Maia

It’s my birthday and I’m alone in the greatest city in the world. The day starts as it always does and yet it is dark outside before I know it.

I stand in the corner of a swanky conference room; some suggest it is a banquet hall but really it is a generously sized conference room. Everyone, myself included, is dressed well.

There’s a group of frat boys snickering to the side. They glance at me every so often. My eyes, meanwhile, stalk a dull red ‘EXIT’ sign. I silently clench my right fist and collect all fingers except the middle and the index, both of whom face the sky in a V shape. I grab my final glass of champagne. I leave.

*
 
New York smells. It’s a coldish March and the little mounds of dirty snow off to the side of the road make me miss Valentine’s.

The cars swish and swoosh and their headlights are blurry if you squint for too long. The voice in my head cares not. I step onto the asphalt-concrete-cement monstrosity. It is always thrilling to face the other way from incoming traffic—the backlights blush as their human drivers slam on the brakes and swerve. Honks erupt. I trod along.

There’s also a little insect-like pressing squeeze onto my brain. It is heavier than an insect but it envelopes me somehow. I clench my jaws to feel control again. I achieve control in the way that you know that there are no cats sitting atop the torch of Lady Liberty.

My vision goes back. Buzz. I picture a thousand white men in blue-black-grey-brown. They all don nametag stickers where the lapels on their blazers belong. I look around the conference room for food or water; the tables are empty. The tablecloths are red; the tables are empty. The room is empty. There is no white man. Zap.

I scurry off into an alleyway. American cars won’t fit in this cavity. A single notification reminds me that my roommate from freshman year still has my birthday on her calendar. I don’t know how to respond to this. I am aware that she doesn’t remember when she put this in, or even if. I am aware that she is texting in some reminiscence of the shells of us. Is this a good thing?

Police siren once again. They can’t come for me in this alleyway; there is a crack addict at the sidewalk’s cut who attracts more attention than I. I thank him as I walk out and he tells me to “Go fuck yourself, slut.”. I thank him again for not stabbing me, but I really don’t know how performative that is.

My heels tap-tap-tap. Earphones in, Hamilton blaring. The city really doesn’t feel so empty when I’m dance-walking and dodging homeless people and mysterious black bags. The avenues count down: seven, six, Mercer’s legacy, Lafayette, two. My purse has seen this neon-green flood. Ah, Josephine. I pull open the needlessly heavy door. An artificial bell rings.

“Josephine.”

She raises her head slightly from above the counter and her eyes light up in a warmish way that makes the heaviness worse.

“Maia.”

I like the way she says my name. We smile in synchrony. We make no small talk—it is straight to business.

“The usual?”, she asks, already crouched and fumbling around in a drawer.

“The usual.”

She gets me.

“What’s that suit about?”

“Conference.”, we say together in near-perfect coordination and dull, monotone voices. I take a couple of puffs, slide her a twenty, and tell her that it’s my birthday. She perks up and slides the twenty back.

“This one is on me.”

My grin widens.

“I love you.”

“Marry me.”

“Honestly?”

I raise my eyebrows and look to the floor to signal a sense of humoristic ponderance. Her gaze never leaves mine.

She reaches over as if to feel my cotton collar. She grabs it with both hands in a scrunch and pulls me over the countertop and kisses me. She lets go.

“Get out.”, she commands, still smug as she was five silent seconds ago. All my teeth are showing and my cheeks are red; I’m going to say my lipstick smudged, which it did. I blow her a flying kiss on my way back into the dark. Josephine, you witch. For what it’s worth, strawberry-kiwi-ice tastes better with Josephine’s butterscotch lip balm. I let out a few fake coughs walking past the glass display that separates her space from the world’s, just to worry her a little.

* 
I need to do something special for myself tonight. I am still on fire.

It is true that I have never done much for myself. The people in the conference room will tell you that I am a mother. My children do not love me and I do not love them, but I mother them still. I often wonder if I should’ve become a venture capitalist. I like the idea of maternity. Don’t tell Josephine.

I keep walking. Then, I again pause; I have seen an angel.

*
 
She is not so short; as a matter of fact, I struggle to see the halo on her head. She wears a blank brown sweater—brown like the sort of wood that you’d see on a presidential desk. Her hair is some abomination between waves and straight lines. There’s a fringe, a tinge of dandruff right above her left ear, and threads and split ends all the way below the neck. She wears an oddly thin textured golden necklace; she wears it under that brown sweater so God can’t tell. There is something of a worry always on her unfreckled forehead. You see it not but you can tell by the way she grips your fingers in a moving crowd. I can’t tell whether she’s wearing lipstick or not. This is probably a good thing, I tell myself. I picture her in a big sombrero and then in one of those big conical Vietnamese hats; she looks absolutely adorable. Her eyes are tired and hide behind smudged glasses with a thick black frame. Eyebrows sag if she isn’t careful. For now, though, they’re high as they could be; she’s wondering why I’ve been staring at her from afar. She comes close and my heart races. She comes closer until the space between us is no more than that between her two arms.

I clear my throat.

She hands me a visiting card.

Fuck yes: I have her number.

Fuck no: her name’s Adam.

“Adam?”. There is, of course, a curiosity in the question.

“Why do you intonate?”. They sound amused. I flabbergast for a bit and stumble over my words and make an ass of myself.

She cuts me off.

“Just meet me here at midnight.”

I nod diligently. Adam’s muddied white sneakers sneak back into the night. I run back to the dispensary.

“Josephine.”

“No more for tonight, Maia. You can’t miss me yet.”

I howl and bitch and cry at her feet. She tells me that my panic is that of growing up. I abide by her prescriptions.

“Make me pretty, Josephine.”

“Aye aye, Maia-Eve.”

“Dude.”

“Sorry.”

Perhaps Crack Man was right.

*