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“Hi, honey, it's Momma. How's everything? How's Ben? I imagine your midterms started already, and that's why you haven't called? I'm sorry, I just got worried. And I miss you, darling. Barney misses you as well. Just stay safe and give me a call whenever you're able to, okay? Love you. Bye.”
It's the fine line between adaptation and evolution that tolerates her existence.
The angle that allows her to have life as an experience, and the stars glued to her ceiling (back when she was 6 and 12 at the same time) that present to her the gentle quietness of night. The grains of warm sand molding themselves to her feet and marking her steps towards dusk — on the day Yasmina learned she could run with the wind, after the world, after every other thing that wasn't at arm's reach — and the weighted indigo blanket she had when she was a kid — the one that tethered her to the mattress and assured her, ‘you exist, you exist, you exist’. (Gravity and every other sort of acceleration that's universal, not human made; predictable systems — the ones with results achieved without great extrapolations — and nature's defined patterns — the flow that life takes until it trails back to the ending; the start.) The sounds that scratches her scalp and remind her she’s part of something bigger — that she’s entitled to this ‘bigger’ too. (If life is so great and captivating, she gets to experience some of it, too.)
The rightside up of it.
And the angle that stares right back at her like a ravenous beast, roaring and threatening to jump her bones to figure out what she was made for — what she's made of. The fireworks on the 4th of July above the roof of her childhood home, exploding so close to her ceiling, he fears they might crumble and bury her underneath — exploding everywhere inside her skull in such a destructive way she fears it might expel her out of herself, make her watch while her body withers. The silverware touching her molars and reminding her of friction — damaging abrasion — and the cacophony she found outside her room — school and supermarkets and nights where her father insisted on drinking a bit too much. The expectancy she'd find when she looked at the mirror, at other people's eyes, at her mother's inconsolable orbs — the right answers and appropriate answers she was born already too old to learn. (Darwin's selection, the lineage of the fittest and the damned words of Lavoisier — the great transformation of energy that was wasted on her. The delegation of functions in her brain, and the absurd amount of energy it took her to do the smallest things.) If life is so automated and simple, why did she have to tame the beast?
The upside down.
The small intersection of these two — the knot that will make her trip if she's not paying attention — the inconveniences of a normal day that could erase every brave step forward she has ever taken, force her right back to the start.
It's the fine line between adjustment and correlativity.
The routine she has managed to build for herself and the small bits of normalcy she holds onto to have a small taste of true control — the pistachio cookies and the black coffee she'd always order; the same body moisturizer she has used since she was 15; the pairs of socks she'd coordinate with her clothes; the color coded notes she always writes the same; the early mornings and her beloved runs.
The things that are hers; the bits that are her.
Her rightside up.
And the hiccups that hit her at once, like waves washing over a sandcastle, or the autumn breeze tearing apart a fragile castle of cards — the interrupted classes and the changes in her academic schedule; the rearranged practices, and the pair of socks that no longer feel amicable to her feet; the summer rain that stretches throughout the days and forces her to reformulate and rearrange everything; the 5-minutes-late-alarm and the earphones that escape from her ears, tangle around her ankles and end up under her running shoes.
(Crushed and unsalvageable.
‘You have got to be kidding me!’)
The things that kick her out to the tangents; the bits that could ruin her.
Her upside down.
It's survival — ‘remain in spite of adversity’, they say.
The small intersection of these two — the knot that makes her stop this morning; take a deep breath and recalculate the next few hours — the inconvenience of a torn earphone that takes her to a store at 9 o’clock and leads her inside, looking for the exact model she's just lost.
Thinking to herself that she's, for once, glad she asked Roxie for a morning off today so she could study for her exam — Exercise Physiology and Kinesiology, the greatest enemy of Yaz’s attention span. (If not, she'd be late for her practice, and that would be another great load of “oh-no’s” for a single Friday.)
“Hi, is there anything I can help you with?” A girl not much older than her stops by her side. Hands on her back and name on a badge — Lilianna. She wears a wide smile on her face — too wide to not be putting some pressure onto her cheeks. “Are you looking for an earphone? Did you see the wireless models? They're quite popular now, and we have some really nice prices.”
“I don't like wireless earphones.” She states, eyes still fixed onto the rectangular boxes in front of her. Phillips. Samsung. Apple. KZ EDX. Bose. Beats. Sony. “But thank you.” An attempt (very, very weak attempt) to smile back at the other girl is made, but her mouth is rusty. These are the first words she had said today — Ben was not awake when she left, as usual, and she (gladly) didn't have to apologize to anyone for accidentally bumping into them on her walk here. It's definitely hoarse.
“That's fine, we have many options. I'm a fan of wireless models but you do you.” Lilianna giggles, looking at the shelves before them. “So... Any specifications we should look for?”
“I need Pure Bass. Preferably JBL, but I couldn't find any here.” She answers, reaching for her pockets and taking her destroyed ones in hand. “It happened to me this morning. I can't be without these.”
“Oh my.” Her eyebrows rise, observing the piece. The unit and housing lower are popping out of the ear tip — its whole plastic structure twisted into a weird shape.
“I stepped on them accidentally. It got tangled up on my legs.” She fills in — as if more context is necessary to assure the attendance she's not just a masochist that would ruin another new pair for fun. (She thinks of adding even more. Saying, ‘and I came here as soon as I noticed but it was 7:35 and you only open at nine’. And laugh — because it's supposed to be funny information.) “Do you think you have one of these?”
“I can look at the back for you, but I think we sold those out last week. I'll check either way, and be right back.” She smiles again, walking away and leaving Yasmina to wait.
And she does.
Obediently, not moving a single step — only looking at her phone at the time a couple times to make sure she'd still make it home in time to study until the exam.
It's 9:23AM. The exam is at 13:10. Three hours and forty seven minutes.
Yup.
That's enough, right?
Get home — preferably with new earphones. Shower. Change. Revise my flashcards. (Maybe eat something.) Change again. Walk to campus. Get to class. Do the exam.
Yeah.
That's manageable.
“I don't think I have good news.” Lilianna’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts.
Yasmina straightens her back. “Hum?”
“I couldn't find the model you wanted.”
“Oh.”
Ok, dammit.
Get home — with no earphones. Shower. Change. Revise my flashcards. (Maybe eat something.) Change again. Walk to campus. Get to class. Do the exam. Get back home and try to find the same one online.
“But we have other options you could try. Sony's and Phillips’ are very good.” She tries — again, with that wide smile on her lips.
“I really wanted the exact same ones.” Yaz tries to mirror her — again — and once more it just feels misplaced. “Sorry.”
Lilianna politely offers her to make a note with her name and number so that she'd call when new ones arrived. (Goes to grab the pan and the sticky notes’ block before the athlete has a chance to say no.
Not that she could say ‘no’ — although she knows she would end up looking it up at Amazon anyway.
(Smiley and polite people make it hard for her to say no — and a few other things.)
“We'll give you a call as soon as the new shipment arrives.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She smiles again, walking towards the front door. Pushing the front door and stepping onto the sidewalk. Standing outside for a minute too long while holding her breath. (Just buy it online.) Listing every reason as to why having a tantrum about this wouldn't make the earphones suddenly appear in her nightstand, or fix the ones she has in her back pockets. (It's fine, you'd do it either way. You should've thought of it first, but it's fine. Just walk home and pray that Ben will let you borrow his.) Taking a deep breath before recalculating her route.
Adding a few extra turns — a whole new block — to it because she now needs coffee.
From Cookie Craft.
(Samantha is not there yet, but still. The place — and the order — is a comfort.)
Black coffee and pistachio cookies.
(She'd see her at night, anyway.)
Getting home without any isolation from the outer noises is difficult, but she gets there eventually. With a to-go cup in her right hand and a half-eaten cookie on the left, she enters her apartment — toeing her shoes off by the door — to find several flannel shirts on the couch and different ties on the armrest. An overwhelming smell of earthy lime and mint. And, of course, Ben Pincus walking in and out of the bathroom like a madman.
“What is this smell and why are you like that?” She asks, closing the door and going right to the windows to open it wider. “Are you trying to intoxicate yourself?”
“It's not that excessive. I can barely feel it.” He says between passes and turns — undone tie and flannel tucked on his pants.
“That's because you've been here longer, your nose doesn't even feel it anymore.” Yaz points out, leaning onto the windowsill — thanking God for the fresh air coming inside. “But I'm pretty sure our neighbors from the first floor can feel it. The whole block, I think.”
“Shut up.”
“Why are you all dressed up? Didn't you get out of ‘Field Methods’ a few minutes ago?”
“Mr. Cooper finished early. He said we'd have ‘a little adventure’ next week.” Even without seeing him, she's able to tell he's rolling his eyes. Grimacing. (This specific class — that Ben Pincus would not take if it wasn't mandatory — unfortunately requires hours of field work — in other words, 9 hours of Ben’s misery, waking up early and going to the woods nearby to understand the standard procedures.) “And I'm not dressed up.”
“Those are definitely not day-to-day clothes. Or ‘stay-home’ clothes. Not even seminary-day clothes.” She says, waiting for his steps to approach enough for her to see him. “Oh, are these ‘date-with-Kenji-Kon’ clothes?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
He crosses his arms, looking away. “It's not a date.”
“But you are meeting him.” It's not a question. (It's obvious. Look at how pink his cheeks have gotten.) “For lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Is this a three-questions thing? If so, you're on your last one.”
“Where?”
Ben sighs. Mumbles something she doesn't hear at first. Then, “we're going to Pierre's.”
She frowns. “Pierre's as in that fancy pasta place a few blocks from here?”
“Yes. Hence why I'm wearing proper attire.”
A beat passes. Yaz finishes her cookie in one bite. Ben doesn't miss the chance.
“Y’know, your caffeine intake has increased since last week. Any particular reason for that?” He smirks.
The athlete eyes him as if she could visualize the idea he's building in his head. “No. Just stress. And midterms.”
“You sure? Because I'm pretty sure that that cardigan that appeared out of nowhere should've disappeared just like that last week.”
“Yup. A hundred percent sure.”
They stare at each other for a moment — Yaz has nothing to see and Ben knows better than to dig simply for things he'd expect to hear.
“Okay, if you say so.” He shrugs. Goes back to the bathroom and she finally gets to her room. (Puts down what's left of her earphones on her desk and checks the time again. 11:12AM. Barely two hours. Sighs. Finds comfortable clothes and grabs a clean towel.)
“Are you done there?” She asks. “I need to wash the outside air off of me.” He giggles and leaves her to it.
Several flashcards are spread on her bed. (Musculoskeletal structure and proper nomenclature. Movement patterns and functionality. The physiology of it and the units of the muscles. Structure and movement of sarcomeres and filaments. Bands, zones and disks. Contraction and relaxation. Regeneration and maintenance.) Yasmina sits by the headboard, cross-legged, with thick black glasses halfway to the tip of her nose and a (untouched) mug of Matte by her nightstand. Mumbling keywords to herself and stitching each term to the other. Doing her best to concentrate without the background music she has grown used to and very fond of.
She might not have more than 40 minutes now (best), but still, when Ben knocks on the frame of her door, she still looks up. Takes off her glasses and focuses on him.
“Is this too much?” He asks, sounding much like a younger version of himself.
“You're handsome.” Yaz smiles. Genuine. Honest. “The bow-tie looks better.” She adds, also noticing he has found suspenders to match his pants. (His hair is well brushed to one side, but he doesn't use the same amount of styling gel he did when they were kids.) “He's going to like it.”
Ben flushes at the words. Rubbing the back of his neck and letting out a puff of breath. “Thanks.”
“That's what friends are for.” She assures, letting the soft curve of her lips accentuate into a grin. “Enjoy your not-date. Don't do anything I wouldn't.” He rolls his eyes, mouthing a ‘screw you’. “And good luck.”
“For you too.” He smiles, his eyes shining. “Although I'm sure you'll nail it like all the others.”
“I really hope you're right.” It takes a breath — or even less than that — after her words for her to remember, “also, can I borrow your earphones?”
Yasmina's the first one to finish.
She writes down her answers on every available space on the page and she walks out of her classroom in record time, to the inner garden — the one near the main auditorium — with half of it on the tip of her tongue.
Sitting on one of the concrete benches and waiting for her next class. Reaching for Ben's earphones inside her backpack and finding a well-known fabric at the bottom — underneath her notebooks, her pencil case and her wallet; she finds combed wool.
And she knows it's green.
And, as she plugs the earphones, randomizing on her Coldplay playlist, she thinks of time.
Not until the next class.
(One hour and a half.)
Or the last.
(Five hours and a half.)
But until it's closing time at Cookie Craft.
(Eight hours and a few minutes.)
Until she can wear the cardigan again.
(Eight hours and twenty minutes.)
By the time her class ends, the wind is harsher — enough to blow away a few leaves and to make a few strands of her hair dance on her face. It's 11:01 PM, and when she manages to walk out of the building, the cardigan has already found its way onto her body — her hands have already found their way into its pockets — covering her figure with green warmth. Delta Spirit on her ears, she takes note of each step towards the café — the alignment of her feet, the rhythm, which part will hit the sidewalk first. Mouthing the lyrics of ‘People, Turn Around’ to herself, she thinks for a moment about the lines and the sides.
Rightside up and upside down.
She wishes — so, so silently — that all her hyper awareness could be translated as something like this: music, numbered steps, a cardigan [that feels right on her skin], a simple walk to the café.
She wishes — against every other bit of rationality her exhaustion has left her with — that her complications — the beast and herself — could be held down by this. Ordinary nights with harmless thoughts.
Ordinary night and harmless thoughts. What else could she ask for?
At 11:13 PM she's outside.
This time, the wait is voluntary — or better said, it's intentional.
Yasmina stands by the door, hand hovering above the handle but never turning it, never walking in — not yet, at least. (Maybe she's waiting to be invited in like any great evil. Maybe she just needs to assure herself the faint light inside and the bike on the rack are still waiting for her.)
Inside, the shy glow of a single row of three lamps illuminates the counter, and the exposed kitchen. The chalkboard with their menu halfway up the wall. The first two booths before it and the hardwood tiles on the floor. The coffee grinder, the silver sink, the register machine and the last worker left behind.
Samantha, wearing a black apron and a bluish bandana that lets loose a few strands of hair. Walking from the oven to the opposite counter to check on something. Eyes exasperatedly looking at the inside of her wrist — her watch. At the ceiling — at the kitchen fan. At the big windows — the night stretching outside and the street that gets quieter and quieter by the minute. At the door — at the girl by the door (the one that selfishly wants to be welcomed one more time).
And Sammy, rounding the counter in an instant. Face almost splitting in half with a smile that almost hides her beautiful raven eyes. Almost conceals the overwhelming sweetness in her voice when she says, “why are you waiting out, silly? I've been waiting for you all night.”
It's voluntary — completely intentional — how her jaw clenches and her breath hitches. (She forgets all vocabulary within a breath, and learns it all back in an inhale.) “Uhm, I– You seemed occupied. And I just got here. Hi.” It's awkward. Her voice strangled, words enunciated in a mumble. Eyes searching for an empty spot inside the café and a misplaced — and very weird — wave of her right hand — ‘what the hell?’
“Hi.” Sammy says with a chuckle. Gentle as ever, repeating the small wave — noticing in the last moment she still has a bit of flour in it. “Would you care to come in? I need to check the oven.”
(Neither of them say a word about the cardigan — Yaz likes its comfort to compromise its current position; Sammy can't take away the pretext to see the other this soon.)
The smell of cinnamon hits the athlete all at once, spicy and cozy, accompanying her to her table and settling in her lungs easily. She can't help but hum at it.
“Whatever you're making, it smells very nice.”
From the small kitchen, not more than twelve steps away, the other seems to sigh in relief. “It’s the cinnamon swirl bread I made for us.” There's the clatter of steel on granite — the tray being rushedly placed on the counter, possibly; it's hard to see from where Yaz is sitting — and a small string of ‘so hot, so hot’.
It's (not) voluntary (however) the way that the corner of her lips twist into a curve. Upwards. Naturally — something she couldn't make happen if she tried to.
“I hoped you weren't allergic to cinnamon. Or milk. You're not allergic to milk, right? Or lactose intolerant?” She goes on, and it's almost predictable that she wouldn't stop there. “But if you are, that's fine. I can– Shoot, I don't think I have new dough. And they wouldn't be ready on time. We'd be leaving too late. Are you, though? Allergic or intolerant?”
Naturally, Yaz thinks, she's allowed to chuckle at this, isn't she? “I’m not allergic or intolerant, Sammy.” She waits just enough for the other to look at her. Nod shortly with a light blush of her own. “And I like cinnamon very much.”
“Good, that's… good.” Samantha smiles and–
And time becomes irrelevant for both.
Inside the café, it nearly stops for a few heartbeats — or eighty. Yaz’s tongue can no longer remember a single answer of the exam, and the impostor earphone in her pocket is not an issue. Neither is the tiredness of a messy week with extra arrangements.
For a few heartbeats — no, for eighty (from each) — time nearly stops. And it's not 11:30PM when Yaz offers to help Sammy carry the steamy mugs to their table. Or 11:40PM when Sammy passes her a wooden trivet to put on the center, before putting down the (still very much hot) steel pan.
It's not almost 11:50PM when they sit across from each other at the table, waiting for everything to cool down a bit and talking about everything.
(Like Exercise Kinesiology — and the information left on Yaz’s brain about movement and the machinery behind it — and ‘Crop and Soil Science' — the exam Sammy had this morning and how everything she learned was learned between breaks at work and poorly slept nights.
Like ‘neuromuscular junctions’ and calcium stimuli and silt and loam soil and adventitious roots and stem tissue.)
Nothing in particular.
It's late — but it doesn't matter how late; this time Yaz doesn't check for real numbers. Instead, she reaches for their empty mugs and plates — fights off Sammy's insistence that she doesn't have to worry about washing anything and does it anyway. While the other cleans their table one last time and properly prepares a large travel bag for the bread.
“Why's there only one bag?” Yaz frowns, drying her hands in a towel hanging above the sink. “Aren't you taking a slice home as well?”
Samantha shakes her head, smiling softly as she unties her apron and folds it. “Nope.” The word pops in her mouth as she walks to the staff room. She comes back with a black leather jacket and a small backpack of her own. “Me and my roommates are sick of my baking. I go rampant before the exams. Bake every damn recipe I've ever learned. In the middle of the night, I swear, Kenji would find me baking pecan pies and apple cobblers while reciting lines from the agricultural law.” She drags the last words as if to add more effect to her meaning. “It's insane.”
“I doubt someone could be sick of your baking.”
“That's because you haven't been a victim of those nights yet.”
Yasmina bites the inside of her cheeks — swears she does it because the thought of Pecan Pie in the early morning is far more appealing than it should — as she walks to the front door, hand lingering once again by the handle until the other catches up on her.
A big keychain in one hand and a paper bag on the other. “Hold this for me so I can close the door and grab my bike?”
Yaz hums. “I still think you should take a slice. There's too much here. Are you sure you don't want any?”
“Share it with Ben.” Sammy waves it off. The cool night breeze tells her it's far past midnight. “And next week I'll take a slice of whatever I make for us. Deal?”
She quirks a brow. “Next week?”
“Well, yeah. It's too windy for you to give me back the cardigan now. You could catch a cold.”
Oh, and it's so obvious.
So stupid.
So… simple.
It's so simple — and awfully nice that all she has to worry about now is to conceal her blush. And how to respond. And how to keep this going like this.
“Okay.” It’s out of her mouth as the air leaves her lungs. As her stubborn lips twist again. (The rightside up.)
“And,” she grins (borderline devilish), “I think it's too late for you to walk home on your own.”
Yaz shakes her head. “Who's going to walk you home after?”
“My bike, of course.”
(What else could she ask for?)
(This is her rightside up.)
It's the fine line between her adjustment and correlativity — the sidewalk and streets they walk through; closer than last time, shoulders almost touching. It's the angle that allows her to appreciate this moment as a whole — no big thoughts clogging her mind — and the stars glued to the sky’s addictive (infinite) shade of blue that show her the gentle stillness of Friday nights. It's the gravity that now keeps her on her feet — no swaying with the earth — and it's the small utterance that falls from her mouth towards the pavement.
“Y’know… there's a local competition coming up. A few modalities of sports are included and track is one of them.” She doesn't know what it means now — why she brought it up like this. Why did she bring it up like this? “In two weeks. It's in two weeks. And I– I’m on the track team.”
Samantha smiles at her, shaking her head. “Oh, you are?” An amused grin rises to her face, and it's incredibly (distractive) annoying that she had to do that with her mouth right now.
“Y-Yeah, I– I like running. And I’m sure the games are going to be on a Friday. And I didn't want to– I mean, if I was still going to the café after class. I wouldn't want to… miss it. Or mess it up.” Get a hold of yourself, for Lord's sake. She looks down, fidgeting with the sleeves of the cardigan.
“It wouldn't mess it up. I could bear one week without seeing the cardigan.” Sammy says, taking a deep breath and tightening her hold onto her bike. “But, if, and I mean that only hypothetically, you happened to want me there, on that Friday, I wouldn't mind not seeing the cardigan at all.”
Yaz’s free hand immediately searches for her pockets. Hides. Balled into fist, nails digging on clammy skin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause. A beat.
The final turn to her apartment.
“So, hypothetically, you'd come?”
Sammy gets her lips. “Hypothetically? If that was an invitation, yes. I would. First roll on the bleachers and everything.”
Yaz rolls her eyes, suppressing the urge to shove her away playfully.
And to ask her for another walk around the block just so it could last a bit — just a bit, she swears — longer.
“You're safely delivered, Ma'am. You and your cinnamon swirl.”
Or, maybe, to ask Samantha for her secret — how do you make things so light?
“Thank you for the bread.” Yaz raised the bag, smiling. “Ben might fight me for it.”
They laugh, and time could either be passing at light speed or be frozen to the final collapse of the solar system and none of them would notice. Or care.
Because they're relatively closer than last time.
And Yasmina might go to bed with the smell of cinnamon in her lungs.
And Samantha might get home and tell Kenji about a not-date in two weeks.
“I’ll see you next week, right? Friday?”
“Yeah. But I might show up throughout the week to get my caffeine fix.” The nails on her palm dig an inch deeper as she tries to follow her own heartbeat — to find where exactly it's beating right now. “Is that alright?”
“Oh, that's more than alright. Actually I insist: please come for your daily caffeine fix.”
Gods–
(And — maybe, just maybe — they have this magnetic pull to one another that no physicist would be able to explain.)
“Are you sure you don't want your cardigan back this time?”
Sammy just shakes her head. “I stand by my first statement. It does look good on you.”
Yaz smiles. “And I stand by mine.” Stiffening her body for a moment to add effect to her words. “It's warm. And it feels right.”
The wind blows in their direction, and she swears she hears a ‘It does’ from the other's mouth. She looks back at her building. Locates the window of her apartment — the lights are still on. ‘Ben might kill me for the time.’
“Thanks.” Samantha’s voice interrupts her thoughts. She looks back at her. “Coffee at midnight with you is fun.”
“I enjoyed it, too.”
A flare — the same one from last time — rises to her eyes. Shining in bright red and reflecting Sammy's own glowy orbs. Lingering for the time it would take for the light to go from one's eyes to the other's.
And, this time, as Samantha walks away, she manages to say a proper ‘goodnight'.
“Hey, Yaz. This is Dad. You still remember me, right? I was thinking about you. I was worried. Do you think we could see each other? I'll be… around for the season, and I thought, why not catch a glimpse of my daughter? I– It's been a long time. Sorry for that. But now you have my new number. This number. Give me a call, okay? I'd like to hear from you more often. Know about college and your life. Be better. I'm sorry for the lost time. Yeah… sorry for everything actually. Bye.”