Yolk(16)

I’m heading east from Eighth Avenue. It’s almost residential over there since the broad side of an apartment complex pretty much takes up the whole block. And as I hustle back under the shadow of where the art and design center bridges over Twenty-Seventh Street, there she is.

I don’t know her name. In my head I call her Cruella. She has Vantablack hair. It’s the kind of black where no light escapes. Its blackness is as eye-catching as neon. It’s usually teased like cotton candy on top of her head, and today it’s in a beehive.

We’re walking toward each other on the same side of the street. She must live nearby because I see her all the time. Usually with a plastic bag around her wrist. Sometimes with a small white Chihuahua. She’s alone today, but she’s wearing my favorite outfit. She only ever wears three different sets of monochromatic clothes with renditions in miniature for her dog.

The first time I noticed her was because she walks like a newborn foal. It registered somewhere in my peripheral vision as someone falling, but that’s just the way she moves. It’s that clattering mayhem of a fifteen-year-old Eastern European couture model on a catwalk, where the hips and knees slice through the air several feet ahead of her chest and arms, which dangle way back. From the side she looks like she’s limboing.

She’s so thin it makes my teeth hurt.

Her skin is powdery white. With a slash of crimson lipstick. I try not to stare as she folds her slice in half, tacoing it in her paper plate. She lets the oil from the cheese drip onto the street for a moment, off the rumpled wax paper onto concrete.

Just as I pass, she chews off the tip of her pizza and works her jaw in a rhythmic rabbitty fashion. I lock eyes with her for a second as we pass, and it feels exquisite. I turn around as if to check the street sign. She pulls out a napkin. I know she’s spitting into it.

I wish I could break the wall and talk to her. I wonder if she notices how often she sees me. God, what I wouldn’t give for a four-hour documentary on her. I have so many questions. She searches for fucks to give, this woman. The first time I saw her do this with her food, I couldn’t believe it. That it was happening in public. It was a Papaya dog, and it was as revealing as a man masturbating on a subway car. Another time I saw her unfold the paper towels and deposit the spit-sodden masses into a bush, calling to a squirrel. It was performance art. In New York there’s at least one of each of us.

Seeing her always makes my day.

My phone comes alive in my hand as I take another sip of coffee. It’s June. Calling.

This time I do something crazy and pick up. My sister asks me to come over later. I find myself wanting to go.

Class is itchy. It’s disrespectful how slowly time goes by. Sometimes I think about the other me. The me I’d be if I’d gone into design instead of merchandising. I’d be insufferable and self-satisfied. “Je m’excuse?” I’d drone. “How is the Serger broken again?” I’d be wrapped up in all the high drama of calling forth a physical product. “Garments,” never “clothes.” “Pieces,” if you’re serious. “Wearable art,” if you’re a dilettante with an Etsy page.

I had no idea a plural for dilettante is dilettanti.

After several hours of monastic focus, I check Instagram. I like saving it, waiting until the messages pile up, especially after setting thirst traps in stories. I tap the paper airplane. My insides go liquid.

Patrick.

Hey, it reads. I never check DMs. And then Holy shit Jayne from Texas. And a phone number.

I check to see if he’s viewed my stories. He hasn’t. I’ll wait at least a few days to text him back.

On my way to June’s from school, I learn that endometrial cancer and uterine cancer are the same. Uterine cancer sounds meatier. As if it’s farther inside of you. I picture blooming cells with rows of teeth. I also hadn’t known that certain cancers are overfunded, like breast cancer and leukemia, whereas esophageal and uterine cancers are underfunded. Even the scariest diseases aren’t immune to branding. I catch myself stopping at a deli to consider buying flowers and immediately feel like an asshole. June would ridicule me if I stopped for a bouquet of daisies.

I still have the wine opener in my bag. I vow to give it to her only if it naturally arises in conversation.

“Hey,” she says when I come up. When she opens the door, there are clusters of jars and opened spice bags, with a large spill of peppercorns marching across her counter like an army of ants. I remember this about my sister, how you’d find stray ingredients for days after she cooked.

“What are you making?” I take off my jacket and Vans. She’s leaning into a comically tiny mortar and pestle with unnecessary force and nods at the hall closet between us. There’s only a black parka and a camel trench in there. I hang my coat, marveling at the superabundant closet space. A life beyond breaking shitty plastic hangers every time you shove excess clothing aside.

“Mapo tofu.” She resumes her grinding. It’s Dad’s favorite. “Since I’m doing the spices, I thought I’d do a big batch. You should take some with you.”

“Thanks.” There’s a package of tofu on the cutting board. It’s deep-fried, not silken. And the cutting board is shitty and plastic, dinged up and discolored. Fobby. I fantasize about getting her a really nice checkerboard wood kind. The ultra-expensive Williams Sonoma one that lasts forever because it’s made of the butt ends of wood blocks.