The Co-op

by Tarah DeWitt

I always thought if I could do everything expected of me, if I was good, if I caused as little inconvenience as possible and needed as little as possible, then maybe I’d fit somewhere between them.

“I,” she says, “am not great at one single thing. Anything I’m good at? I have to try so, so hard for. And I’m still not good enough at those things, either.”

There’s got to be a good way to approach a money conversation that doesn’t end in my castration, but hell if I know what that is, or what that looks like.

I realized later in life that my mom had worked just as many hours as he had and would still be the one to prepare a meal every night. She’d borne the brunt of the mental load, too.

Plus, I already worry that I might be fun in only one kind of way,

I remember those Greek mythology stories of women walking into the sea and suddenly see the allure.

Words are words but we read them differently, at different cadences and we take different meanings from them.” She looks away. “I mean, our brains are all different. Something in your brain translates mustard as being delicious and something in mine knows the truth.”

I thought someday I’d finally impress my father enough to earn his love. I thought if I stayed good, if I accepted what I got from her, my mom would stay, and would take a genuine interest in me.

I’ve tried. I’ve tried to understand my dad, tried to understand her. Tried to fill in the gaps where their love should have been with excuses. But God, I’m tired.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” I tell her. “I just think we should practice when there’s maybe not a frail old lady in the car.” “Kindly eat glass,” Sal replies from the back seat.

“I don’t always know how not to be … abrupt about things. I’m not trying to be rude to you. I do recognize that you’re doing something nice for me. Spending any of your time to teach me something and also letting me use your car. I do know that, alright?”

I wonder if she’s quick to want justice for other people because no one ever did that for her.

eventually, when no one listens to you or considers you, you just take what you can get.”

I hope she poisoned the chili. I’d like to die a swift death straightaway.

They looked at me like they knew I was so goddamn tender, too. Like they were already sorry for us both.

“Customers come in happy for their caffeine, and I guess I like being a good part of someone’s day.”

I know I’m lovesick when his chewing stops bothering me.

I’m becoming concerned for his well-being because his go-to rummage meal is a peanut-butter-and-marshmallow-fluff sandwich. I can’t bear to make him another one. I feel like I’m poisoning the man.

I wish I didn’t feel the need to try to take everything apart and figure out a situation so much. It feels like that’s all I’ve been doing since Dad died. Figuring out how to fix things. Figuring out how to keep them together. Trying to make myself useful, or valuable, or important.

I don’t think there’s a version of you I couldn’t love.”