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It’s the way the line crackles: one, two, three, dust-brown and murky, how she’s flattened their voice into something invaluable, something here, here, here. Because she doesn’t know what to do with her hands anymore. She doesn’t know where to put her hands anymore. She just wants to be next to them.
“Eda?” It’s the way they’d only ever sung small, lilting things, only really sung for her. Into her elbow, warm hands, the words marbled with sleep. Sweet breath of morning crawls through the window before the wind: hard light, dark light, everything opens, everything closes, mouth without words.
“Rainstorm.” Hard light. Dark light. It’s the way they’re soft beneath her, the way she’s soft against them. This is what mouths can’t do, what hands and rings and bones pitch for. A body melts into a body, pure and true as clay. Everything opens. Everything closes.
“Don’t say that.” And it’s so very true: she is everything they said she was. And she is the barrel, and she is the gun, and she is the wound, the stitching, the shrapnel. And she is beautiful but she is not loved. Mouth without words. Because what can she say, really? The light is hard. The light is dark. I told you about it. You used to listen.
“It’s your name. You—you fuckin’ told me that’s what they named you after. Your folks, I mean. Or I don’t know. I don’t know.” One time, upon a time, she bit their lip; didn’t in a million years mean to, but there’s blood, there’s always blood with her. And she’s sorry and they say they don’t forgive her; ‘cause there’s nothing to forgive, baby. There’s nothing to forgive. And she wants to be good like that, but you can’t fucking be good when you’ve got someone’s blood in your mouth like a pearl, like a whisper.
Hard light. Dark light. Baby, baby: they used to call her baby, sing it in the songs, baby baby baby, all salt and red meat, orange groves under plump hard sun. Everything opens. Everything closes.
“You do. It’s right. They wanted me to be brave, and I’m not, Eda. So, just—the hell are you doing? You shouldn’t be doing it.” It’s the way they see a not-safe thing and burrow into it: head falls onto her shoulder, breath on her collar, they kiss her nose once at the carnival. Mouth without words. She has no words. She has nothing to put inside of something else.
“You are brave.” Hard light. Dark light. Maybe she caught it once, at the third picnic that month: clouds rolling with their bellies out like the girls in paintings, ants trembling at the cream. She watches them lick the jam off their fingers; for a moment she thinks it’s the blood; for a heartbeat she says the two of them could stay. That it’ll be fine hand-in-hand, in the bubble. And then they say no. And then Eda wants to say sorry but lets it stay in her pocket. And then she tells herself it’s because she didn’t do anything wrong, but really it’s because this time, inexplicably, hazily, she thinks they won’t forgive her.
“I’m not. Please.” It’s the way shit finds its orbit around her again, then bang, boom, crash: fingers plucking at frets, hair like apple mint. Stacks and stacks of friendship bracelets but they’re not friends anymore, they’re not friends anymore, Lilith’s number can’t be reached but they’re not friends anymore, Mom is asking where they’ve been but they’re not friends anymore, candy apples at the fair but they’re not friends any—
“Why are you calling? It’s late.”
Then, it oozes inside-out: there’s no more hallways or shoelaces undone and there’s no more cubes in the sugar bowl. But Eda’s drunk and she’s done always getting the short end of the stick and now it’s five in the morning. “Rainy. Rainy, don’t hang up. Don’t you want to hear a funny story?”
Hard light. Dark light. Their voice is as soft and white as her fist. “Are you drunk?”
“Titan, you my—you my fucking mom?”
Bruises on the long way home; they’re picking berries on the side of the street, they’re kissing different people in all of her dreams, they’re dancing in the bedroom with somebody else’s shirt on. Everything opens. Everything closes.
Hard light. Dark light. Mouth without words: “Just tell me, are you drunk, Eda?”
“Just tell me—let me tell you a story. It’s a good one. It’s so good. It’s a good story. You’re good at listening. Or I think that you used to be, ‘cause I know we’re not talking, but you were when we were twelve. We were twelve. D’you remember?”
Eyelash lone against a cheek; they’re in her arms all throughout detention, a soft whispering in her ear, the evening sunken-black. She’s taking sips from their cup; she’s pretending that maybe she’s indifferent but that could never be, because it’s cold as faith outside and there’s broken glass and she’s holding them like a crime scene.
“You’re drunk,” Raine says, warm and groggy, even though it’s mean. “Please just tell me you’re safe.” Which she isn’t, swaying in the wind to a little-big song that she doesn’t remember, but probably they do. They always do.
“I’m fine.” Hard light. Dark light. “I’m really good now. And I’m better, so much better. I’m so good. Let me tell you the story. It’s good. You’ll like it. I want you to like it.”
Friday, beneath the duvet: it’s a happy, happy birthday, legs tangled up like jelly snakes, their bodies glowing bright-dark beside each other, no wishes, only sweet homemade light. At night, she turns these images over: Raine crossing their fingers for luck. Raine turning fifteen, blowing out the candles. Raine setting up the kitchen table. Raine getting their palm read before class. And how funny is that; everything she does, she’s done with them already.
“I’m tired, Eda,” Raine is saying, but their voice is pouring through the phone thick and heavy like cream. There’s nothing comforting about it anymore. It makes her sort of frantic. Everything opens, everything closes. “You should be too.”
“No. No, I’m not. I can’t sleep until I tell you the story.” And she’s got to keep on talk, talk, talking, because she’s relentless, and her love has gone to rot, and it’s really not so bad for her to tell a story and be in it just this once.
“We should both be asleep.”
“It’s funny. It starts with music. The story.”
Silence is so much bigger over the telephone; almost burnt, the edges taut and homely. Or it could be that everything is bigger over the telephone: secrets and sonnets and suicide notes. She wishes that were true for herself, the very being of her, blooming like a sponge in water with the noise, but she’s sort of grateful it’s not. Because when she gets big she gets so damn mean.
Very small, Raine murmurs, “Just tell me. If it’s the only way you’ll sleep.”
Almost as small, Eda says, “It’s the only way.”
In the hard light, the dark light, Raine is saying yes.