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1
THORNE
You’d think I’d be used to the staring by now. But that’s the thing about having people stare at you. You really fuckingfeelit. And it doesn’t feel good.
People always think they’re being subtle about it. They gape at you when they think you can’t see them. Or they pretend to be looking at something behind you, when really they’re just stealing another glance. I know that’s what they’re doing, because whenever I’ve met their eyes, they suddenly look panicked and drop their eyes in shame.
The only ones who stare shamelessly are the kids. The ones under five are the worst. Like the kid who’s currently standing behind me in line.
“Why is he so big, Mommy?” the little voice is asking.
I hear his mother try to hush him, but he ignores her.
“Is he agiant?” the kid asks. “Can we sayhi?”
If I were a kinder man, I’d turn around and smile at the kid. But I couldn’t even fake that kind of thing if I wanted to. I’m capable ofrunning into burning buildings and risking my life to save other people, but not that. Maybe someday I’ll learn how.
Or not.
The gal in front of me finishes checking out and starts pushing her grocery-bag-filled cart away. As she’s leaving, I notice a pack of gum that she accidentally left behind. I pick it up, clear my throat, and call out, “Hey. Miss. You forgot something.”
As soon as she turns around, she draws in a sharp, fearful gasp. At the same time, her shoulders tense and her hands tighten around the handle of her grocery cart.
“Oh!” she says. She pries a hand off her cart and quickly takes the pack of gum from me. “Thanks. Sorry. I didn’t—uh—thanks.” Then she rushes away, pushing her cart with urgency, giving me one more frightened glance over her shoulder just before she disappears out the sliding grocery store doors.
And that, right there, is the reason why I’m alone. I scare women. They take one look at me and they think…fuck, I don’t even know what they think. That I’m a monster? That I’m going to hurt them? That I’m their worst nightmare come true?
I can’t believe I’ve been on this earth for over forty years and I still haven’t kissed a woman.
Growing up, my mother tried to convince me that my size was a good thing. She would tell me that it was a gift. Every time I helped her get something from a shelf that she couldn’t reach, or carry something that was too heavy for her to manage, she would use it as yet another example of why it was wonderful that I was the way I was.
Don’t get me wrong. I valued my mother’s perspective. But her words only did so much. Every time I struggled to squeeze into one of the desks at school, or hit my head on something, or ate alone during lunch, it chipped away a little more at my soul.
At the station, I walk in with my duffle bag in one hand and the grocery bag in the other. It’s my turn to cook for the crew tonight, and I head into the kitchen first to put the groceries away. One of our probies is in there, eating a piece of toast over the sink. I swear this kid is always coming in here for a snack.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” he asks as he chews.
I throw a few things into the fridge, then shove the rest into an upper cabinet. When I look at the probie, he’s still chewing, waiting impatiently for my answer.
“Wipe those crumbs off your face before you get back to work,” I tell him and walk out of the kitchen.
I head down the hallway to our sleeping quarters. My room is at the end of the hall on the left. When I push open the door and flip the switch on the wall, fluorescent light spills over the sparsely furnished room. Despite spending a good deal of time here, it’s a utilitarian space, nothing fancier than that. There’s a simple bedside table with a lamp on it. A trash bin. A metal-framed bed. Plain white sheets. A single pillow.
The strap of my duffle bag slides off my shoulder and I let the bag thud to the ground. I’m about to turn around and leave, antsy to immerse myself in work, but then a small flash of pink catches my eye.
What is that sitting on my pillow?
Frowning, I walk over and pick up the strange object. It’s a paper heart cut out of pink card stock, with a bunch of intricate frilly bits glued on. Is this…a valentine? Is that what I’m looking at right now?
I stare at it for several more seconds, dumbfounded. Then I flip it over and find a handwritten message on the back:
Thank you for all that you do. I’m in awe of you.
I don’t recognize the handwriting. And there’s no name signed. It’s gotta be some kind of stupid joke. I throw the heart at the trash bin, but it flutters in the air and lands on the floor instead. Sighing, I pick it up again. I’m about to crumple it up and chuck it in the trash for good, but then I stop myself.
I keep it clutched in my hand as I leave my room and join the rest of the crew in the conference room, where we gather at the start of every shift.
“Whoever made this,” I say, tossing the heart onto the table and pointing at it, “you can have it back.”
