by Erica M Kim
“No problem. I’m sure you still have a lot to do before closing up,” he says. His eyes shut down, and whatever warmth was there just two seconds ago, is now gone. Disappointment washes over me, and I’m surprised by my reaction yet again. I am usually so annoyed by those persistent men who don’t get the message.
“Thanks again for taking Chase last minute. Have a good evening.” The once honeyed voice now sounds professional and distant. He promptly turns around to leave, but as he exits the shop, Chase tugs on his leash as if he is opposed to leaving the shop. His brown eyes beseechingly look at me, as if wondering why I’m not tagging along. Oh no, not you too! Chase’s reluctance to leave gives Lio enough reason to turn around and glance back at me. His eyes soften as we stare at each other too long for strangers that just met. I wonder what he’s thinking. He probably sees right through me. He probably sees a lonely girl looking at him, lost in a roaring sea of confusion and solitude. I turn around and head toward my office before he can see more.
3
You ever have one of those moments when one sad thought just snowballs uncontrollably, and soon you find yourself swimming in an ocean of self-pity? Yep, that’s exactly the type of party I threw myself tonight. While closing out the register, I feel the weight of depression settling deep within my heart. My arms feel heavy with grief. I dismissed Ramon before washing Chase, so I have the shop all to myself to mope about.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, tears well up in my eyes. One breaks the dam, and I feel a warm trickle fall down my left cheek before I can stop it. Why am I crying? The last time I shed tears was on the first anniversary of my parents passing—I was nineteen years old. One year of endless tears. That’s all I granted myself.
As I do one final clean around the shop, I ruminate over why I feel this sadness. I have bottled up every single emotion that I felt since my parents’ death, and more or less, removed myself from all situations that required attachment to anyone. This is the life I must live. If a monster is going to emerge from me every full moon, it’s best for me to stay away from people I care about. It will save me from more heartbreak. It’s the most logical thing to do. I begin to scrub the floors with conviction.
I’ve come to accept my lone-wolf status a long time ago. Not only accept it but truly embrace it. Loneliness is not a haunted shadow to run from, but my dearest, closest friend.
But for some reason, Lio triggered something in me today, unraveling a tightly wound and caged emotion in my soul. Beyond my attraction to him, there was something about his thoughtfulness and goodness that gave me a glimmer of hope. A hope that can’t exist. I don’t deserve happiness and above all, love.
And now, more than anything, I am absolutely fucking furious. Furious at the injustice of my life. Furious at my loneliness. Furious at my ferocity.
I remember the first time when the changes started happening after I experienced my first menstruation. My mother and father were wonderful parents: thoughtful, fair, considerate, and above all else, unconditionally loving.
For the most part, I was a happy, untarnished toddler. Admittedly, I had my fair share of temper tantrums, stubbornness, and crying spells when I was young, but never beyond an ordinary toddler’s emotional range. In fact, my parents once told me that I was more mature compared to most of their friends’ children and that I was easy to reason with. I’m glad I gave them some semblance of peace before what was to come.
As I got older, the other kids started noticing something different about me, but no one could quite pinpoint why. I was a weirdo, and I just never fit in. It didn’t bother me too much, and I chose to live in the imaginary world of books instead.
Then, it all began. In middle school, when I was fourteen, I vividly recall the excitement in my voice as I called my mother from school to announce that I have officially reached womanhood. It was something girls were simultaneously embarrassed about and also proud of. This was one of the most exciting days of my life. Silly, huh?
I came home early that day after the school nurse gave me some feminine products. My mother was out with her friends for a luncheon and rushed home with a bouquet of pink tulips to congratulate me. She knew how anxious I had been. I was so happy with my body, even though I wasn’t too thrilled with the throbbing, dull pain that besieged my lower abdomen.
Later that week, when the moon turned bright and full, something happened. My emotions began to run wild. It was as if something deep within me, the very core of my being, snapped. It unleashed a feral, darker side of me that could not be reasoned with, let alone, controlled. It was almost as if I had split into dual personalities, and my once rational, self-composed person fought unequivocally with a fiercely violent, uncontrollable other half. The smallest tasks, such as homework, upset me beyond reason. I once threw an entire set of precious china onto the living room floor because my mother told me to turn off the television.
Once the full moon passed, I could not explain nor fathom why I had behaved so badly. I apologized, wholeheartedly and wretchedly to my parents. They let go of my poor behavior and attributed it to my raging hormones. They actually dealt with this new side of me fairly well. They were so kind.
But then it happened again. And again. And again. And it only worsened. Every time the moon shone full and lit the night sky, a new, darker side of me that overrode everything that I ever was, came out to play. It was menacing, unbelievably frightening, and cruel.
For several years when I was a teenager, my parents carefully evaluated me, taking me from one doctor to another, followed by more psychiatric analysis. A part of me knew that they were scared, unsure of what was wrong with me. They never told me what answers they were looking for, and I never learned why I am the way that I am. And now, it’s too late for me to ask them anything.
4
After thoroughly cleaning the shop, I change into workout gear, lace up my sneakers, and head out toward the ocean for a run. The colors of dusk paint the sky in stunning shades of deep purple, pink, and orange. The sound of crashing waves soothes my soul. I drive my legs harder against the asphalt road as I shed all feelings of remorse and sorrow behind. I’ve always turned to exercise as a way to escape, and today is no different. With each step, my body feels lighter, free again of burden. After a solid hour of running, I head back to the shop, and I feel like myself again. Which is to say, I feel nothing at all.
On Thursday nights, after my workout, I usually watch my favorite show, eat a medium-rare, USDA prime ribeye steak, with a side of buttered carrots and peas, and a salad with ranch dressing. My metamorphosing nature keeps me on a strict regimen, and I have my entire week planned out to the minute. I cannot stray. This is my attempt to ingrain some sort of order and stability into my life. It’s a bit self-loathing and very boring, but I am disciplined. I discovered when I was eighteen, that routines are my best friend.
And that’s why declining Lio’s invitation should have been no big surprise. It’s not a part of my routine, and he’s not a part of my stability. I let out a sigh as I try to force this mantra onto my stubborn heart.
After dinner, over a glass of pinot noir, I check my inbox and notice a newly arrived email from a name I don’t recognize. It’s been a few months since my last job, and I feel a twinge of excitement pass through my nerves. I welcome the distraction with open arms. Anything that doesn’t have to do with the pity party I haplessly threw for myself this evening. Plus, it is frankly always easier to go through a full moon phase with an assignment. Sitting at home during the phasing is absolutely torturous and sometimes expensive when I have to replace the furniture that I obliterated in the process.
The sender’s name is Markus Sirelle, and the subject reads “Full Moon.” Well, at least he doesn’t beat around the bush.
From: Markus Sirelle
To: Lunis Kendall
Date: Thursday, January 6
Subject: Full Moon
Lunis,
My name is Markus Sirelle. My friend, Aleksei Sokolov, told me
about you. He had nothing but the best words to describe your talents and capabilities during your assignment two years ago. I would like to hire you during the next full moon, which is in precisely fourteen days. Please let me know when you are available so we can meet to discuss the job.
Best regards,
Markus
I am immediately wary of Markus’s mention of Aleksei Sokolov. Although the assignment ended successfully, Aleksei is a shady bastard, and I don’t plan on ever partnering up with him, or the likes of him again. Despite my hesitation, I respond.
From: Lunis Kendall
To: Markus Sirelle
Date: Thursday, January 6
Subject: Re: Full Moon
Markus,
Let’s meet tomorrow at Urth Café in Santa Monica. I’ll be there at noon.
-Lunis
With that, I snap my laptop shut and glance at the clock. 10:30 p.m. Time to read for half an hour then off to Slumberland.
5
The smell of Friday’s breakfast wafts through my apartment: scrambled eggs with hash browns. I set the food on the small, white dining table in the kitchen. Sunlight washes the floor of the kitchen’s linoleum tiles.
Sipping on black coffee, I peruse the Los Angeles Times. I still get the paper delivered every morning, which I know makes me old school. I like the smell of recycled paper and finding my fingers covered in ink by the end of the read. It reminds me of my father.
After breakfast, I put on my favorite uniform: black jeans and black long-sleeved shirt. Black combat boots adorn my feet, then I shrug on my black motorcycle jacket. Did I mention black is my favorite color? The end effect is intense, but I’m meeting a client today, so I need to put on my best show. Putting on makeup is an easy task. Most days for work, I opt for simple: mascara, blush, and cherry Chapstick.
I grab my bag and keys and head to my most prized possession. Sitting on my driveway is my black Audi S5. With a press of a button on the key fob, the curved LED lights turn on, as if waking up from slumber. Sliding onto the black leather bucket seats, I press my finger on the button to start the engine. The engine roars to life and quiets down to a rumbling purr.
The smell of new car invades my senses. I’ve had the car for just about a year after upgrading from a 1985 Toyota pickup truck, which I’ve kept in the single-car garage. I pull out of my driveway and press down the pedal. I feel the car roar in response as I’m pushed back against the seat. A smile creeps across my face. It’s the simple things.
It’s a quick drive to work. By LA standards, that means twenty minutes in traffic for a two-mile drive. On ambitious days, I walk to work. It’s only a thirty-minute walk. After parking on Broadway Street, I begin my trek toward Fourth Street. Gray clouds have started to move across the sun, shielding the warm rays behind its haze. Without the sun’s warmth, the streets turn chilly as the cool ocean breeze sweeps the leaves and trash along the street.
Taking in a deep breath of the cool weather appreciatively, I wrap my jacket tighter around my body. Within a few minutes, I reach the front and unlock the door. The fluorescent lights blink on automatically, and the neon-accented décor comes to life against the stark white walls and furniture.
I need to change out of these clothes since I’m meeting Markus at lunch. I don’t want to go there smelling like dogs more than I need to. Walking to the back of the shop, I head toward the office and I take out the extra clothes I brought before locking away my purse in the safe. Another day, another dollar.
Ramon and I have been furiously grooming for two hours. We’ve already washed two Pekingese, a poodle, and a Maltipoo. Ramon is drying them. There is a lot of yapping and howling over the blow dryer. I glance at the waterproof watch I wear during my work hours. It’s eleven o’clock already.
I ask Ramon to take over for a couple of hours as I take off my apron and throw it in the laundry bin before exiting the washroom.
I feel disgusting, reeking of wet dog and dog shampoo. I had a shower built into the bathroom for this sort of occasion, and I’m very glad that I did.
Despite being a pet-grooming shop, the bathroom looks like it belongs in a suite of a Las Vegas hotel. Pearlescent turquoise tiles decorate the floor, the walls are covered in white subway tile, and the hardware has gold accents. In the far corner is a glass-encased shower and soft towels are hidden in a white cabinet near the entrance. The smell of air freshener wafts through the small space. My bathrooms are my sacred space. Even if all else is chaotic and dirty, my bathroom always needs to be immaculate and organized.
I strip off my clothes before turning on the shower water. The steam starts to fog up the large mirror, but I could see a fragment of my naked self. I can’t say that I’m completely unimpressed with what I see, but I definitely am no Victoria’s Secret model. I’m about two cup sizes too small in that department. The hours I spend each week exercising certainly help, and my figure is lean and athletic. I now appreciate the lips that I was once made fun of as a child for being too pouty. Black mascara is smudged on my bottom eyelid beneath my green eyes. Definitely need this rinse. I unleash my jet-black hair from its tight ponytail.
Opening the shower door unleashes the steam into the bathroom. The water feels just right. Hot enough to prickle my skin. The sensation is one of the best in the world.
After thoroughly cleansing myself of dog fur, I get dressed, and I start the process of reapplying makeup. My hair is painstakingly blow-dried so that it falls neatly down my back, pin straight. I feel presentable enough. After sliding on my motorcycle jacket, I head toward the front door. I remind Ramon that I’ll be back in a couple of hours before shutting the door.
The shy sun has decided to poke its warm head out amongst the lingering clouds. The streets are now filled with people—a mixture of foreigners, college students, and other lucky folks who don’t need to work on a Friday afternoon. During my fast-paced gait, I feel a buzz in my purse. It’s a text message from Markus saying he’s seated outside at the table furthest to the right. How the bastard already has my phone number is beyond me. I suppose Aleksei could have given it to him.
As I approach Urth café, I see that it’s already filled with stay-at-home moms with toddlers and aspiring writers. Lunchtime on a Friday at the café means that the place is going to be packed—the perfect place to talk about killing someone.
6
Markus looks every bit like a person involved in a dirty job—dangerous, menacing, and uninviting. He’s wearing a fitted dark T-shirt, and both arms wear full sleeves of colorful tattoos. He has a closely shaved head, and the short hair that covers his scalp is muddy brown. He sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the moms and hipsters, but he’s with a Jack Russell terrier, which helps him blend in with the café atmosphere.
He’s sitting moodily in the corner, looking through documents while his dog perches on a chair next to him. He seems to be trying to look as intimidating and as busy as possible. Here goes nothing.
“Markus?” He gets up immediately and holds out his hand. It’s calloused, and unrelenting even when shaking a woman’s hand. His cold gray eyes lock with mine momentarily, and then he smiles. The corners of his eyes are graced by smile wrinkles, which actually makes him more approachable. I could see a hint of someone else; someone who is warmer and not completely hardened by the world. But that person disappears as quickly as he appeared, and I’m confronted once again by a withering glare.
“Lunis, nice to finally meet you. Aleksei is right. Even your beauty lives up to his description.” I roll my eyes but try my damnedest to maintain a forced smile.
“Would you like to order something before we get started?” he asks courteously. I nod appreciatively. I’m starving, and I know exactly what I want.
Markus gets the attention of a redheaded waitress nearby.
“What will you have, miss?” She’s too frantic to make eye contact with me as she talks.
“I’ll have a cappuccino, please. And the portobello mushroom grilled
panini.”
“Great. And for you, sir?”
“An iced coffee and the Reuben sandwich.”
“Excellent choice,” the redhead murmurs without making eye contact with Markus before walking away.
“So, let’s get down to business,” Markus says once the waitress is out of hearing distance. “As I mentioned in my email, Aleksei is a close colleague of mine, and he told me you would be the perfect person to hire for this job.”
“Mm-hmm,” is all I could muster in response to Aleksei’s name. I crick my neck and crunch my knuckles as the image of Aleksei’s face flits through my mind. Markus watches me carefully with those gray piercing eyes.
“He said your beauty is captivating, and that your skills are even more enchanting.”
“Okay,” I say after a pregnant pause. I’m already getting sick of the buttering up, and I just want him to get to the point. “So, what’s the assignment?”
“This job will not require you to travel; it is local, which is a good thing given the short time that we have to prep.”
“Listen, Markus,” I say as I sit up straighter in my chair. “I don’t need to prep. I just do what I do best. Just tell me where I need to be, and who it needs to be done to. It really shouldn’t matter how, and if it does, you’re talking to the wrong person.” My voice is resolute.
“Very well,” he responds curtly. He furtively glances around, assessing the crowd before continuing in a quieter voice. “His name is Vincent Moreno. He is a big name in LA. He is one of the biggest distributors of cocaine smuggled in from the Mexican border.”
Our waitress suddenly arrives with the food, and Markus pauses. I don’t wait long before I take a bite out of my sandwich. The panini is crispy and buttery on the outside with melty cheese and warm portobello mushroom on the inside. After putting some water on the ground for his Jack Russell, he continues.
