My life is a dirty rug. An insurmountable collection of
miscellaneous riffraff suspended by its fiber prison walls. The individual
fibers are stained with careless drips and drops of cheap red wine and black
cherry hair dye.
Mara derailed my train of thought. Suddenly, the buzzing chatter of the bistro resumed. Glasses clanged and laughter rang a little too loud for my taste. Oohs and aahs echoed from the other side of restaurant as a large party admired the birthday girl unwrapping her gift. The maître d' glided past me, lightly fanning some air to my face.
"I'm sorry--what?" I snapped my attention back to her. She was growing weary and impatient with me. I could tell.
She looked down at her bowl and began to trace swirls through the bisque. "Nothing."
I'm here. I'm present. Stay focused. "Please tell m--"
"I--I'm in love with you!" Mara blurted out. "Okay? I love you." She slowly sunk back into her seat and calmed her breathing. She was waiting for me to react.
I couldn't. I sat there frozen. Instead, I began to replay everything over in my head.
Back when we first met working together at that crappy cinema in the mall. We took turns toying with Jeremy G. at the concession stand. Poor Jeremy. I never knew his last name. The movie theater rarely printed full last names on our tags. Talking shop there always seemed like a high school gab fest. Allison W. had it out for Sandy M. because Marcus K. was taking his sweet time with her when they serviced a theater after showtimes. And so on and so forth.
Then there were those times when Mara and I would get early shifts. On those days, we left our uniforms at the cinema and changed into street clothes. Mara rocked the boho chic. Beautiful, flowing maxis. Loose, off-the-shoulder crop tops with high-waisted ripped shorts. Floppy hats with braided ties. Meanwhile, I dawned what I called the "lazy Old Navy". Solids. Occasional plaids. Cardigans and ballet flats galore. Skinny jeans in fifty shades of same. Next to Mara, I felt like the designated ugly friend.
But she never once made me feel that way.
We often shared dressing rooms, snapping photos of one another so we could compare our mirror selves to our camera selves. They are not the same, you know.
My thoughts spun faster and faster, becoming a flip book of signs I've ignored during our long, intimate friendship. It explained a lot.
Fuck, it explained everything.
"You're kind of leaving me hanging here," Mara sighed, but forgiving me for it. "I know it's a lot to take in." Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry."
"No, no. Don't be sorry." I shook my head. The gears slowly started turning, trimming off the excess rust that had built up over the years. "Mara, I just don't know what to say."
"So now you can safely assume that I'm a lesbian," she leaned back and folded her arms. She was still Mara.
I played along. "Or you're bisexual."
"Indecisions, indecisions." Mara smiled, then broke into a fit of giggles. "I want to tell you more about it. But maybe later? I know you're still processing it in your head."
"I'm sorry--what?" I pretended to space out.
She rolled her eyes at me and rediscovered her bisque. I sipped wine and watched her. How do I feel? What's it like sustaining a relationship with a woman? When the fuck is the waiter coming with our salads? I need something to pick at.
Mara tucked her sandy hair behind her ear away from her face, still fixated on clearing her bowl. At 5'6" with long legs and a slender build, she was unstoppable. I used to lie on her floor and have her pull me from my ankles to stretch my body so we could match. That was all for fun, of course, and more often than not it was inspired by drug-induced conversations. Laid back, carefree, with no strings attached. Men often twisted their necks for a second look and risked the scowling aftermath from their wives and girlfriends. She barely noticed, but I would.
"I need to drink a whole bottle of wine tonight." She rested her chin on her hands and stared at me.
"Oh, Mara..."
"To reward myself for coming out and telling you!"
I watched her for hints of how she truly felt but couldn't gauge. "Fucking waiter forgot our salads."
She looked around the bistro. "Maybe we can take this as a sign and just get the bill. I'm serious about the wine."
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Fiction
