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