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Combed wool . It's combed wool. Combed green wool — or at least it feels like it. Fabric that holds itself in columns of knots, wrists to shoulders, chest to hips — the cardigan is left on its own, covering the backrest of Yaz’ room’s chair, for just enough to develop a comprehension of its position in this new place (far from the coat closet it once belonged to). Just enough to wonder if the girl would cave and wear it again, or hand it back to its owner. (Enough to know Yaz has it on her mind every time she gets in the room balancing books on her forearm. Aiming for her desk but thinking for a second too long about that piece of clothing that is not hers.
Or when she's in bed, drinking tea and making sketches in poor lighting. Stealing glances of it and borrowing a page of her notebook to draw it . Being mindful of the loose sleeves and the tightened cuffs, and the way the yarn was twisted and turned into loops and knots.
Or even when she comes back with a basket of clean laundry. Looking at it with a request for patience in her eyes. Knowing it should be handled gently. (Hand washed. Neutral or lightly-scented soap. Cool or lukewarm water. No harsh twisting or wringing, just squeeze it out. And never put it on driers. Let it air dry — to preserve the integrity of the cardigan, and a few other things she read at ‘Heritage Park : Laundry Essentials’ because of course she googled it.)
The cardigan is left on its own — true — in a room with soft lights. A new (provisory) owner. And more space than it had ever seen in a few weeks. More company at night and on Sundays.
“Yaz, what do you want for dinner?” Ben says from the kitchen, down the corridor. The sound of the fridge opening and closing twice then barefooted steps in her direction. “I would volunteer to cook, but I heard they have new vegan options. And midterms took away every memory of cooking off of so…” He enters her room with a soft knock, wearing a pullover, PJ shorts and a pair of his infinite stock of white socks. His hair is slightly messy, and he seems to be vibrating in his heels. Probably the victim of that Colombian coffee they bought — and fell in love with.
He stops by the door, looking at her — sitting on her heels as she takes note of a obnoxiously large book about Biomechanics . Her hair is up on a loose bun, fuzzy socks — erm, fuzzy socks with the most stupid print because she loves socks, especially socks with stupid prints — a large t-shirt that pools on her waist and a borrowed cardigan around her shoulders.
“Hum?”
Ben takes a second to recall where she got that from. Who she got it from.
“Ben?” She calls for him again, and he walks closer, stopping by her desk. “You said something about takeout?”
“Yup. That new place down the street.”
She hums, dropping her mechanical pencil. Looking at him from above the top of the tick frames of her glasses — she wears it sometimes, mostly for reading or when using her laptop for too long. “Do they have egg drop soup? Gyoza? We can share the portion, I don't want more than two.”
He nods. “Of course.” Takes a look at the pages before her. Grimaces at the word ‘Biotribology’. Thinks, what an awful name for a subfield, Jesus. “Having fun with this?”
Yaz rolls her eyes. “Are you having fun with your ‘Ecological interactions and population mechanics’?”
Ben makes a face of suffering. “Not as bad as it sounds, but I would like to be doing something else on a Sunday night.”
“Like getting full stars on every character of ‘Dungeon of the Mad God' thing?”
He narrows his eyes. She takes off her glasses and adjusts her body in a more proper sitting position — her back will hate her in a few hours.
“It's ‘Realm of the Mad God' and, no. I could be… around.”
“I have no energy to tease you about your boy crush right now. But you didn't even try to hide it.”
“It's not a boy crush, he's a friend.”
“Sure.”
They stay silent for a beat. Yaz almost considers it as a good time to go back to her notes when Pincus opens his mouth again. “I thought you'd have given back the cardigan by now.”
“I haven't washed it yet.”
“It's been two weeks.”
“I've been busy.” Which is not a lie per se. She has been busy. Since all her subjects seem to have crumbled into a gigant sack of shi– poorly timed workload with an unfortunate large bibliography to revise — and since her coach, Roxanne, decided to re-do everyone's schedule because one of the girls had a heath complication (which meant Yas is now set to train for an hour and a half, starting at 9:30am, instead of her usual 7am, for the rest of the season; Yaz’ personal hell, if anyone asked her). “I need time to properly wash it without damaging the fabric. It's delicate.”
Ben stares at her for a second. Then the corner of his mouth starts to rise. “She insisted on giving it to you, right?”
“It was cold.”
“What's her name again?”
“That's irrelevant, Ben.”
“Samantha, is that it?”
“I’m giving it back to her this week.”
“She works at Cookie Crafts, doesn't she?”
She nudges him lightly, pushing him away a bit. “The takeout, remember? Before we starve to death. Focus on that. Survival .”
He chuckles to himself, hands up in surrender. “I’m going there, I think. Fresh air and all. Wanna come?” Yaz looks around — at the pages and flashcards she has made throughout the day since she got back from her run (the emergency one before sunset because she couldn't stand the walls of her bedroom anymore). There's still so much to do. “You can finish that later.” He says, almost as if he could read her mind. “I have some notes to finish myself, but it's still 9PM. We’ve got enough time.” Okay, maybe he could. Maybe he just knows her that well.
“I'm almost done with the unit.”
“We're hungry now. And the place is not 24/7.”
Turning on her chair, the girl hugs the back rest, chin on the left pole. “You can go without me.”
“ Or we could go together and breathe for a bit.”
She thinks — thinks, thinks, thinks . It's a bit annoying how Ben doesn't need many arguments to sell her a case. Even more annoying because he's aware of it.
“Let's go.” He says, already taking her silence as a victory, and walking it out of her room.
“Don't forget to put some pants on!”
And the grin is obvious by his tone. “You too, Fadoula!”
Adaptation is definitely not her strongest suit. And she's almost sure that, if natural selection was literal, and individuals were rewarded with life according to their ability to handle change, she'd be doomed.
She'd be thrown out of the contest. Probably the first one.
She'd be sentenced to float through space — or a limbo of some sort, the place where giraffes with small necks and finches with small and fragile beaks go — watching everyone else having fun with the time they have, shaping themselves like fluids to its recipients.
Or maybe she'd have to just sit in the corner — the same one they sent dinosaurs after the Earth covered up the vital traces of their existence — and see how the rest of the room — the pretty portions of the walls, the clean tiles of the floor and the precious ceiling — worked so well despite her absence — how everyone in it didn't feel the need to be in the corner and just watch for a bit. Make sense of it. Maybe try to learn something.
Oh , if natural selection was literal — and it had no regard for feelings and human concepts of mercy and cruelty — it would make up more obstacles just for her.
Like giving her less than a day to accept that her usual 5AM run is ruined. And that there's a gap between it and her practice. That she has to figure out what to do with this extra time efficiently so that she'll be ready to get to the running track 10 minutes early like she's always done.
Like, even after a few extra days for her “to get used to it”, allow her to follow the default programming .
The one who has been known for over six months now.
Wake up at 5am and go out running, just to warm up.Come back; change for practice — eat something on the way out and make it there at 6:50AM sharp. Stay at practice until 10AM — or 9AM if it's Tuesday or Friday. Go back home — never use the dressing room and the showers there — shower and change, and get to the study hall before 10:30AM. Find the room furthest from the common tables and the library entrance; preferably in the basement. Stay there until lunch break. Get your snacks from “Cookie Craft”. Get ready for afternoon classes. Take the 10-minute break at 5PM. Go to the evening classes. Stay until the last one, at 10:45PM. Get back home. Shower. Sleep.
Even with extra days to adapt to it , let her feet lead her to the running track at 6:50AM. Let her sit on the bleachers for an ungodly long time — 70 endless minutes.
Doing nothing. (Or maybe just bouncing her leg throughout it. Moving with it as her calves’ movements try to conceal her anxious heartbeat.)
Nothing — waiting for 9:30AM, which means another 90 minutes of bouncing and ta-tum’s and –
“Fadoula.” Her coach calls from the bottom of the bleachers as she starts climbing up seats to get to her. She doesn't look mad , but her tone is not exactly sweet. “What are you doing here so early? I thought I told you your practice wouldn't start until 9:30AM.”
“I know, Miss Ahmad.”
“Then why are you here? It's 8:05.”
She doesn't know what to say. All her answers would sound pathetic. ‘By the time I get used to it, we'll go back to our usual schedule and I'll be messed up again’ and ‘I was staring at the clock for 20 minutes and I ended up here because I didn't know where else to go. This is where I come on weekdays from 7am to 10am. Except on Tuesdays and Fridays, when I get out an hour early, but that's beside the point’. It sounds ridiculous .
She's an adult for heaven's sake. Adjusting is part of it — just like she adjusts to her new classes every semester and with her new classmates; just like she “adjusted” to the changes in her childhood home every time she went there for holiday breaks.
“Yasmina?” Roxanne's voice is closer. Her face is too. The woman seems to be studying Yaz’ features — it immediately makes her move backwards. She frowns. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah! I just– Midterms. I'm a bit anxious about that. And I wanted to run a bit. Clear my mind. So I thought I could practice for a bit longer today? Or maybe just use the field with everyone else to expel all… this.” It's rushed; everything out on a single breath. Leg still bouncing and a raging heartbeat.
Catching her attention.
Catching the coach’s too.
Roxanne looks at her almost — almost — worriedly. She notices the leg, the confusing speech and Yaz' sweaty palms — were they sweaty when she first got there?
She knows how much running means to Yaz — she never had someone as determined and disciplined as her before. And she also knows about the reason why she'd be disqualified by natural selection. Why she'd be sitting in the corner with dinosaurs and the ancestors of the great animals of the modern era — it was written on her medical history, a few lines below her blood type, her mother's name and the vacant space that should belong to her father's long-lost signature.
She knows.
And maybe that's why she says, “I’ll let you practice today, but this is a one-time-exception, understood?” Yaz nods obediently. “I don't need my best athlete working herself into exhaustion, got it?”
The girl stands, “yes, Miss Ahmad”. She's a few steps in front of the older woman, eager to start — put her feet on the ground and run until she can't think of anything else — when she hears a ‘hey’ .
Yaz turns back. Her coach hasn't moved an inch to follow her. “You should try the support program sometime. The one I told you about.”
Again , she has no right answer for this.
How would she say she did go there, she just didn't walk in. She was ten steps from the entrance when she saw someone walking out, and a single glimpse of the colorful wall on the inside made her reconsider it — actually, it fixed the angle of her body in 180°, and instead of going there , she walked to a café and hid there almost until closing time.
“It could help you a lot. With everything. And I can imagine how stressful midterms are for you. It could make it lighter.” She advises, and sees the moment Yasmina tries to move her facial muscles manually to make, at least, a polite smile. “I know they’ve already said counseling is essential for you. I'm not telling you what to do, but if you did go… I think it could help.”
How would she ever phrase that she doesn't need this talk because teachers at highschool have tried, but talking really isn't her thing — great evidence, she hasn't done much but nodding automatically and hoping Roxanne wouldn't dive deeper into why it would be good for her, and why she should give it a try. Again .
The woman walks down a few steps. Looks at her with what seems to be sympathy — or pity — in her eyes. Or even a swallowed burp. Who knows. “I've said this before, and I'm sorry for repeating myself, but you're a part of my team. And as your coach I'm responsible for you, Fadoula.”
No, not like that, you're not. “You don't have to–”
“But I do care.” Raising her hand, she places it on the girl's shoulder. It should be an encouragement gesture, but ugh. Yaz suppresses the flinch. “About every single one of you. So as your coach, in case going to the support group is not an option, I'm here.”
It takes a few moments — a few beats — but she nods. Be polite. Say thank you . “Thanks for that. I appreciate it.” Although I'm the last person on earth who would take this kind of offer. “Can I go running now?” She tries to use all the cues of excitement she remembers from that emotional thesaurus she found online, knowing all too well that the moment she starts feeling the wind pinching her skin, she'll make sure to get rid of this exchange as well. Forget it.
Roxanne chuckles, nodding. “Of course. Put all your energy to good use.”
Yaz jumps off the last steps of the bleachers.
She'll use every last drop of it.
She hasn't been to the Cookie Craft for almost fourteen days — despite craving their fresh-baked cookies, and having the cardigan ( now, properly washed and dried) carefully tucked on her backpack — and, sincerely, her motives to not walk in are getting plainly dumb.
“ What do you mean ‘you can't come in’?” Ben has confusion all over his face. They're standing right at the door, beside the small chalkboard with today's specials — Peanut Butter and ‘M&Madness’.
“I can't come in. I haven't given her the cardigan yet.” He looks at her incredulously. “I haven't found the right time. And I didn't want to hand it back to her when the shop was full of other people. And I don't know what to say. I don't want to look dumb and make a fool of myself.”
Pincus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Nothing could make you look dumber than this right now. Come.” He goes to push the door, she doesn't go with him. “Yasmina, I swear to God –”
“I can't walk in without it either. She'll think I've stolen it or ruined it or–”
For a moment (a split, respectful second) Ben wonders if he could facepalm her. Or if he could make her facepalm herself.
“Yaz,” he tries, “she won't think you stole her cardigan.”
“But what if–”
He huffs. “Alright, I'm getting in. Getting my cookies and I'll eat it out here with you instead of inside. Comfortably in a booth.”
“You hate these booths.” She deadpans. “And can you bring me mine too? Pistachio. And a black coffee, of course.”
“Are you serious?”
“Please and thank you?”
He huffs again. Louder. “Okay, okay. But you hold my bag.”
She giggles. “Yes, sir.”
She hasn't been to the Cookie Craft for almost three weeks now — yeah, yeah, I know. But she has been trying to rehearse what's the best way to hand it back to Samantha without being weird.
Hey, Samantha, right? Thank you for your cardigan. I hand washed it and let it air dry to not damage the fabric, so I hope it still feels alright for you when you put it on again. Oh! And I'm sorry. For not coming before, not for washing it. Too much information and not cool at all.
Hey, Samantha! I'm sorry for not coming before, I was busy. Week has been crazy, y'know? But anyway, here's your cardigan. Thank you for letting me borrow it that day. Bye. Not so bad, but she would probably trip on the third sentence and forget the rest, so no.
Hey, Samantha! Here's your cardigan. Thanks for that day. I hope it's not an issue, but I washed it. Sounds good enough, but–
God, what is she doing?
She knows from experience that this is not how conversations go.
She knows Samantha could barrel in at any point and ruin her train of thought and all this rehearsal would be for nothing. And all this worry would be for nothing.
And, even worse: she knows she could forget her verbal capacities completely at the moment, and just stare at the other girl with a cardigan in hands and no explanations as to why she hasn't shown up at the café for the last 21 days. Or why she could be seen standing outside, waiting for Ben to bring her order to her — more than once . Or why she has tried to fasten her pace after her last class — she did it on Monday and Wednesday — to get there faster — and she has failed miserably every time; first, because she wasn't there on Monday; second, because everything was closed and the lights were out .
See.
Everything could go wrong.
Murphy's law and shit. My greatest enemy.
How are other people usually so chill about everything?
On Friday, her last class ends 10 minutes early and she's the first one to walk out. Her pace follows her heartbeat, leading her to the opposite side of her place — repeating the same steps from Monday and Wednesday. The sky is stripped from clouds, and the moonlight projects itself onto the darkest corners of the alleys. The wind is gentle, and the watch on her wrist says 10:39PM.
Her backpack is light on her back, but her muscles get progressively tighter. She can't tell if she's tired or if she's just nervous. If it's just anxiety or if it's the last 15 days of studying and revising and writing papers with ten pages and adjusting and those godforsaken midterms .
It's hard to tell.
So she doesn't dive in further — emotion sorting is something for long shower hours or morning runs.
She just walks. Putting more pressure on the balls of her feet as she stretches each step. Fastening a bit more when she sees 10:41PM . Almost sighing in relief when she turns the corner and she sees the café.
A faint light on.
A bike on the rack outside.
Okay, walk there. Give it to her. Then get home.
Yasmina gets closer to the front door. A disappointing sign of ‘ CLOSED ’ hangs on the inner doorknob. She curses under her breath. Rests her head on the cool glass while she thinks.
Thinks — about the cardigan on the bottom of her backpack — and thinks — she really doesn't want to go all the way to Ben's boyfriend's house to hand it back to her — and thinks — in the worst cases, she might never give the cardigan back which means she'll never have a chance to come inside the café again and order anything herself because she'll be too ashamed to find Samantha and–
A small knock on the glass — from the inside — catches her attention. She raises her head, already flustering a bit when she notices there's someone there.
“Hi,” it's Samantha. She sees her mouthing the word. A small smile in her face and a disjointed wave movement.
“Hey,” comes out of her mouth as a reflex. Just as she watches the other turning the key on the locker, opening the door for her. Holding it open for her to step in.
“I didn't expect to see you here so late.” Samantha — Sam? Sammy? Which one looks more like her? — says, closing the door and turning to her. “if you came for a two-week worth of Pistachio Cookies I'm afraid I don't have enough of those.”
“ Yeah – No, I– Sorry for that.” Yasmina, for Lord's sake, you've practiced enough to do better than this. “I had a lot to do. Midterms season and practice for the track team.”
The other laughs, and although it doesn't last long, it's noticeable that her whole body follows. Shoulder, eyes and spine. “I get that. And you don't have to apologize, silly. I just missed our Pistachio picker. Not many people go for those. You and Hellen are the only ones I've seen, and she's 70 years old, I think.”
Yaz smiles at her, for a second. Polite. “Hellen has a great taste, then.”
Samantha mirrors her. Slight curve on her lips pointing upwards. Eyes searching for something on Yaz face — probably zeroing on the uncovered dark bags under her eyes and the tiredness emanating from her micro expressions.
“Hm, I might not have cookies for you, but I can make us something to drink. What do you think?”
Just give the cardigan to her and leave. Go home. You're tired and–
“If it's not a bother to you. You were on your way out when I got here, weren't you?”
“I can stay a minute longer, it's fine.”
Well, fuck.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She holds her breath under her fluctuating ribs for a moment. Then she heads to a booth — the closest to her. Takes the backpack off and sets it on her side. Sits down and turns just in time to see Samantha looking at her.
“Do you want your usual? Or something different?” This time, there is no uniform. Instead, she wears a ragged ‘if found, return to Texas' shirt, black jeans and a burgundy zip-up. (She looks casual. Without her name on a rectangular badge. Like a Sammy or a Sam or whatever nickname she has.)
“Just a black tea would be great.” She says sheepishly, discreetly searching for her pockets to make sure she has money to pay for it.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” She winks and turns towards the counter. “It's on the house, by the way. You don't have to pay.”
Yaz nods, immediately placing her hands on her lap. Staring at the opposite seat for a good two minutes until she remembers — the cardigan!
She shuffles through her bag, reaching the bottom with both hands and retracting the piece of clothing. ( Clean and folded. ) Laying it in front of her on the table. Staring at it instead of the seat. Hoping it would tell her exactly what to say like a script.
Hoping it would show her what's the not weird thing to say and do — she has a history of always picking these awful options whenever she can, it's a disaster; for her to put her foot on her mouth it only takes a breath, or even less than that, just give her a chance.
“Here is your black tea, miss .” Samantha says as she approaches, about to set a blue mug in front of Yaz when she notices the green cardigan. “ Oh , you brought it.” She giggles — giggles! — not a single drop of concern or irritation on her voice. Or on her face. “I thought you had been avoiding here because you took it as a hostage or something.”
Yaz grimaces. Frowns, “No, no, I wouldn't do that.” She reaches out to get the mug from Samantha's hand. Waits for her to sit across from her. “And I apologize again for taking so long. I had to hand wash it since it's so sensible, and then let it air dry, and since I live in an apartment it was hard to get a good place to do it without–”
“Hey, it's fine.” And she sounds so serious for a second. Hands circling her own mug (it's blue too, but darker) and probably burning her fingertips a bit. “I was joking. I didn't mind. I don't mind. It's okay.” A smile grows on her lips in a coordinated motion, probably trying to look soothing. Somehow making it work — at least a bit. “And thank you for taking such good care of it. You didn't have to wash it or anything. But it's nice that you did. Thanks. ”
“Of course.”
The other nods, sipping on her drink. (It's irrelevant, but Yasmina suspects the girl would like every drink she would never gather enough courage to try. Like Pumpkin Spice, Lavender White and Peppermint. Samantha seems likely to like those.) And they just sit there, in silence. Accidentally looking at each other while having their warm beverages. (It's cozy , and somewhat convenient , but just for this moment, Yasmina doesn't think about the week that has passed. Or anything else like her new schedule. Or anything more like midterms and the notes she still has to finish this weekend. Just for this moment , she worries about nothing but finishing her black tea.)
And it's nice .
It's just quiet. It's nice .
The clock arms move forward, and the same pointers that marked 10:39PM, now mark 11:45PM. The café’s lights are out and the bike locked outside is gone — the impromptu visitant too, is gone. Inside, the only evidence of them ever being there are the mugs put to dry beside the sink. And the small mark left on the glass door the moment Yaz thought she was once again too late .
(Maybe, if the cardigan still had a chance to be a trustable narrator, it would say she came right on time .)
Now, she walks home. The green cardigan on her forearm — because the other asked her to carry it. The ‘Cookie Craft' waitress– No; Samantha. Samantha walks by her side, pushing her bike as they once again talk about nothing. (Which was a direct result of Samantha's way to phrase things — like, ‘I can't let you walk all the way home when you came all the way here just to give me back the cardigan’ and a smiley ‘it’s the minimum I could do, so let me, please’ — and Yasmina’s incapacity to say no sometimes.)
‘Nothings’ that sounded like spices and what's appropriate to add to coffee and/or tea. ‘Nothings’ revolving around rude clients and rush hours; parties [that they'd never go to] and all the other calmer options.
“Have you ever tried drive-in theaters ?” Samantha asks at some point. “Or even the ‘golden hour' special at The Rosebud? It's so good.”
Yaz shakes her head. “No. For both questions. I don't go out that much.” Only for running. But that's at dawn and I doubt that counts.
She gets a look of pure indignation. And the other stops walking. They feel a slightly sharper breeze run past them.
“You should definitely try it. The popcorn is free on the Rosebud during the special. It's super worth it, I promise.”
The athlete hums, a small — almost imperceptible — glow rising to her eye like a flare. She doesn't know where it comes from. She doesn't have time right now to sort it — she saves it for later. “I don't even know where the Rosebud is, Samantha.”
“Just Sammy is fine, Yasmina. ” She rolls her eyes. “And that is not an excuse. I'll show you someday.”
There's something in her voice — some degree of certainty, of promise, of intent — that delays Yaz for a moment. (Delays breaths and heartbeats and even her thought-processing.
And, as expected when this happened, she forgets how to speak.)
“If you'd like that, of course.” Sammy mumbles as they resume their walk. Pace slower than before and eyes lost on the sidewalk. On the moonlight strips in the pavement.
They're silent. Zipped lips, almost.
Yaz tries to find something — anything, anything would do — to say inside herself. She comes up with loose syllables that couldn't even make a sound. Disappointing.
She shudders.
And out of the corner of her eyes, Samantha catches that.
“Put the cardigan on. You're cold.”
I'm not.
But she does, anyway — it feels just as right as it did before, but there's no smell to remind her of its actual owner. And she snuggles it. Goes through all that thought rumination and tries to come up with something sensical.
“I like popcorn. A lot.”
….great.
So much for not making a fool of myself.
Sammy looks her way with a side grin — so subtle it's almost imperceptible this time — and creased brows. “I like popcorn too.”
“Is Rosebud’s good?”
“ I like it. But maybe it's just the ‘no money spent’ appeal.”
They giggle.
Then silence.
Then they stop.
Yasmina looks forward and she sees the entrance of her building. The gate, the overgrown garden, the 14 floors. The few lights on — the shining squares — and the ones she knows it's hers — Ben's already home.
“We're here.”
“We are. You're safely delivered, ma'am.”
Yaz turns to the other. None of them move. They both wait a few beats to speak again.
“I should go.”
“Sure, yeah . It's late. Let me give you your cardigan.” She starts to take off her backpack, but Sammy stops her. A hand that seemed to be aimed at hers. To stop it. Hold it still. (A hand that never finishes the action. That retreats. That hides in the back pockets of her jeans.)
“Give it back to me next Friday.”
Yaz frowns. But I have it now.
“So I'll be sure you'll have to stop by again.”
It takes a moment for her to notice, to make sense of what she's heard.
“Okay?”
She nods. Dumber than ever.
“And don't send Ben to get your coffee and cookies throughout the week. Deal?”
She hums. Stupider than before. Unsure of how to articulate words.
Sammy shakes her head. Smiles. Utters the softest ‘ goodnight’ Yasmine has ever heard and gets on her bike. And leaves–
Leaves Yasmina standing there for what feels like an eternity. Staring at the empty street and at the long sleeves now covering her arms. The combed green wool. The feeling of it. The absent smell.
‘[...] next Friday.
[...] stop by again .’