Loved One

by Aisha Muharrar

It was one of the things I had to avoid saying in Gabe’s eulogy—the obvious thing—that he was only twenty-nine, and his death was so sudden, by anyone’s estimation, it would have been more likely I was speaking at the happiest day of his life.

The problem was even though Gabe was one of my closest friends, the month before, we’d made a dumb mistake and slept together.

OH I AM HOOKED

When someone said “best friend,” I thought of these four people as a group,

Nneka would listen, then give me a pragmatic summary. Rose would cry, somehow even more hurt than me. Casey would want to tie a big romantic bow around the whole thing.

I was still listening to the music. It was a pure, powerful voice, like a gospel choir soloist or an opera virtuoso. Beautiful, yes. But there was something else there. It was hard to explain, but it was like the singer needed to sing this song. Like if they didn’t sing these words right now, they’d be dragged away. All together it created a disquieting comfort, like someone sliding their hand under my skin and resting it over my heart.

Now in Roberta’s kitchen, I found I felt that way talking to Gabe too. It was easy, like I’d made my first friend in Barcelona.

The sharp smell of the sea stung my nose like the white anchovies in vinegar we brought with us, eating them straight up, out of their tin.