Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

I recognize myself in her face, her expression, and it’s exhilarating. This is the magic of family. The sense that you’re not alone in the universe, in your body, because there’s someone else out there who shares your DNA, who’s made up of the same stuff you’re made of. I haven’t seen Helen in years, but I saw her earlier in the mirror. We don’t know each other, but we do.

Turns out, I was right. But so often, being right means nothing but winning a round of a losing game.

My reassurance is genuine. My resentment unfounded. Yet they exist in tandem, threads of the same rope.

There’s something terrible about that time between lightning and thunder. That cruel purgatory of anticipation, waiting for the universe to scream.

I almost tell him that he smells like smoke, almost tell him that he smells like fascism, almost ask him if, after libraries, he plans on taking his flamethrower to the museums. I almost tell him how close I am to hating him. But my throat is sore, and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.