By Kendra Papanek
Huge thanks to my dear friend Jack Dickinson ‘27 for the cover image.
I.
The bed frame gives a benign, cheerful chirp as I slide off the mattress and trot over to the sink on my tiptoes as I usually do. I was too beside myself to remember to close the window last night, so I can hear the sound of Sunday morning’s emergencies while I wash the weekend away. The call of an ambulance wanes as it rushes by. I don’t recognize the dialect. The “wee” is the same length as the “woo.” And it’s a shrill one, too. Red eyes open. The sink is all choked up again. I don’t think she likes the taste of chunky mascara. I rest my convulsing hands against her cool, healthy skin. She doesn’t need concealer like I need concealer. I withdraw and shoot her an apologetic look, and she responds with a resentful gurgle as she finally swallows the cloudy water. At least she knows not to talk with her mouth full.
II.
I leave home and wait in the Metro’s hollow den with my feet pressed together and my lip quivering like a homesick child. I let my wet gaze waddle amongst sparse garbage nestled like plaque in the arteries of the track. I like to think that if I ran my hand along the third rail, I’d feel the mumbling of a heartbeat. The urge scuttles away to safety as the platform lights up and a train groans into view. She’s a new one. I can tell. I wonder if she and her sisters resent the voice that speaks for them with its inhuman timbre. I wonder if she, too, rouses in the fragile hours of the tar-black night and prays for a failure, a friend. I fix my foundation and let her cradle me. She whistles a tone-deaf tune and rocks me back in her warm, whispering womb, echoing beneath indifferent earth. She has a certain stench about her.
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