Come and Get It

by Kiley Reid

It all seemed unfair. Robin used to like knowing things like that.

The way Robin looked at her in these arguments was devastating. Look at me, her face said. Aren’t I worth ruining your knives? Of course she was worth it, but Agatha wanted to say, Wait. How about you look at me? Can’t I just have nice knives?

Her resentment felt round and hard, a tender cyst under the skin.

Millie wanted Josh the way she wanted this house: spiritually, emotionally, forever and no matter what. She wanted to be his valentine. She wanted to host a board game night for their friends. She needed to have her wisdom teeth removed, and she wanted to be dating Josh when she did it. They’d roll her into the waiting room. Aye! he’d say. Look who’s here! There wasn’t a single place that wouldn’t be made better by his presence (the post office, the DMV, a wedding, a hotel). She wanted to take him back to Joplin. Fajita would look up, concerned, whenever he left the room. Millie wanted to be older, to look at Josh with a chemical reaction of accord. This is our dog, she’s the one. This is our house, let’s sign the papers. Millie knew she was going too far, but a little high and scrubbing baseboards, the idea of Josh slipping a ring onto her lanyard didn’t seem quite so far-fetched. The dreams of Agatha, however, were dire and thrilling, the context and conditions dour and expensive. Millie considered a situation where she and Agatha were trapped in her room, rationing her food, using their bodies for warmth. She wanted Agatha to touch her body with equal parts urgency, precision, and care. To look her in the eye and test her visual fields. To pop her shoulder back

into place. One…two…I know, I’m sorry, you did great. Everything Millie imagined her saying was short and clipped this way. Come here. Look at me. Let me see it. Get in the car. She wanted to travel with Agatha, to have a reason to get a passport. She wanted to watch her order meals in a language that was harsh and beautiful like her name. Millie wanted to roll over in white hotel sheets, to see Agatha awake and on her phone. She wanted Agatha to have glasses, to frown in thought at something she read. Millie would arch her back in a stretch. Hi, she’d say. What time is our flight?

By this point, Millie would have estimated that at least forty-five percent of her thoughts had Agatha somewhere in the foreground. She never stopped liking Josh, but those feelings relocated to a different part of her brain.

“Ohmygod, of course not.” The poet placed a hand on the desk. “If anything, I’m more jealous of your trauma.”

Millie told herself that Agatha was something she was getting out of her system.

No no, she’d say. It wasn’t like that at all. But of course it was. Millie had ample feelings for Agatha that fully eclipsed their physical affair.