Cackle

by Rachel Harrison

The dread elbows around my chest like a stranger with somewhere to be.

Whenever I’m let down by reality, I’m simultaneously shocked and embarrassed by my lack of ability to anticipate the completely predictable outcome.

“You may not believe me,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper, “but I am older than I look. And the thing about age is, it gifts you with incredible wisdom. So you must trust me, and all my incredible wisdom, when I tell you that, though you’re hurting now and it surely feels like it’s a permanent state, like a fog that will never lift, I promise you it will.”

“I almost drowned,” I say. “Is your house haunted?” Without raising her eyes to meet mine, she mumbles, “Maybe a little.”

She’s in a new dress. It’s a deep purple velvet. From the remaining fabric, she made me a matching ensemble, pants and a top with cap sleeves. When she gave it to me, she told me, “We don’t need to wear them at the same time.” But we do. We are. We look like we’re a late-seventies glam-rock duo.

Let me just disintegrate into dust and be carried off by a gentle breeze.

It’s astonishing how normal it is to love a creature you’re not supposed to love.

“You must surrender everything for everything.”

“Is that your measure of joy?” she asks, deadpan. “Kissing a man?”

I’m amazed by my own mind. What it’s able to accept. What it’s able to overlook.

You remember it being bigger than it is. Because you’re bigger than you were.

I wonder how much of a woman’s life is spent this way. Enduring. Waiting for enjoyment or, fuck it, death.

“Women are out there tethering themselves to mediocre men just so they can wear a ball gown. It’s a shame.”