Yolk(30)

She gets up and marches toward me.

I back away from her with my blocking hand up. “I’m not fighting you, you psycho.”

At that, she reaches over and smacks my shoulder with her open palm.

I look down at my shoulder, then back at her.

Eyes hardened, hand aloft in a swat, she’s about as menacing as a Labradoodle in a tam-o’-shanter.

“What the fuck was that?”

June continues to glare.

“Look, I’m not hitting a bitch with vagina cancer,” I protest as she smacks me again, harder and harder, this time laughing.

“Uuuuuuuugh, I hate you,” she wails, dragging her ass back to the couch. “I’m so bored.”

“Go walk around the block.”

I slump on the couch next to her, undoing the top button of my pants. I’m just glad to be home.

“Let’s go to your apartment,” she says, kicking me for sport. “See if he’s gone.”

“What?”

She’s animated now, eyes gleaming. “Yeah, let’s see if that fucker’s out.”

“Now?”

“It’s been over a week.”

“Well, I can go check,” I tell her, getting to my feet. I wonder if this is her way of getting rid of me. “You don’t have to come.”

“I need an activity,” she whines. “It’s Halloween.”

She’s such a child. “Yeah, dick, also known as the worst subway night ever.”

“It’s early.”

I groan. “I don’t know, June. What if I need space too?” I echo her earlier sentiments. “What if this is personal and I need to process it?”

She appears to consider this.

“Bring me a glass of water.”

I fill a glass, remembering that I haven’t had water in several days, and take a long thirsty sip before refilling it to hand it to her. I already know she’s going to bitch about that.

“You should’ve served me first and then had your water. You act like I’m not older than you.”

God, she’s petty.

“I’m coming with you,” she says, dragging her hair into a sloppy ponytail. “It’s not the same thing.”

“What if I don’t want you there?”

She shrugs off her pajama top and pulls on a wadded-up hoodie over her T-shirt. “Really?” she demands. “That’s where you want to take it right now? You’ve been here for a week, all up in my shit, and you won’t invite me over? I just want to see. I know there isn’t a medicine cabinet or a drawer in this bitch that you haven’t snooped through, so suck it up. It’s my turn.”

“No!”

“Fuckface,” she says. “Either you invite me to your apartment and introduce me to your asshole boyfriend or… I’ll beat your ass.”

“God,” I rage, putting on my sweatshirt. “Fuck, you’re so inconsiderate. You have zero fucking noonchi.”

“I don’t need fucking noonchi when it comes to you,” she says, shoving her feet into mules. “You’re my family.”

“How is that even a thing?” I put lipstick on in the mirror by the door.

“Matter of fact,” she says gruffly, pulling on her coat. “Not only are you my family, but you’re my younger family. Fuck noonchi, asshole. You don’t count. I’m the heir; you’re the spare. You owe me your whole life. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.”

I can’t tell if she’s talking about New York or Planet Earth.

We take the F to Brooklyn in silence. June was right. It’s early yet. Other than a small cluster of school kids in desultory costumes, it’s manageable. The one nice thing about Halloween on a Monday is that the hardcore weirdos are partied out from the weekend.

The train rises aboveground at Smith and Ninth, and even though I’m still aggravated, the ride is calming. The atmosphere’s electric, all the surfaces gilded at the edges. I love New York on crisp days like these. It’s magic hour, and I can’t help but feel grateful. I read on a new age blog somewhere, probably while perusing supplements, that there are places on earth that are a vibrational match for you. That certain energy vortexes thrum along yours. I want to say that the fine print claimed it was a thing with Native Americans. Or Australian aboriginals. Hawaiians maybe—something that makes white women hawking powders and elixirs seem like they have any kind of history. But I’m sold on there being a home for your soul. New York feels right to me in moments like these. When I take a second to look out and remember where I am.

“See the Statue of Liberty?” I point her out on the other side of the train. She’s the size of a thumb on the horizon, a pale-green queen, arm raised high out in the water. To me, Lady Liberty’s like the moon, the way she can look bigger even from the same spot.

“Jesus,” says June. Marveling at the skyline. “You live in Butt-Fuck Egypt.” There are six more stops to go.

“It’s chill.”

And cheap.

I check on my rubble piles when we coast by.

“How long does it take you to get to school?”

“Hour.”

“Damn. That’s a hike. Takes me ten minutes to get to work.” She’s sitting in the seats facing me and crosses her legs at the ankles, looking out the window. Then she cranes down and tugs at the edge of her sock. “Look at this shit.” The bright-blue lip of fabric bites into her fleshy ankle. That’s when I notice that her other sock is lighter, with a scalloped white edge. “I’m losing it.” She looks at me stupefied. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this before.”