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On the second day, I write something that I don’t think is half bad. Something I might be able to pass on to Alwin or Marcus, and they might say it’s usable.
On the third day, we finish our post-dinner mindfulness, and Sara moves over to sit against the wall with me. “How do you feel?”
“Well,” I start, “I’m still absolute crap at this mindfulness.”
“Has your work improved at all?”
“A little. And I’m definitely less angry about it, so that’s a start.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “So, not fully converted yet, but maybe you want to keep going?”
I pluck at the bracelet around my left wrist, a leather braid June gave me once. I think about Sara’s yoga practice and how I’m more intrigued by it now. It might be a combination of having seen her practice and a desire to watch her do more, or maybe it’s that I have actually written something worthwhile. Even if it was just the one song.
“We can keep going,” I allow.
Her face lights up, and okay, that was worth it. I might regret it tomorrow, but I’m inexplicably pleased to have made Sara happy.
She claps her hands together and wiggles, nudging me. “Okay, new after-dinner routine: fifteen minutes of mindfulness.”
“All right,” I agree.
Sara puts a hand on my arm and squeezes. “I think it’ll be good for you.” Before I can respond, though, she’s up and stretching, throwing her arms over her head and on her tip-toes. Now that the weather is getting cooler, she’s taken to wearing a large hoodie with her yoga pants, and it’s disappointing not to see her in sports bras anymore. I suppose I could turn the temperature up.
“I’m off to bed,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “Good job today. See you tomorrow.”
16
Sara
I’man hour early to pick Zoe up from the train, and I’m too excited. It’s been a month since I last saw her in Munich.
For the past three days, Chris and I have had a more solid routine together. In the evenings, I cook us both dinner, and then we practice mindfulness. I’m not expecting any miracles, and it’s only been three days, but there’s been no more chair-throwing.
Or kissing.
I park Chris’s car and spend some time walking through the area around the train station. The station itself is quaint, with a large clock above the entrance and an open-air platform. Some signs are in German and English, telling me where to buy tickets or smoke—which makes me think of Chris—but there are also advertisements in German for the local museums and other destinations served by Deutsche Bahn, the national railway company. Zoe took the first train after her Tuesday class was over, so it’s late afternoon, and there are some commuters around.
I wait inside, impatiently tapping my foot. I check my phone. I order a chai tea with almond milk from the nearby coffee shop.
I haven’t been able to get the kiss out of my head. Aside from the faint taste of cigarettes, it was a good kiss. A really good kiss.
Actually, what was even better was the lead-up to it. I replay in my head over and over again the way Chris stared at me while he approached, the press of his thumbs under my chin, that moment just before the kiss when everything coiled inside of me.
In the train station, I clench my thighs together. I’ve used my vibrator every night since that kiss, but I’m still so goddamn horny.
I need a distraction, which is why it’s perfect that Zoe is here. We can finally do all the things I wanted to do with her, and I’ll get a break from thinking about my roommate. It’s chilly, but we’ll picnic anyway. I’m making those mushroom crepes again, but we are not going to the baths.
Finally, finally, my baby girl is one of the people coming out of the stream from the platform, and all the worries that have been niggling in the back of my head melt away because Zoe shrieks and launches herself at me.
“Oh, I missed you,” I say into her hair as we hold each other tight. For so long, it’s been just the two of us against the world, and even though I know we both have to go do our own things, it’s felt like a part of myself is missing.
“I missed you too, Mom,” Zoe says, pulling back and sweeping her hair out of her face. It’s her father’s hair, thick and dark, wavy at the length she keeps it at, just past her shoulders. It’s been amazing and heartbreaking to watch my girl grow up and show more and more of the Argentinian heritage her father gave her.
“Is this all you brought?” I gesture to her cross-body bag. She’s got a reusable water bottle clipped to it, but otherwise, everything she brought fits into a bag the size of a laptop.
She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s only a weekend, and I didn’t want to bring any of my schoolwork with me. And I figured if I need anything clothes-wise, I can borrow yours.”
That makes me smile. Ever since she was about sixteen, we’ve been about the same size, so as Zoe got older, our two closets became absolute mayhem. When she went off to college, most of my favorite pieces of clothing disappeared.
