Cackle

by Rachel Harrison

Atlas is examining my palm like it’s an unexpected medical bill. Like the insurance actually isn’t going to cover it.

I brush my teeth and take three Advils instead of the recommended dose of two, because I’m hard like that.

There are two windows, and between them is a tall reedy plant I apologize to in advance. I’ve got a poor track record with plants. It’s not neglect; if anything, it’s overattentiveness. I obsessively water, readjust, ask how they’re feeling, if they need anything. Maybe more sunlight? I exhaust them to death.

“Good morning, Sophie,” he says, bowing his head to her. Is she royalty? I honestly wouldn’t be surprised. Even if she isn’t, technically speaking, I think being that gorgeous and owning the only liquor store in town grants her sovereignty.

She’s so endearing. So thoughtful and generous and beautiful . . . I mean, so what if she just so happens to be able to control spiders and curse obnoxious teenagers? So what if she dabbles in some dark magic and is over a hundred years old? I like her, and she likes me. She’s my friend. It’s hard to make new friends, especially as you get older. I need her.

I tell myself that I’ll have a glass. A single glass. I tell myself that I won’t immediately change into sweatpants and pull my hair back in a low ponytail like I’m the backwoods murder suspect in a low-budget crime show reenactment. Act like a real, functioning human being, I beg myself as I climb the stairs to my apartment. Read a book. For the love of God, read a book!

Oskar was never flirting with me. He doesn’t give a shit if I spend Valentine’s Day sobbing into a self-bought Whitman’s Sampler repeatedly viewing The Notebook or having an orgy with street magicians I met on Craigslist.

I embrace the next morning with all the enthusiasm of a goat entering Jurassic Park.

“Yes. I don’t dislike her,” Deirdre echoes. “Tom?” Oskar asks. “Back me up here.” “I’ve learned to live with the old bitch,” Tom says. “But there can’t be two.”

“No, this is good,” I say to myself. “This is really good. Sophie is obviously an unstable person. I don’t need her in my life. Who needs a domineering friend who lives in a scary house with ghosts and hangs out with spiders and curses people? Plus, she’s over four hundred years old. I need friends my own age.”