Rootless

by Krystle Zara Appiah

Then she sighs and leans over so her cheek is balanced on Sam’s shoulder. Everything in him slows to half speed. He doesn’t move. He likes the feel of her cheek across his shoulder, those midmovie moments when she can’t help but react and her whole body leans forward, or she pulls her feet onto the sofa and he feels the weight of her body press into his. He loves catching her scent when she passes him in a hallway, and all he can think to do in those moments is to be still. If he moves, he’s afraid he’ll ruin it.

“I think I only applied because my parents want me to follow in their footsteps. They can be so intense, y’know? Sometimes I feel like becoming a teacher or an accountant are my only options.”

Efe forces herself to laugh. She wants to make light of Nanadwoa’s comment, but in truth, she’s started to think about forever. There are mornings when Sam brings her breakfast in bed just because he knows she’s had a hard week at work. A handful of times they’ve stayed up talking all night, reminding Efe of the late-night calls during their university years that continued long after Efe dropped out. She likes being with him. She likes loving him.

Efe thinks about everything that led to this moment: the easy conversations; Sam joining in with phone calls back home; Efe’s open invitation to hang out with Sam’s family; the afternoons teaching him to cook her favorite meals; breakfasts catching up about colleagues and meetings; their days bookended with each other; the gradual enmeshing of their lives and all the things they do for each other without it being asked; all the things they don’t have to explain. Sometimes they’re happy just to sit together in silence, the roots of their lives deepening and growing ever more entwined, seeing each other in ways

that are closed off to the rest of the world, realizing, slowly and all at once, that this is the beginning of forever.

In truth, Efe can’t picture anyone else standing up here with her. There’s no one else she could imagine choosing to be with again and again. No one else who calms her the way he does, makes her feel as if anything she could possibly worry about i...

An Americano for him. A vanilla latte for his wife. He smiles to himself, still loving the sound of that word.

She imagines that everything is different, that she has time for morning runs and after-work drinks. She dreams of the life she had, her memories taking on a rose-colored hue: work; commuting, squashed between strangers; having a purpose beyond diaper changes and bedtime routines. She imagines a world glittering with possibility, more colorful and rich for it, that the dark stretch marks that carve up her body simply disappear, fall away like melted crayon, leaving nothing in their wake and taking her back to before. A small smile spreads across her lips. The tears stop falling and she opens her eyes to see a whole world through the slit in the door, so she rises, knots together her frayed edges, and steps out into the warm, bright day.