Forget Me Not

by Julie Soto

‘Woman Regrets Choice Made in Haste—’” “You know I’d never be called ‘woman.’” “You’re right. ‘Sacramento Minor Could Have Had It All. News at eleven.’

as an asian 4'11 woman, i know this all too well

When I get to the country club later, she’s pinned it to her blouse, above the swell of her breasts. I do a terrible job of keeping my gaze from dropping.

I smell like I’ve been working, unfortunately, so at noon I close the shop for ten minutes, run to the twenty-four-hour gym I belong to, and take the shortest shower of my life.

I meet the couple, decline a donut, and try to have a normal conversation with the bride about a baby’s breath chandelier while Ama leans against my front counter, doing suggestive things with a cinnamon twist bar. Either that or I’ve completely lost my mind and she’s just eating a donut like a normal person.

“What the fuck is on your lips?” She blinks quickly, and then reaches up as if I’ve told her she has a mustache. “No, I mean…” I sigh. “Is that some designer shit? Is that why it doesn’t get messed up when I’m kissing you?” “It’s Hazel Renee,” she says simply. As if that answers it. “I don’t give a fuck who it is. I want you to look debauched when I’m debauching you.”

And the second—we had to stop in the middle because I was crying. I told him through tears that I didn’t know why and it was fine, he could keep going. But to his credit, apparently it was a turn-off.

good men do exist

“Get the fuck away from me,” he says, as politely as he possibly can.

Two weeks later, she’s ruining my floral design at the Singh wedding, rearranging flowers and pulling the spider mums out altogether. When I scream at her in a cleaning closet, she screams back until her mouth is on mine. She drops to her knees that day, and I forget about spider mums. In fact, her ideas were better. They always are.

She’ll show up at my place at eleven some nights, either bursting with ideas or slipping her jeans off. Sometimes both. When I get the text on my way now, I don’t know whether to brew a cup of Keurig and clear the coffee table or get hard. Ama likes working on the floor around my coffee table—she also likes fucking on my coffee table, so you see the dilemma I’m in?—mainly because she doesn’t have a coffee table. Mine’s an IKEA thing that I’ve had since college and doesn’t match any of my furniture. One night after she’s dissected what we’ll need to do with the centerpieces—and after she’s writhed under me on my scratchy rug—I say, “I need a new coffee table.”

Michael is sweating and glaring at the tub. “They better be getting married in that tub.”

The dashboard lights up with all my warning lights. “Are you fucking kidding me with this car?!”

“I don’t really give a fuck what you film,” Elliot says. “My first priority is to this wedding. Then my second is the flowers for this wedding.” “Alright, Mr. Bloom—” “You wanna know where you and your cameras fall on the list? Wayyy down, lady. Maybe twentieth. Twenty-first if there’s a flower girl in this wedding.”

“Senator. Thank you so much for your help today with the permits.” She waves her hand. “Not at all. And call me Laura.” I absolutely will not.

Jackie brushes her eyelashes and then gasps. “My grandpa’s tub!” My foot throbs in gratitude.

“Sure.” I wait for him to say more, but it’s possible I’ve found someone who speaks less than Elliot.

“I sent her packing. Bea got it all on film,” I say proudly. His mouth twitches. “That’s all the reason I need to watch this stupid show when it airs.”

“I’m not going to marry you.” I blink at him and swallow. “Okay.” “I’m gonna date the shit outta you, though.”

“I’m just so mad that you thought you could walk in here, propose, and tell me you love me.” He smiles, his nose brushing against my cheek. “Things don’t really change, do they?” I say. “I’ve always done whatever I wanted in this back room.” He brushes my hair over my ear. “That’s why I love you.”

When his lashes flutter open, I say, “Will you marry me?” He shakes his head. Or mumbles a no. Or turns over and tells me to fuck off.

And if that didn’t ruin her reputation, the horse meme did.

“I keep asking him the same thing.” “Ah, noncommittal type?” she pries with a grin. “Something like that,”