Julia Folsom: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jfolsom/5441737697/
***
You work at the JH Market on 7th Ave. Owned by the Korean pair that looks like they could be brother and sister. Maybe they are. I’ve discovered they are not your parents, though you look like them, because I hear you call them Mr. Moon, Mrs. Moon. Also, you are the opposite of a Moon. You think you’re safe in Park Slope. All those babies and mommies and daddies and doggies bounding around. You like to stand near the flowers when the shop is empty and there’s nothing else to do. Your name is Lana. Short for Elana. I think maybe you have another name, the kind that kids’ll make fun of at school. You have a narrow waist and like to wear dresses that squeeze your little plum tits. Normally I go for more of a shape, round and melony, like that friend of yours—Crystal? Carol? Something with a C. Doesn’t matter, really; she’s a cunt, not worth knowing her real name, not like you.
***
I’m the one with the salt-rimmed Yankees cap. I select nectarines and apples carefully and idle around hoping you might be the one to ring me up. You don’t like being stared at. Once you frowned and moved away to adjust the pyramid of organic artichokes in jars that didn’t need adjusting. You think I will go away if you ignore me, but it’s just the opposite, didn’t anyone ever tell you? The more you whip yourself in the other direction, the more I notice that sleek shiny hair of yours and want to grab handfuls of it, yank you backwards, make you fall.
***
Now it’s dark. Moonys had you close up shop tonight. Maybe you see me out of the corner of your eye, maybe you don’t. You sure as hell hear my footsteps. Ladies first, Lana. You cross to the other side of the street. It’s sweet, really. How you think I’ll give up, one day. I’ve lived here longer than you’ve been alive. I have this need, you see. You probably won’t understand. I used to have a wife. You make me feel better than she ever did. There’s a sort of light about you, not just your face, not like some angel or spirit or any of that. You know when you’re walking outside in the scorching day, and you’re sweating, and obviously you can feel the sun, but you can’t really feel it, not really? It’s just grazing the surface, skin-deep. You have your own sun—in the fiery coals of your eyes, in the rays of your deep, dark hair—and I need it.
You take out your phone, snapping your sun-eyes at me. I pick up speed. There’s a place I know, high bushes, in the park, where you usually walk by on your way home. If you’re smart you won’t go that way tonight. Don’t worry, though, I have a few other spots in mind, and there’s always my car. Bet you didn’t notice it? Parked on your street, a little ways from your apartment?
***
It took me a month to work up the nerve to buy you flowers. I picked them out at the front of the store: golden-yellow tulips and daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped up in plastic and tissue paper. When I brought them to the register, you didn’t look at me. You said $12.96 and waited. I counted out exact change, reached out so I could press the bills and coins to your palm. You pulled away so quickly that you dropped a few quarters. I smiled and stayed there until you looked up, told me there were customers waiting. I said, These are for you. You said, No, thank you.
I bought them for you.
That’s all right, I’m allergic.
No you’re not, you hang around the flowers all the time.
I think you should leave.
***
You duck into a deli. I don’t mind waiting. When the police pull up they can’t find me, but you know I’m there. They offer to escort you home. I hold back a laugh; I can walk there faster than they’ll be able to drive you. I’ll be waiting. I’m shivering, and I need the sun, the true one, yours. I’ve seen the way you keep your keys, hooked onto a light-up keychain in the shape of a flounder—a cheap mimic of your own light—in the bottom of your bag so you have to fish for at least fifteen seconds. Perhaps tonight will be different, you’ll have them ready, maybe, clenched in your fist. But the two outer doors you have to unlock should still buy me enough time.
I watch your beautiful black hair under the blue and red flashing lights, which cannot compete with your sun. You snap your head this way and that, peering over both shoulders. This didn’t have to be so difficult. A man can only wait so long for his sun; if I’m overly forceful it’s your own fault. The police lights stop blinking, and your light, so bright and so dark, swallowed into the backseat of the police car.
What makes you think you can run, Lana? What makes you think you can hide my sun from me?
