perfect.” She’d been saying that all day.
“Is it Malcolm?” If her sister said it was Malcolm, Yana would say, “There’s something imperialistic about that guy.” But her sister said nothing. Yana said, “If you can’t even go downstairs and finish planning your wedding, you should seriously just cancel it.”
Milla stood, bent over the mirror, moved a curl from one side of her forehead to the other, and sat back down.
“Are you crazy?” Yana said. She decided to try for a light tone. “Come on, no one cares about your stupid hair.” Actually, Jean would probably make some remark. Milla blinked at herself.
Perhaps it would help to explain the larger social justice principles involved. “Do you want people at your wedding to be segregated? That’s the Strauss plan, basically.” Yana’s voice was going to that embarrassing register it had visited many times in high school, trying to get Milla to sign up with her for some extracurricular social justice or blood donation, with the never-forgotten (by Milla) rallying-yelp: “Someday, you’ll be bleeding to death, and then you’ll feel really bad.” Yana had been shy, fearful of the beautiful bohemians of Amnesty International, the upscale elderly of the Red Cross. Milla had always had work, somewhere boring and awful like the supermarket. To this day Yana couldn’t understand why Milla would choose that.
Now, Milla said, “People will change their seats anyway.”
Yana took a cleansing breath. She imagined Milla as a twelve- year-old student, no, an eight-year-old student. You couldn’t be angry at an eight-year-old. You definitely couldn’t be angry at a six- year-old. “Okay, look,” she said. “It’s okay to be scared of marriage. You’re pretty young, and it is an oppressive construct.”
“‘Oppressive construct.’ I’m not you. I don’t care about that.”
“If you don’t care, I won’t care either,” Yana said, and walked out, slamming the door as an indication of the seriousness of the issue, and then waited in the hall.
Milla
Hearing Yana leave, Milla twisted her hair into a roll and wound it around the top of her head. If she lowered her face so that only her eyes were visible above the mirror’s bottom edge, the mirror reflected a flying saucer.
Milla’s thoughts were slow in unfurling, like scrolls, and rhymed, like yearbook poetry. She
Was in love
As of five days ago
With a woman
who was herself
Quite hetero
Julie was a receptionist at the Stamford accounting firm where Milla worked. Only for now, she reminded herself. In just a few weeks, she’d be starting her new job in New York, and she’d forget Julie. New York City was a very exciting place.
But last Tuesday, Milla had been pulling out of the parking lot when she saw Julie lighting a cigarette, and Julie’s face, reflecting the flame — Milla accelerated to an unprecedented parking-lot speed of forty miles per hour, leapt over the speed bump and into the traffic circle, trying to drive away from the truth of her love.
For the next few days, she was careful to treat Julie the same as she had before — to be friendly, to be businesslike, assistant accountant to receptionist.
On Friday, Julie appeared at Milla’s desk and Milla stopped breathing. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Julie say that the others were throwing a surprise Bon Voyage party for her. “I know you like to look like natural. But in photos, natural looks like fish reject.”
Milla floated up from her creaking chair and shadowed Julie into the empty conference room. Julie had Milla sit on the table. She’d brought a metal suitcase that, when unfolded, resembled a terrifying robotic butterfly. She stood between Milla’s legs, and, humming a little, began. Julie’s arm pressed against Milla’s breast as she applied the lipstick. When it was time for the eyeliner, Milla had to close her eyes, and that made her aware of Julie’s chocolaty
“Is it Malcolm?” If her sister said it was Malcolm, Yana would say, “There’s something imperialistic about that guy.” But her sister said nothing. Yana said, “If you can’t even go downstairs and finish planning your wedding, you should seriously just cancel it.”
Milla stood, bent over the mirror, moved a curl from one side of her forehead to the other, and sat back down.
“Are you crazy?” Yana said. She decided to try for a light tone. “Come on, no one cares about your stupid hair.” Actually, Jean would probably make some remark. Milla blinked at herself.
Perhaps it would help to explain the larger social justice principles involved. “Do you want people at your wedding to be segregated? That’s the Strauss plan, basically.” Yana’s voice was going to that embarrassing register it had visited many times in high school, trying to get Milla to sign up with her for some extracurricular social justice or blood donation, with the never-forgotten (by Milla) rallying-yelp: “Someday, you’ll be bleeding to death, and then you’ll feel really bad.” Yana had been shy, fearful of the beautiful bohemians of Amnesty International, the upscale elderly of the Red Cross. Milla had always had work, somewhere boring and awful like the supermarket. To this day Yana couldn’t understand why Milla would choose that.
Now, Milla said, “People will change their seats anyway.”
Yana took a cleansing breath. She imagined Milla as a twelve- year-old student, no, an eight-year-old student. You couldn’t be angry at an eight-year-old. You definitely couldn’t be angry at a six- year-old. “Okay, look,” she said. “It’s okay to be scared of marriage. You’re pretty young, and it is an oppressive construct.”
“‘Oppressive construct.’ I’m not you. I don’t care about that.”
“If you don’t care, I won’t care either,” Yana said, and walked out, slamming the door as an indication of the seriousness of the issue, and then waited in the hall.
Milla
Hearing Yana leave, Milla twisted her hair into a roll and wound it around the top of her head. If she lowered her face so that only her eyes were visible above the mirror’s bottom edge, the mirror reflected a flying saucer.
Milla’s thoughts were slow in unfurling, like scrolls, and rhymed, like yearbook poetry. She
Was in love
As of five days ago
With a woman
who was herself
Quite hetero
Julie was a receptionist at the Stamford accounting firm where Milla worked. Only for now, she reminded herself. In just a few weeks, she’d be starting her new job in New York, and she’d forget Julie. New York City was a very exciting place.
But last Tuesday, Milla had been pulling out of the parking lot when she saw Julie lighting a cigarette, and Julie’s face, reflecting the flame — Milla accelerated to an unprecedented parking-lot speed of forty miles per hour, leapt over the speed bump and into the traffic circle, trying to drive away from the truth of her love.
For the next few days, she was careful to treat Julie the same as she had before — to be friendly, to be businesslike, assistant accountant to receptionist.
On Friday, Julie appeared at Milla’s desk and Milla stopped breathing. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Julie say that the others were throwing a surprise Bon Voyage party for her. “I know you like to look like natural. But in photos, natural looks like fish reject.”
Milla floated up from her creaking chair and shadowed Julie into the empty conference room. Julie had Milla sit on the table. She’d brought a metal suitcase that, when unfolded, resembled a terrifying robotic butterfly. She stood between Milla’s legs, and, humming a little, began. Julie’s arm pressed against Milla’s breast as she applied the lipstick. When it was time for the eyeliner, Milla had to close her eyes, and that made her aware of Julie’s chocolaty
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