“Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”

Manasi seemed ready to fire back. After a moment, she decided otherwise and stood up. “At least let me order some takeout.”

“Fine. But we’re heading out after.”

Manasi thinly smiled at Nina. “Good seeing you, hon.” She brushed past Kritika and muttered, “You two sure have a lot to catch up on.”

Once Manasi was out of earshot, Nina said, “She hasn’t changed.”

“Not in the slightest,” replied Kritika.

They smiled at each other.

“How are you?” asked Kritika softly.

“Been better.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Um, if you’d like.”

“Is Vishal . . . ?”

“He’s here.”

“Really?”

“He and Tanuj patched things up. He’s actually going to be a groomsman.”

Nina laughed. “And here I am, eating alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. As Manasi said, I made some shitty choices.”

“Still . . . I don’t know what I would have done if my boyfriend of twelve years asked to be open.”

“Doubt you would have revenge-fucked his best friend.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

Kritika turned away, then paused. She clenched her fists and faced Nina. “I should tell you something . . . I moved to Chicago.”

“Congrats?”

“Vishal and I . . .”

Nina’s voice caught in her throat. “O-oh.”

“I swear it was unexpected. He just opened up to me a lot after the breakup. And one thing led to the next. I never thought, and I promise, I never had these feelings when you two . . . I mean, you were such a close friend. We grew up like sisters.”

“You don’t need to explain. Vishal and I are broken up. And you and I don’t talk anymore.”

“I guess, but . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I . . . I don’t know what I was going to say. What are you thinking?”

“That this has to be the most incestuous friend group ever. Like we really don’t know how to date outside of each other.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what exactly?”

“Um . . . how things turned out.”

“I’m surprised you agreed to be open. You don’t seem the type.”

“Actually,” said Kritika, her voice barely audible, “Vishal and I are exclusive.”

Nina smiled. “Gotcha.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I wish you two the best.”

Kritika nodded. “And you . . . I hope . . . take care of yourself, Nina.” She turned away from Nina’s table and walked over to Manasi, who was waiting for her food.

Nina tried to ignore them and focus on the spaghetti she’d ordered. But her meal was flavorless, ruined by the news Kritika had shared with her. The excitement of being in San Francisco, of being able to call her dream city home, was fading away, replaced by the fatigue from the drive, as well as her repulsion with her new living conditions. She fought back tears, aware that Manasi and Kritika were only a few feet away and probably stealing glances at her. She couldn’t compose herself enough to stand up and walk out.

Nina was reminded of how she’d felt after Vishal had stormed out of their apartment. She had been glued to her bed, unable to lift herself up to even brush her teeth. After a month of spending most days in the apartment—and of missing every class and exam possible—she left UCLA, seeing no point in grinding for a future that Vishal wouldn’t be involved in. Besides, she had only been pursuing medicine because she’d wanted a career Vishal—and her parents—could be proud of.

She should have moved to San Francisco then and there. Or picked up another job. But she didn’t. She stayed in her room, running through her Brentwood lease for eight more months, praying for Vishal’s return. She only snapped back to reality when her landlord notified her that her lease was up and that she would have to move out in a week. It was clear by that point Vishal wasn’t coming back. Nina’s parents, who had openly called her a whore, refused to help out. Her friends had proven they didn’t give a shit, taking Vishal’s side immediately after the breakup without offering to hear her out once.

Yes, Nina had somehow pulled herself together to find a new place. She’d made the decision to move to San Francisco and start fresh. But she didn’t have a job here. She didn’t have any idea what she wanted to do with her life, now that medical school was off the table. She had no friends in this city who would come to her aid when unhappy thoughts weighed her down. Oh God, what had she done to herself? How had her life so cunningly escaped from her control?

Nina was jolted out of her thoughts, noticing that Kritika and Manasi were heading out. Against her better judgement, Nina quickly stood up and paid in cash, without waiting for change. She followed the two women from a distance, hiding behind pedestrians and delaying turns around empty corners.

Eventually, Kritika and Manasi slowed their pace outside of a hotel. Nina remained on the opposite side of the street, concealed by a large decorative plant that graced the entrance of a restaurant. A mob of familiar faces, dressed in tuxes and saris and fancy dresses, stood on the sidewalk, organizing themselves for a group photo. Nina recognized Tanuj and Dhruv and Kamala and Nalini. And she saw her parents, smiling and chatting with other guests. Nina’s dad let out his signature bellowing laugh—oh, how Nina had missed that laugh, remembering how, when she was a child, she would eagerly wait for him to return from work, just so she could feel the house shake with joy.

And then there was Vishal. Hair slicked back, stroking his groomed beard (Nina had always told him he looked better with facial hair), wearing a fitted blue suit. His other arm was thrown around Tanuj, the man he had sworn he would kill not even a year back. Vishal caught sight of Manasi and Kritika and waved them over. Manasi took her place at the edge of the group, next to the other single women. But Kritika weaved her way toward Vishal, burrowing herself in his arms. He kissed her on the forehead. Whispered something in her ear. Something sweet enough to make her giggle and playfully slap his chest.

The photographer backed into the street, holding up his hand to pause traffic. “Say cheese in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

Nina didn’t stay any longer. She slipped out from behind the tall plant and walked away. The group might have seen her—they were facing her direction—but she didn’t care. She knew none of them would attempt to stop her.

Nina resolved to spend the rest of the afternoon as she’d planned. She walked along the Embarcadero, right by the bay. A moody navy blue sky, dim and silent, washed the hues of sunset away, spilling down to the twinkling lights across the Bay Bridge. A wicked wind whipped Nina’s hair and sent shivers down her spine.

Soon, the faint call of a saxophone lured Nina, and she followed the melody until she found a street musician, leaning against a railing over the water, silhouetted against the dark sky, swinging his body to the slow, sensual, somewhat melancholic tune. Others intermittently halted, pausing for a few seconds before continuing their walk. But Nina stayed put, swaying in place, marveling at the somber beauty, the sophisticated romance, of the instrument.

Nina decided that this enchanting saxophone player was what she would associate with her first day living in the city. She was determined to reclaim this day as a happy one. If she tried hard enough, concentrated on this moment and blocked out the rest, Nina was sure she could. Years later, when Nina was at a dinner party, recounting her abrupt move to a circle of close friends she had yet to meet, she would describe the magic of her first evening out on the Embarcadero. Tell them the saxophone’s call was the beacon of hope she needed to persevere, proof that a second shot at happiness was possible.

She hoped that would be the story she would tell.

When the song ended, Nina applauded and dropped a tip in the musician’s hat. He held a hand over his heart, then patiently eased into his next tune.

On the walk back to the Muni station, Nina ripped out her San Francisco bucket list, saving it in her jacket pocket, before tossing the rest of her pocket book—pages and pages of letters that would never be read—in the discarded rubble of a street trash can.

---

When she arrived back at the townhouse, Nina headed to the common bathroom, heaving bags of cleaning products she’d bought at the corner market. She opened the door and jumped back.

A man was already inside, gloves on his hands, mask on his face, scrubbing the toilet seat clean. The bathroom had undergone a significant transformation since Nina had seen it last. The grime and urine stains were nowhere in sight, and all of the toiletries were neatly stacked on the shelves. Nina wouldn’t go so far as to say the bathroom was sparkling clean, but it was pretty damn close.

The man spun around and straightened out. He slipped off his gloves, then removed his mask. He was tall and lean, handsome in a geeky way. His hair was braided into slim dreads, falling to the sides of his thin, rimless glasses.

“Sorry, just finishing up,” he said, his voice as deep as a chain-smoker, though much smoother.

“You beat me to it,” replied Nina, holding up her cleaning supplies.

“Shoot, did you see it already? I wanted to clean before you got here. Landlord told us you were coming today, but I thought you would arrive later.”

“I saw it and immediately left.”

The man sighed. “I have no clue how it gets so gross. I suspect Unit Five.”

“Is that the guy who doesn’t leave his room? Or the crazy lady?”

The man grinned, showing off crooked teeth, “I guess you talked to Taylor, then? Unit Five is the crazy one. Though, crazy is a strong word. I like to think she’s misunderstood.”

“Sweet of you.”

“I’m your neighbor across the hall,” he said, outstretching his hand then quickly retracting it. “I should probably wash that first.”

“Handshakes are so old-school anyway. I’m Nina.”

“Andre.”

“Nice to meet you. Glad to know I’m not the only one living here concerned with cleanliness.”

“I usually try to keep things in better condition, but I’ve been out in L.A. this week for a gig.”

“Gig?”

Andre blushed. “I’m a musician.”

“Yeah, Taylor mentioned that! I have to hear you play sometime.”

“You will, trust me. More than you’ll want to. If my music’s ever too annoying, just knock on my door, and I’ll stop.”

“I mean, if you’re good enough to get gigs in L.A. . . .”

Andre laughed. “Judge after you hear it. Anyway . . . let me get out of your hair.”

He squeezed past Nina through the tight doorframe. Nina could smell hints of peppermint gum on his breath.

Nina shut the door and inspected the toilet. Andre had done a much better job cleaning than she would have, even bringing back some of the white to the chipped, decaying ceramic bowl. Realizing that she had not used the restroom since the Italian restaurant, Nina undid her pants and sat on the toilet.

Her body took its sweet time warming up to the unfamiliar feel of the seat. After five or so minutes, Nina’s bladder finally started to unload, releasing the two glasses of wine she’d had at the restaurant, foregoing the day’s pain, its pinching resentment.

She traced the wall’s grooves and splintered cracks. Most marks were intentional—etched, scratched, maybe even knifed in—with messages that ranged from band names like the Grateful Dead to phrases like “love, sex, and rock and roll.” A few of them declared angrier sentiments such as “fuck war” and “death to capitalism.” There were images too: a heart, a skull, a cluster of mushrooms, an outline of a naked woman’s body, a peace sign. A rebellious tapestry, a modern art piece of wear and tear, stitched together by this enduring wall.

A mischievous smile formed on Nina’s lips. Shit, if this place was going to be her home, Nina was as much a part of this tattooed residence as every turbulent inhabitant who’d rebuilt themselves under this roof. No point avoiding the inevitable departure from convention, the yearning for anarchy bubbling under her skin.

Down the rabbit hole, as they say.

edited by aaron lelito