Page 56 of Cackle

Maybe it’s the rum, or maybe it’s the truth, but right now all I can think about is how much I love her. She’s my lifeline. I don’t have a single other person whom I can confide in, who cares for me the way that I know she does. She has my back.

I don’t know why. Why she wants to be friends with me, hang out with me. I’m not special. I’ve always been realistic about who I am, about my perfectly average, unexceptional trajectory. I’ve always been fine with it.

But as she moves her fingers through my hair from behind me on the couch, humming some tune I can’t identify, I wonder if maybe I am special, and it only took someone else special to point it out to me.

“I should go, pet. Let you sleep,” she says. “Shall we meet at the market tomorrow? Around eleven?”

“Mm. Yeah,” I say.

She’s carrying me. She’s carrying me to bed.

I don’t know how. I’m taller than her. I’m all limbs. I’m heavy.

She sets me down gently and pulls up the covers, the way a mother would.

“There we are,” she says. “Good night, Annie. Sleep well.”

She hovers her hand over my face. My eyes close, and I fall into what will be the best sleep of my life.

CONVENIENT, INCONVENIENT

My apartment is spotless. The dishes are done; my laundry is clean and folded on the couch. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers on the coffee table. Fat-petaled roses and orange chrysanthemums in full bloom.

Resting on the lip of my bathtub is an assortment of bar soaps and jars of thick, buttery lotion. There is a small candle on the top of the toilet in a bronze tin.

Sophie.

I light the candle and take a long, hot shower. I use one of my new bars of soap and it feels like silk, smells like bergamot. After, I slather myself with the lotion. I watch as the persistent scales on my knees and elbows disappear in an instant. I watch in the mirror while I massage the lotion into my face, and my skin glows in its wake.

The marriage of fragrances between the soap and the lotion and the subtle lemony contribution from the candle have relaxed me into a state of complete dopey giddiness. I float around without a thought in my head, without a single fuck to give.

I get my bathing suit out of the bottom drawer of the dresser and pack it along with a pair of pajamas and a sweater in my large purse.

I go to blow out the candle in the bathroom, but it’s already been done for me. I go to get a drink of water, and there’s a glass on the counter waiting. Cold, with a lemon wedge.

I drink it down.

On the way out, by the door, there’s a spider.

I stop to say hello.

I watch as the spider lifts one of his legs and begins to wave it back and forth, back and forth.

—

I meet Sophie outside of the Good Mug tent at the market.

“My Annie,” she says, hugging me tightly, and kisses me on the cheek. “How did you sleep?”

“Great, actually,” I say. “I feel amazing. Thank you for the soaps. And the flowers. And for cleaning my apartment.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Please. For my Annie? Anything.”

“At least let me get you coffee. Are you hungry? What would you like?”

“Yes, coffee,” she says. “And yes, food. Maybe something sweet.”

I lean in close to her. “You said you don’t eat children, right?”