Starling Days

by Rowan Hisayo Buchanan

  The figure was lovely, though at this distance unremarkable. What was the exact distance to best see a person? That question was like trying to build a fence around a perfume. Beauty’s borders were forever fluxing. How many inches away had Phoebe been when the first shock of her beauty rolled over Mina? Phoebe stayed motionless for a minute.

  “Is everything okay?” Mina called.

  Phoebe swung around, waving a phone aloft. “I’ve canceled.”

  Mina caught up with her, Benson tugging on the leash.

  “Let’s go for a drink. There’s a pub around here that’ll be okay with Benson. It’s not far.” Phoebe smiled her lovely smile.

  “I didn’t want to make you cancel.”

  “You didn’t make me. You’re alone in this city and that’s rubbish. If I was alone in New York, I’m sure I’d feel like crap. I’d have invited you out with those guys but they’re going clubbing, and I’ve lumbered you with my dog. Anyway, I’m getting too old for vodka Red Bulls.”

  Mina found that she’d forgotten the right distance at which to walk with someone. What was the natural separation of bodies? It was like touch-typing. It only worked if you didn’t think about it too much. Mina walked next to Phoebe, trying not to think about walking next to Phoebe.

  The houses were two or three storeys. A bit like the brownstones in Brooklyn, only white. They all had little holes dug in the ground in front of them, like moats. Oscar had told her there was an expression that an Englishman’s home was his castle. Mina thought someone, probably also Oscar, had told her the name of the moats. A lightwell? Windows opened onto these lightwells, and as they walked, Phoebe ducked her head to peer into a kitchen.

  Phoebe said, “I have this soft spot for a granite countertop. I mean, I hate cooking, but I always think if I had one then maybe I wouldn’t.”

  Mina had never taken much interest in the countertops of other people’s kitchens. Had Phoebe had a granite countertop in the Peckham flat?

  “Oh, God, no. Everything was Ikea. But I always thought, Someday. Someday I’m going to be that sort of person. Actually, that wasn’t the real dream.”

  Mina wondered what the real dream was. It seemed like a contradiction in terms. She was pretty sure that, whatever dream it was, it hadn’t included a strange American. Jealousy shivered along the hairs of Mina’s arms, which was absurd. A friend’s girlfriend had said, in passing, that bisexuals could not be trusted. They’d fuck anyone. Mina had wanted to punch her. She knew plenty of monosexuals who fucked around. Was it because Mina was crazy that she wanted this girl? Was wanting to lick along the tender edge of an ear just a symptom? No. Impossible. Phoebe had nothing to do with the hurtling sadness. That was why Mina wanted her. Anyway, nothing had happened. These were only the crimes of wishing and dreaming. Was it so bad to stand with this girl, stealing happiness from their shared air? Try to be happy, Oscar had said.

  There were so many categories to which you could belong, sane or insane, cheater or loyal wife, mono or bi. She saw a thousand versions of herself. The sane, straight Mina, who ground against a different man every night. The depressed, faithful Mina, who never thought of anyone’s mouth but Oscar’s. They all seemed momentarily possible.

  “Mind if we take a detour?” Phoebe asked. Mina nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She hadn’t done anything. Would never figure out how to do anything, not even under this new moon. She was safe in cowardice. Phoebe’s hair spelled incantations in its curls and it would have been the work of seconds to reach out, turn the face and taste the gappy teeth. But Mina didn’t even sling an arm through Phoebe’s.

  More houses, windows mostly shuttered. Phoebe walked quickly, her small bun bobbing as she went. “Here,” she said. The house was just like all the others on its row. The downstairs lights were on and the walls were painted a green like the top of a pool table.

  “No, you have to stand this way.” Phoebe pulled Mina’s shoulders, angling her, then pressing her down into a squat. “So, this was the real dream. One day we were going to have art. I don’t mean Picassos, but I don’t mean a museum print of Starry Night either. Real art by real artists.” She pointed. “Like that.” On the wall was a painting. It was hard to tell the exact dimensions but Mina thought maybe about the size of a fridge door. It was of a shiny black pair of shoes. They were huge but the shape was that of a little girl’s patent Mary Janes slightly worn. Creases lumped the toes, and the strap of one was undone and left to hang. Blobs of paint imitated the shine of light.

  “That’s cool,” Mina said. Her thighs were getting sore in the squat and she stood. She liked museums enough but none of her friends had art. They had Polaroids, sometimes record covers, vinyl decals. It wasn’t a thing she’d thought to want. Phoebe pressed her face against the railings, staring into that house, her lower lip curled under her teeth. It was a look Mina could only call hunger. Gently, she reached out and stroked Phoebe’s shoulder. She wanted to tell her that it would all be okay.

  “Oscar, I need you.” The voice on the other end of the phone was slurred. He took the toothbrush out of his mouth.

  “Mina?” he asked. How late was it there? Five a.m.? Six?

  “Oscar, something terrible’s going to happen.”

  His chest felt hard and he swallowed the toothpaste. Mint clogged his throat. What had she done? “Mina, what’s wrong with your voice? Are you hurt?”

  “Don’t say my name like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that. MMMinaaa,” she said.

  It hit him. “You’re drunk.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Only a few drinks. Just a few. With Pheeebeee.”

  “Go to sleep, Mina.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Soon.”

  “Something terrible’s going to happen.”

  “Go to sleep, Mina.”

  Mina woke up first. Her head hurt. They’d both drunk too much at the pub. Phoebe was sprawled on the bed, in her waitress clothes. Memories of the night before burbled upwards.

  After the third drink, all Phoebe could talk about was her husband’s new lover. She had cried. Not a lot. Just a few tears rolling out, like candies from a gumball machine. Mina had wanted to swallow them up. Instead, she’d fed Benson peanuts from the bar.

  She’d nodded and touched Phoebe’s arm again, feeling as if she was stealing something. If she was a man, she would be an ugly sort. She’d be a user. She’d be the kind of man who waited for his female friends’ hearts to break so he could slip the pieces into his pocket. The only difference: she held no hope that this sad girl would tumble into her comforting embrace.

  The pub closed and they went back to 4B. Phoebe collapsed on the bed. But Mina hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d called Oscar. She’d begged. Weak. She didn’t want to be this fucking weak.

  She went to the fridge, looking for a treat to give Benson. He’d polished off the can of Grain-Free dog food Phoebe had left for him. Mina had no meat. She dipped her fingers into the margarine. Kneeling, she called to the dog, beckoning with her yellowed digits. He lapped at her hand until it was sticky with dog-spit.

  Oscar’s voice had sounded so different. She hadn’t been able to imagine the faces he was making. Was he leaving her? Was that what this was? Was he expecting her to jump off the roof or otherwise dispose of herself so that he could get on with his work? Had he stopped loving her? Was the slogan right all along: You had to love yourself to be lovable? It was a terrifying idea. Life without Oscar. Nobody would worry about her now. Nobody would wonder where she was. Nobody would ask what she was doing to make herself happy. It would just be her and life, that stubborn thing.

  Should she continue stripping the walls? What would happen after she removed all these birds? The naked wall was too rough to be easily cleaned up with a slap of paint. Still, she’d tried to do this for her husband, not that he was here to see.

  Phoebe walked in, wearing only b
oxer shorts and a shirt. Bare legs poured out from the shorts, and Mina saw there was one more freckle just in the inner bend of Phoebe’s right thigh. Benson ran to Phoebe. His long tail sighed against the floor.

  “Is your mummy a mess? Yes, she is, yes, she is. Poor Auntie Mina had to put up with Mummy blubbing all night.” But Phoebe was smiling now, relaxed and confident. She was the sort of person who knew her blubbering would be forgiven.

  Mina was an only child. She’d never be an auntie. Phoebe kissed the dog again and again. Each pucker sounded like a bubble popping.

  Mina had a feeling, not déjà vu, the opposite. Après vu? The sense she’d see this mouth kiss again and again. Outside the sky was a block of cloud. Somewhere nearby someone was drilling. There was no romance here. For a moment, she thought she saw a leering face in the plasterwork, but it was just a long scratch and two gouges. But here was this bright girl and Mina’s blood knew what Ovid had known, what the Greeks had known, what every myth and story taught, that sometimes against all better judgement you try to catch the nymph darting by. Or maybe it was nothing so grand as that. Maybe it was just that her brain was a slop bag of chemicals.

  “Phoebe?” she said.

  Phoebe gave Benson one last kiss right on the tip of his nose and stood up. Mina was already standing so close to her that it required only one step forwards. Phoebe had a slight height advantage even in bare feet. Mina angled her face up. Her lips met Phoebe’s. It was a dry kiss. Her tongue stayed behind her teeth. Her eyes were open, but her face was too close to Phoebe’s to detect an expression. She pulled away. She stepped back.

  “Oh,” Phoebe said.

  “Sorry,” Mina said.

  “Oh,” Phoebe repeated. And she sat down on the arm of the couch. Benson rolled onto his back begging for a belly scratch. The top of the dog’s head received so many of Phoebe’s kisses. Mina had taken just one.

  She had given Oscar a similar close-mouthed kiss many times. Quick and casual, forgotten as soon as skin parted from skin. This kiss dawdled in the air. Invisible—but not quite gone.

  “I never thought of you like that,” Phoebe said.

  Mina knew she was not the sort of girl that girls fall for. A woman would see her cracks and stay away. Men might overlook them, but they’d be obvious to a woman.

  “You’re married,” Phoebe said, “to my brother’s friend.” She scrunched her face. The room smelled of the fabric softener’s chemical-bloom. When had Mina lost her ability to plan, to see beyond the impulse, to understand what might happen next? Was this what Dr. Helene had meant by impulsive behavior? Was it sickness? Or just the simple, normal desire to push yourself towards something beautiful? Her mind must be more than just a list of symptoms.

  Phoebe circled her right hand around her left wrist so thumb and pinkie met. Then she adjusted so it was thumb and ring finger, then thumb and index. Then the process reversed. Was it a gesture people who knew her well recognized? How long did you have to know someone before you memorized each twitch?

  Outside the apartment, the world paced onwards. Inside, Phoebe and Mina and a few straggler birds were suspended in time. Standing above her, Mina saw the birch-white strip of Phoebe’s bent neck, the tip of her nose, the edge of her mouth, her lowered eyes.

  Mina dropped down onto the couch next to her. She edged closer. There was time for Phoebe to stand or slap. But Phoebe just danced her fingers around her wrist.

  This kiss was different—slow and toothy, not a bite but a dragging of incisors over lip skin. The back of Phoebe’s neck rested in Mina’s palm and Phoebe’s curls tickled Mina’s thumb. Their bodies tilted to the couch cushions, all elbows and legs and hot breath. From the corner of her eye, she could see the way Phoebe’s hair splayed out onto the orange sofa. Orange hair. Orange cotton. Phoebe should have disappeared into it. Instead Mina noticed whispers of gold among the red strands.

  Mina had read essays by lesbians. They were eloquent about acceptance and rejection and marriage rights. They didn’t tell her what to do with hand and mouth. But so far this was okay. She was okay. Phoebe sighed as Mina’s mouth found its way to her neck. Mina thought this was what it was to be a nymph or a river god or any hungry creature.

  “Wait,” Phoebe said. And Mina pulled herself up and back and away. Her greed had stained Phoebe’s throat. The skin was as pink as if raspberries had been smashed there. Mina waited. She had the instinct to plead but no idea what it was she should be pleading for. Phoebe’s discretion, her forgiveness, another chance?

  Phoebe said, “I should go.” She stomped her legs into her jeans. Socks covered the freckled toes. Her bag was swung over her shoulder.

  She called Benson to her and, Mina forgotten, he ambled forward. The round haunches rolled jauntily, as if he had witnessed nothing of note. Phoebe clipped the leash to his collar with a vicious click.

  “Wait,” Mina said.

  “I need to think.” Phoebe already had her hand on the door.

  “But . . .” Mina said.

  The door shut. Mina walked to the sink and poured her dry mouth a tall glass of water, then a second glass, then a third. She filled herself with the coldness. Phoebe would be in the elevator. Mina ran a nail along her arm and watched a chalk-like line appear. She did it again until there were five, like a cartoon prisoner’s log. Phoebe would be in the street. Phoebe would be gone. The time had passed to chase her.

  *

  Oscar slept, woke in the light of the new day and began to run again. He beat his sore feet against the road. He’d thought he was there to learn the Japanese side of the business, not to be told a sordid family drama. Perhaps he should be thinking about working for someone else. He could work in a sane, clean office, where everyone fulfilled their contracts, and there was no rumpled bed or crying wife. A place where he wouldn’t have to think about being a professional. He’d just be one. He thought of himself alone, no Mina, no weird family situation. And then he pushed himself to run faster. He pushed harder into the wind. He pushed until the wind and pain blew through his head and everything else was gone.

  Blue. Green. Pine. Car. His father’s house. The grind of gravel underfoot. The slowing of his muscles. Breath. Sweat clung to Oscar’s upper lip. He flopped forwards and braced himself against his knees. He needed water. A shower would be great. He rolled back his shoulders. He loved the end of the run, when his head was full of heat and blood and empty of thought. He toweled his face with the front of his shirt, and as he lowered the fabric the front door opened. Bodies filled the space. Ami and his father were side by side. Ami supported her husband’s elbow. His father’s face was as pale as bread dough, puffy too. Oscar felt he’d seen the scene before. A body leaning on a body never meant anything good.

  “Dad . . . Ami . . .”

  Ami led his father forward a few more steps. “Your dad’s had a thing. I’m driving him to the hospital.”

  “A thing?”

  “I’ll call you and explain.”

  “I should come.”

  His father said, “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Please, Oscar. Just stay here,” Ami said. And he saw himself through her eyes, the awkward relative getting underfoot in the emergency.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  She propped his father against the porch. “I’ll drive the car out of the garage,” she said.

  “Just a spasm,” his father said. His breath was audible in the quiet air.

  “Dad—” But then the car was there and Ami was opening the door. Oscar took his father’s arm. It was thin, all elbow and bone. His father gripped him, the nail digging into Oscar’s skin.

  They drove off, the sound disappearing into the breath of wind through the pines.

  Hunger hacked at Mina’s gut. She stuck a hand onto the cool surface of the counter to balance herself against the rush. Drips coagulated on the refrigerator’s back wall. A bag of basil skulked in a corner. When Mina pulled it out, she saw it had gone limp and damp. The
wobbling pat of tofu didn’t look like an adequate meal.

  Outside, the evening’s chill clung to her T-shirt. The supermarket was close and she walked quickly. The world smelled of wet leaves on cement. It was a smell Mina always forgot until autumn came again. A soft smell. A kind smell. Despite her hunger she stood for a moment, letting this good scent into her lungs. She wished she could call Phoebe to ask if she too had noticed this smell. Did it smell like this where Oscar was? Mina crossed her arms over her cold chest and hurried to the store.

  She walked up and down the vegetable aisle. She lifted a sweet potato, feeling its rough hide. It seemed too exhausting to chew. She ran a finger down a long leek and cupped a broccoli crown. The greenery seemed as inedible as the tree roots that pushed against London’s pavements. She ventured into dry goods. The chips, or crisps as the English called them, were packaged in colors appropriate for toy trucks or nuclear warning signs.

  Mina lapped the lanes again and again. The strip lights pasted blemishes onto the faces of the shoppers. She turned into the confectionary aisle. The boxes were gaudy gold, purple, orange. In their glare, she almost missed the couple walking hand in hand. A boy and a girl. In their wire basket nuzzled a bottle of wine and a pale baguette. Mina followed them at a safe distance, wanting to remain in the orbit of young love. The girl stopped walking. Mina stopped too, next to a display of milk-chocolate pumpkins. The girl threw her arms around the boy’s neck, wrapping tight around him as a vine around a tree. Mina ducked away.

  The hunger had not left, but Mina could not tell what it hungered for. Somehow she ended up in the meat aisle. It didn’t smell how she thought meat should smell. The stench wasn’t life or death, but disinfectant. Here there were no bodies, only pieces—a flock of wings, a phalanx of legs, a huddle of breasts. Eventually, even the sense of body part disappeared. There were only blobs of pink and red. She opened the refrigerator cabinet and touched a lump. It had the same give as a human arm or a thigh. With her eyes shut, she might be touching Phoebe, or Oscar. She removed a sirloin steak. The meat was food-dye red. Wasn’t food dye made out of beetles? Through the plastic wrap, she pressed her thumb harder into the squishy flesh. A firm band of fat crowned the top, and this resisted her more.