One is lonely, beautiful in solidarity

two will shun the world.

Three’s a crowd, or too much familiarity

four marks a square to have and hold.

Five is uneven, rickety, unrefined

six will take you to great heights; and then, most will say

Seven is perfection, tried and true. But as for me,

I will always love the finality, the tragedy

of magic Eight.

 

 

 

    The alarm sliced its way through my dream, tearing me away from his arms in the abandoned park and back into the present. My eyes unglued themselves, prodded open by beams of sunlight peeking cautiously through the blinds.

 

    Twenty-eight had come all too soon. Stable job, killer asparagus soufflé, alone. Seventh floor penthouse apartment, no student debt, alone. I pulled the window cord and watched the beams grow into a solid golden block on the floor. My Rockridge apartment overlooked an upscale shopping mall along College Avenue, with its windows showcasing glittering bottles of perfume and creamy lipsticks, soft cashmere sweaters and boat necked sheath dresses with matching leather purses. Although I never even considered buying any of these items, the knowledge that I could if I wanted to was as reassuring as my spotless linen bed sheets.

 

    I stared into the mirror, at the slight young woman looking back at me. She was decidedly plain—wiry black hair that men never wanted to run their fingers through, plain brown eyes, pale Armenian skin that bore acne scars from an unsavory adolescence. But I rather liked her nose; it was straight and strong, streamlining its way down her face and tapering into two delicate nostrils. She was not overweight, but her body was soft and pudgy (she'd never been much of an athlete). Nathan had always said he loved it-- she was his pillow, warm and cuddly—that is, until Mariah's petite, slim figure came sauntering in.

Someone told her once, under an old tire swing, that she was beautiful. What a fool.

 

    “Happy Birthday, Ruth,” she said.

 

    We smiled halfheartedly together.

 

 

    Julia called me five hours later, while I was at work.

 

    “Ruth, they messed up on your measurements. Can you go in today and get measured again?”

 

    “I’m at the office, Julia,” I started to say.

 

    “I know, but we only have five weeks left. The tailors need four to get the dress done.” She paused to turn on her schoolgirl whine that still managed to irritate me, even though we were seven years out of college. “Please, Ruth? Could you just go during your lunch break or something? Do it for me. I could use your help here.”

 

I did not have the energy to remind her of all my help she’d used in the past. “I’ll try my best.”

 

    “Fantastic. Also, Ruth.” Pause. “You don’t need to worry about bringing a plus one.”

 

 

    The tailor’s measurements were perfect. Briskly, she pulled the dress off me, slipped it into a garment bag and led me to the cash register.

 

    “That’ll be $500.” She plucked away my credit card with red-lacquered nails. “I.D. please.”  She glanced at it, and a wide grin spread across her face. “Well, happy birthday, Ms. Derian!”  The garment bag rattled in my face.  “Your first present of the day, no doubt?”

 

    I nodded politely, accepted my gift and hurried out. As I shut myself into my car, the phone in my pocket buzzed. 1 New Message. It was from my mother. It could wait until I got home, then.

 

 

    My mother, a widow of eleven years, lived alone in our old house in Daly City. No matter how many times I tried to explain to her that we’d both save money if I just moved back home with her, she would shake her head and fend me off with her hands, wooden bracelets on her wrists clacking, and exclaim, “No, no, no. There’s no room in this house for you!” Then she’d pause to rearrange her bracelets. “And besides, who knows how long you’ll stay here if you move in? I should be glad to welcome you home for visits, and holidays… you and anyone else you want to bring with you.”

 

    I knew exactly what she meant. My three older sisters were all far too busy to come home more than once a year for Christmas. It was always the same. They’d come with their husbands and children—who seemed to multiply like bacteria each year—and an assortment of gifts, useless trinkets and baubles for their sister, still single, and of course, a flurry of gossip. Their rouged mouths moved incessantly as they passed thick dishes of steaming tarragon beef and leeks, followed closely by boats of yoghurt to dollop on top. “Ayda’s son got into Princeton, did you hear?” Manicured fingers plucked stuffed grape leaves and spooned bulgur off the plates passing by. “He’s dating a Vietnamese girl.”

 

    One by one, they would steal surreptitious glances at me, and I would pretend not to notice.

 

 

    Text message, from an unfamiliar number. Despite my rigid don’t-talk-to-strangers policy, I decided to be daring and read the message anyway. It sprang open like a clamshell.

 

          Happy 28th Birthday, Ruth.

                                           Yossarian.

 

    I blinked at my phone, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me. I hadn’t spoke to Yossarian in years. Once, we had exchanged emails incessantly, back and forth, each message longer than the last. Once, he had been the shining, cynical sun that shed light on my mundane existence. Yossarian wasn’t his real name, of course, but he’d insisted on being called anything but that which he’d been given.

 

    “Nothing is as odious as the name George,” he would say with vituperation. “A farmer? They might as well have called me ‘Cain.’” He would pause at that, and then smile. “Now that might have been a name I could own up to.”

 

    Yossarian, Cain, George. Regardless of what name he chose, he was always the same. And if his message was any indication, it seemed that he hadn’t yet changed. Before I could give myself more space to think, I furiously typed out a reply:

 

                                                          Hi, Yossarian. Thank you for your kind words.

 

My fingers hovered over the screen.

                                                          How have you been?

                                                                                   - Ruth

 

   He replied more quickly than I expected.

 

            Good. Been busy. Still single.

 

    He still knew how to translate nonsense, even after all these years. Then:

 

            Yourself?

 

                                                          Good as well. Busy as well. Single as well.

 

            What happened to Nathan?

 

                                                          He’s gone.

 

             Tell me what happened.

 

 

    I had met Nathan by accident. As a twenty-fourth birthday present and congratulatory gift to myself for my promotion at the firm (from entry-level accountant to full-time associate), I was determined to find a companion with whom to share my sudden slight increase in wealth. After a long, arduous search, I drove all the way from Rockridge to the Brentwood adoption clinic and looked into the eyes of my future companion. There he was, jumping up against the link fence, warm brown eyes rolling in silent laughter. He was six limbs—four legs in constant motion, a tail that went slap, slap! and a long, pink tongue that lolled out of his open mouth. On the white card, black letters spelled out in uniform letters: MATZO. I could already see us, frolicking together along College Avenue, sampling treats at storefront windows, cuddling on cold bay nights. He was perfect.

 

     Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only person who thought so.

 

     “You like that one, do you?” a voice cut through my reverie. “Well, you’ll have to get in line.”

 

     I looked up into another pair of eyes that were just as warm as the ones I had just torn my gaze from. He was only slightly taller than I was. His hair was straggly, carelessly tousled over his ears, tickling his arched and sunburnt cheekbones. Though his jawline was bumpy with pimples, it was strong. The strength continued down his neck into his shoulders—not muscular, but still broad. He was handsome in an odd way, but you only realized it after someone else pointed it out to you, as Julia and my mother had pointed out to me. As I took in the rest of him, he stared back at me.

 

    “No.” The word came out before I even realized what I was saying. “I need this dog.”

 

    “I do too,” he replied back. “My old one died, and I’ve come for a replacement.”

 

    “Well I’m not replacing anyone; I’m starting something new.”

 

    He laughed at that. “Something new? Do you even know how to care for a dog?”

 

    “Actually yes.” I held up the highlighted, dog-eared manual I’d read at least a dozen times.

 

     He laughed again. It was a strong, musical sound. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll talk it out over dinner, how’s that?” he smiled at me.

 

     “I don’t even know you.”

 

     “We both like this dog. That’s a start, right?” He didn’t wait for my response, and flagged over a volunteer.

 

     “What can I help you with, Mr….?”

 

     “Nathan.”

 

     “And..?”

 

     “Ruth.”

 

     “We’d like this one, please.” Nathan gestured to my beautiful companion.

 

    “Matzo, great choice.” She unlocked the door. “He’s full of energy, but he’s the most loveable animal you’ll ever meet.”

 

    “Will he grow any larger?” I asked, gripping my manual a little tighter.

 

    “No, he’s pretty much full grown by now. They stop growing by two, and Matzo is at least three years old.” She planted her hands behind his ears and shook his face with obvious familiarity. His tongue lolled out, his smile grew wider. “You might have a bit of trouble training him though; he knows the basics, but don’t expect him to learn any more tricks.”

 

    We walked over to the counter together.

 

    “Which of you will put your name on the license?” she asked, glancing back and forth from him to me.

 

    “I’m afraid we’ve each found our soul mate here, and so the only thing we can do is share.” Nathan picked up the pen, then winked at me. Heat spread across my face and plummeted down into my stomach. I swallowed and smiled weakly at the volunteer.

 

 

    It turned out that Nathan lived in San Francisco. It also turned out that he was actually interested in getting to know me. One dinner became two, two became ten. And Matzo had two loving parents. Our relationship had no surprises, and that gave me confidence.

 

    His easy smile, his confident (if not infuriating) bearing. He was everything I wasn’t, and he knew it. For a while, it amused him. He’d take interest in my books; humor me when I had outbursts of fury when titular characters met sticky, nonsensical ends. He would stay up with me when I had to bring work home with me during tax season. He would hold Matzo still while I lathered soap into his thick fur, lift his paws so I could clip the nails carefully without hitting the quick. He’d done it once on accident, and Matzo limped around for hours, his path marked by a trail of blood. Nathan never trusted himself to clip his nails again.

 

    We were like a cargo ship pulling out of the harbor—slowly, methodically, but gathering momentum. But then the momentum dropped; we began to sit still in the ocean around us. I didn’t mind. Then, one day, a sleek horn blower came gliding by. Her bow read Mariah, and she was Nathan’s old high school friend.

 

     She was nice enough. And she seemed to appear out of nowhere, but disappear just as fast. One day she was in town and wanted to grab dinner, another day she had a flat tire. Nathan was always available; so was I, but Nathan never asked me to come with, and I didn’t want to intrude.

 

 

    One night, as I labored over piles of paperwork, Nathan gently pried the calculator and pen from my fingers, set them down on the table, and pulled me onto his lap. Then he was kissing my neck, inching his way down, down, down, until both of us shuddered with ragged breaths.

 

    “I have to—” I struggled to remember what I had to do as his fingers traced over my stomach and began to play with the button on my jeans. “to work…”

 

    He smiled, eyelids lowered. “Mmm.” He lowered his head and started up again.

 

    I closed my eyes, aligning my rhythm with his. Then I saw them: countless other nameless, faceless women. My mind unhinged itself from my body, and I watched as my own limp, pudgy form joined their beckoning masses. Then one woman stepped close to me, laughing a loud, ringing laugh, even though there was no mouth. Then the blankness of the head solidified into a face—a face that turned my heart to ice: Mariah.

 

    It was the first and last time I let him touch me like that. And soon, he stopped trying to.

 

 

     After work on the day of our third year anniversary, Nathan and I planned to see the new romantic comedy in theatres. It was a splendid summer evening—the bay air was fresh and crisp. Feeling adventurous, I applied a few strokes of mascara on my eyelashes before leaving the apartment. We got there thirty minutes early. Nathan stood at the ticket booth, and I went inside to buy popcorn. We reconvened in the lobby with our offerings, and exchanged a ticket for a box of Reese’s Pieces, like clockwork.

 

    “Shall we go in and find a seat?”

 

    I nodded, and began to follow him.

 

    “Nathan!” It was Mariah, and with her was a tall, dark-haired man. She waved us (or rather, Nathan) over and he gravitated towards her. I followed. “Fancy seeing you here. Are you here for the romcom too?” She giggled, then seemed to notice me for the first time. “Ohhh, good to see you, Ruth! Aww, you two are so sweet. Date night at the movies?”

 

    “Looks like you have the same plans, Mariah,” Nathan said, glancing sideways at her companion.

 

    “Oh, him? He’s just a friend.” She slapped him playfully on the arm. “But we’ll give you two privacy. Enjoy your movie!”

 

    Nathan laughed—more loudly than I’ve ever heard him laugh before. “No, it’s not a big deal, we can sit together.”

 

 

    We finally found four seats too close to the front, even though I had spotted dozens of seats for two in other rows. The movie began and the popcorn grew cold, like the hollow seed in my stomach. I stared up at the giant blue eyes onscreen, wishing they were brown. Wishing they were warm. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the soft cashmere-cotton blend that only embellished the coarseness of my wiry hair.

 

    "I'm bored."

 

    The pretentious whisper had come from Mariah. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned, feline-like, taking care to ensure that her silk blouse rose two inches to expose the lower contours of her flat belly. Girls like her were always doing that. I would probably do it too, if my stomach looked that good. But I still despised her for it.

 

 

    My heart didnt break right away. It began with a crack-- not much at first, but slowly with each bump and jostle, the crack grew. Bit by bit, pieces fell, crumbled away, until I finally began to notice that my heart was mostly gone.

 

   

    Nathan started working out. I had seen those contoured muscles before; I knew the glossy new bulges on his arms weren't for me.

 

 

     Then one day he left, and he took the dog with him.

 

 

     But I couldn't blame him. I had pushed him away, if not by what I did, then by what I did not do. And I had told him it was what I'd wanted. And I did. Because the only other option would have been to let my heart be sawed, slowly, painfully, in half.... One piece—the neat, clean one—for him, and the other—jagged and splintered—to preserve me.

 

 

 

     “Ruth?” My mother’s voice, usually raucous like a crow’s, had softened as if it had been dipped and soaked in warm, worried water. “I’m calling about Julia’s wedding.”

 

     “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve taken care of everything. I got your dress dry-cleaned with mine, and I’ll bring it to you on Thursday.”

 

     “Thanks, Rue.” Only Papi ever called me that. “Do you have somebody to take you? Have you heard from Na—” She caught herself, remembering her promise to silence. How easily promises could be made, and how much easier they were to break.

 

     “No, Mommy, I haven’t.”

 

     Silence.

 

     “You can be my date.” I cringed at the strain of cheerfulness I heard in her voice.

 

 

 

     Even as I left my mother in the dark, I told Yossarian everything. The story poured out; it flowed like a torrent, yet I still filtered, still picked out the stones and let the sifted sand fall through my fingers. All the while, he listened in silence. It was all out of order; everything was a little off, as if I was painting a canvas before it was primed and stretched. I still knew so little about him, and he so much about me. Yet, for all he knew, there was so much he did not know.

 

     Yossarian. He was my Magic 8 Ball friend. Shake, send, shake, send.

 

 

     Am I stupid for loving him?

 

     Yes.

 

     Then am I a coward for walking away?

 

     Maybe.

 

     Should I have any regrets for what happened?

 

     No.

 

     Do you think I’ll ever get married?

 

     That depends.

 

     On what?

 

     Ask me again later.

 

 

 

     I never asked Yossarian again. He didn’t ask me any more questions about relationships after that. He became a strange, unenthusiastic cheerleader of sorts, as I struggled to meet Julia’s expectations before the big day. And the wedding was beautiful. Though the forecasters had predicted rain, none came.

 

     “Look how it sparkles!” She shoved the square-cut diamond in front of my face.

 

     “Blinding,” I quipped, before I could stop myself.

 

     Julia didn’t seem to notice.

 

     I greeted guests with a well-practiced smile, mopped the sweat off the groomsmen’s brows, straightened the centerpiece of fragrant peonies, tightened the bow on my dress that was a little too loose. And all the while, my best friend’s face glowed, even though two pimples had sprouted at the corner of her mouth. Together, she and her new husband released the pair of caged mockingbirds (not doves—Julia wanted their vows to be unique) together, and their hands met. It was a new love—pure and whole. I couldn’t be happier for her. Their love tugged at the crumbly edges of my heart. Slowly, pieces flew up, back into place.

 

     I could see her now; the girl I once was, the girl who no longer existed.

 

 

 

     It was at the abandoned park, beneath the old tire swing. His hand had just started to slide up her wrist. She felt a strange tugging-- as if a hook dragged slowly down from her navel into a secret place. Her muscles stiffened in confusion to the alienness of the sensation. The hook dug deeper, the tugging grew stronger. A small sound escaped her, but whether it was one of pain or pleasure, she could not yet tell. He kissed her, she kissed him, and they fell together; all was confusion and sunlight-- delightfully awkward and foreign, a frantic scrabbling to hold on, and the inability to let go.

 

     “I love you, Ruth,” whispered Yossarian.

 

 

 

     I picked up my phone. I would do it. I would finally fight for what was mine. My body ached to touch him, to throw my arms around him, to kiss him and tell him that I would never stop loving him. I would let him do whatever he wanted with me; I was his for the taking.

 

     But it was only a dream. I was too late. My hands faltered, then fell into my lap. A few minutes later, they lifted again.

 

               I will always be ordinary.

 

 

                                                                              You’ve never been ordinary. At least, not to me.

       

 

               I had a dream five weeks ago that partially came true today.

 

 

                                                                              What did you dream about?

 

 

               I don't really want to say.

 

 

                                                                              Was it a good dream?

    

            It was. But it was sad because I knew it was a dream.

 

 

     A long pause.

 

 

                                                                              Was today good?

 

 

            It was.

 

 

                                                                              As good as the dream?

 

 

            Twice as sad, and half as beautiful.

 

 

 

            Goodbye, Yossarian.

 

 

 

                                                                             Goodbye, Ruth.

 

 

 

 

     All the while, the mockingbirds sang, Don't go, don't go, don't go.