To Touch the Sun

There are people worse off, I tell myself as she sneaks out when she thinks I’m asleep. There are people worse off, I think, when she’s distant and dismisses me with one word answers. There are people a lot worse off. But there are people better off, too. And then there’s me.1

#2

I scraped my worn Chucks along the sidewalk as I wound my way through Great Park, trying to slough the stresses of making approximately twelve mochas or some variant thereof, twenty blacks, and two chai tea lattes an hour for the past nine hours. I stomped vindictively on a crunchy little brown leaf, and then stretched a little farther to crush the even crunchier looking red leaf with my next step. A gust of wind made me jam my hands into my pockets and hunch further into my jacket while it whipped dark ropes of hair into my face. The same gust made a couple sitting on a bench huddle closer together as they whispered and giggled. Ugh. I hated fall.3

A pretty girl ran by in shorts and a long sports bra, her sweaty blonde ponytail bobbing and swaying with every step. I shivered again just thinking about being that exposed in the chilly tail-end of the afternoon. At least winter would be there soon, and with it, the calm sterility that would let me catch my breath.4

If I could even breathe. I could feel the mucus rattle in my chest and get caught when I inhaled, so I coughed, and then coughed again, barking into my fist. In a moment I was practically doubled over, so I slid onto a bench near a painter and waited for the fit to subside.5

When I blinked my watery eyes clear, I watched the painter work on his metal easel. He was weird. Mumbled to himself, which may not have been that weird, but he wasn’t a bum like most of the people I saw talking to themselves. He was dressed alright, actually, in nice jeans and a dark leather jacket with wings stitched into the back. One crooked eye was on the still-green grass and mostly yellow trees with sad, droopy leaves, while the other was focused on the red-orange-yellow mess he was making on the canvas.6

“He’s been working on that one for a bit.”7

“Jesu—!” I barely caught myself before I fell off the bench.8

The runner girl hovered behind me, watching the painter with a smile on her lips and a dent between her dark blonde eyebrows, like a proud but worried mother.9

“Sorry to startle you.” She breathed steadily, her hands on her hips as she rocked back and forth, like she couldn’t quite handle being still.10

“Hm.” I turned back to the painter but she didn’t leave. “Do you know him or something?” I looked up at her.11

“Nope. Not really. But I change my route every time he moves to somewhere else. Before here, he was working by a playground on the outside of the city. Hated that route, you know? So many hills the further into the city you get.” Her eyes flicked to me then back to the painter. “Plus, the people in the park are more interesting, friendlier usually.”12

“Yeah?” I hadn’t noticed that. Everyone else I had passed that afternoon hadn’t paid me a second glance. This runner was the first to do more than nod and look away.13

“Yep. On the city routes, people heckled him and stuff. So far today, though, he’s been left alone.”14

I looked at the painter again, wondering how they bothered him. Throwing vegetables seemed like an unnecessary hassle. He looked too absorbed in his…whatever it was. His canvas was bloody red, glistening in the setting sun like it would be wet to the touch. Sarah had cut her finger the other day making dinner and before I could stop the bleeding, it looked about the same as the canvas.15

“Hey,” she was saying, like she had said it a couple times already. “Hey, are you okay?” Her motherly frown was on me, now. “Do you want to come with me to get something warm to drink, coffee? You look like you’re about to shake right out of your skin.”16

I chuckled, shaking my head, unable to laugh through the gunk in my chest. Says the half naked girl to the one zipped up in a jacket. I realized that my hands were a little jittery. Probably more because of the 4.2 shots of espresso I had had at work than because of the cold. I had to stay awake somehow, and sleep just wasn’t coming for me. It was when I spilled the fifth one that I cut myself off.17

No one else seemed to feel the cold. A man hurried by in shorts and a jacket with his standard black poodle. There were another couple of women strolling boldly hand in hand across a sidewalk perpendicular to the painter’s, to mine and the runner’s. They only wore long sleeve shirts and jeans, no coats. The blonde one in the sweater had even rolled her sleeves up.18

The blonde one caught my eye, the way strangers do when you almost think you know them. She had long spikes that flopped down into her eyes, like Sarah’s. Her head fell back as she laughed, a wind chime tinkle I wouldn’t have expected to come from someone with shoulders so broad. Or with bare, muscled forearms like hers. The other woman was smaller, dainty, her sandy hair cut below her ear. They were getting farther away, but I couldn’t help but follow the blonde with my head, tracing her, comparing her with my memories, filling in the details. I couldn’t help but know the eyes behind those crinkled eyelids would be gray. My fingernails dug into the weathered, splintery wood of the bench.19

The painter kept painting, but the runner followed my gaze over my twisted shoulder. “Oh, cute! I love seeing family strolling around in the open, you know?” 20

Family. I almost laughed at the likelihood of four lezzes crossing in the park at the same time, but I could feel the lumps in my stomach and my chest and I fought the urge to throw up.21

“That’s my fiancée.” My voice was hoarse with disbelief. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I tried to stand up and had to keep clutching the back of the bench because my knees were like chewed-up, spat-out gum and they wouldn’t hold me up. I looked at the thin silver circle set with a square diamond, resting on my left ring finger. “Shit. Fuck.” 22

“Oh. Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” She hovered awkwardly near me before gingerly putting her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay? I mean—of course not—is there—can I get you anything?” By the time she had finished, she was holding my elbow firmly, holding me up more than I was.23

They were just too shapes in the distance now, but God, their hands were branded in my mind and I didn’t know if I wanted to keep the evidence of Sarah’s guilt in my head or forget it ever happened. Pretend it never had.24

“No, I’m fine.” She started to argue but I interrupted. “I’m fine. Thanks.”25

“If you’re sure?” She didn’t seem offended by my brusque declination. “Well—I’m Bridget. If you need anything, you know?”26

I nodded, up and down, up and down. “Michelle.” I flinched as wind bit at my face hounded the dying trees. Even Bridget shivered a little. “I need…to go.” I shook my head and stumbled away, leaving Bridget with the painter and his crooked eyes and bleeding canvas.27

I don’t know how I got home without running into someone, or being run into by a car. The weary old stone buildings with their Victorian windows could have been grass, could have been castles, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. My mother could have walked up and tugged me about by the nose and I would have kept stumbling back to the little one-bedroom I shared with Sarah. I tripped so much I would have been embarrassed could I have been…anything. But…I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.28

I leaned my door shut with a sigh. “Sarah?” My voice came out clear and I heard a noise from the kitchen. For a second, I hoped. Then Sinn padded over the grungy living room carpet to meet me at the door.29

He mewled at me and twitched his gray-striped tail. Sarah and I had gotten him together a little after we moved in and named him Sinn because it meant “we” in Irish Gaelic. Four years later and he was still ours, but he was my boy.30

“Oh, boy. C’mere.”31

I slid down the door to the ground and scooped Sinn into my lap, stroking his stripes and scratching between his pointy ears.32

Then I broke.33

#34

“Baby? Sweetheart?”35

It was an effort to get my voice to work after who knows how many hours of sobbing. Probably just a couple, but it felt like an entire day. My throat was even more raw than it had been before and my nose was clogged enough to make breathing out of it impractical. When I had looked in the mirror to sort myself out again, my green eyes were red and the skin around them puffy. My head had finally stopped pounding, but I knew the ache would hover around the edge of my skull. I positioned an onion and started cutting it.36

“In here.”37

Sarah sauntered in, dropping her red Nike gym bag to the floor by the door with a thud that commanded my attention, and hugged me from behind. I stiffened. Her red sweater was scratchy against the back of my neck. She smelled sweet, the sultry sandalwood flavor I bought her for Christmas last year. It tickled my nose and I sniffed.38

“You alright, honey?” Her drawl was concerned, and she drew away to look at me, her pierced right eyebrow raised over a gray iris.39

“Yeah. It’s just the onions.”40

“Here, let me.” Sarah gently took the knife from my hands and moved around me.41

Her hands were sure, steadily slicing perfect pieces of onion. Chop, chop, chop. She was so methodic. Sometimes, I was jealous. When we first started dating, I thought I loved that about her. She had everything together, her ducks lined up so perfectly that she could have shot them down blindfolded. She had graduated last year and was now only a year away from being a physical therapist. I was still semester behind my B.A. in European history. I just wished she would slip up once. But, then again…she did. And I didn’t feel any better for it.42

She scraped the onion pieces into the pot of bubbling red tomato sauce and then slid some noodles into the boiling water and sprinkled them with a dash of salt.43

“Thanks for making dinner, dear.” She hugged me again and kissed the dark hairs of my head.44

We ate without much fanfare, just another quick meal. She spent most of it talking about a client of hers who wanted to lose 110 pounds in a month. Apparently, he thought it preposterous that a human couldn’t slough off that much weight so quickly as long as he walked 20 minutes twice a week. I smiled a little, but couldn’t bring myself to laugh too much at his expense. She was so passionate about helping him, though. It reminded me of how excited she had been when she was in anatomy during her undergrad. She would tickle me and tell me all the bones and nerves she was touching. I’d loved it.45

I crawled into bed early that night even though I didn’t plan on sleeping. Sarah was extra solicitous and felt my forehead, asking me if I felt like I had a fever. I hacked and spat in response, but waved her off.46

I lay in our bed, staring in the dark with only the moon for company until 4 in the morning. For about seven hours, I tossed and turned, replaying the scene in my head, trying to forget it, trying to decide whether or not to confront her. But I knew I wouldn’t. Not tonight. When she slid in bed in her boxers and tee shirt, I rolled away and pretended to be asleep as I gritted my teeth.47

There were people worse off, I told myself. But it hurt so much more now that my suspicions were confirmed.48

#49

The next few days, Sarah was less solicitous. She answered me tersely when I asked her questions. 50

“Do you want to go get dinner out tonight?” 51

“You know I have a project I need to work on,” she said, gesturing to pages of her open planner, covered in cramped black script.52

“Can you help me move the desk? You said you would the other day and I need to get my work done.”53

“Can’t it wait?” she answered, not looking at me, but tapping a pen against the side of her head, thinking about something I could only guess at.54

Finally, I caved and sought out the painter. And the runner.55

I ambled through the park, my eyes picking over every moving shape they caught, just like Sinn’s. They landed mostly on pigeons, flying rats pecking about on the ground, but there were a few more runners today, and soccer players farther in the distance. The day was bright, but gray clouds skirted across the sun, hiding it for spans at a time. I wasn’t running on a caffeine buzz, either. It was my day off. A day without coffee was a new concept, but everything else was upside down. That could be, too.56

Every time I heard a set of pounding feet, I glanced up. It wasn’t until the fourth time that the steps actually slowed before reaching me.57

“Hey! It’s Michelle, right?” She smiled hesitantly, gauging my reaction.58

I cricked up one side of my mouth in acknowledgment. “Bridget?”59

“Yep!”60

We scuffed—I scuffed, she bounced—down the sidewalk toward the painter up ahead, poking at the pigeons with our shoes. She kept glancing at me and I waited for her to cough it out.61

“Feeling alright? That coffee offer’s still out, you know.”62

I rattled the mucus in my throat around a little. “I’m alive. And thank you, but I work in coffee. Today is my day off.”63

“Gotcha.” She watched the painter over his shoulder, his short strokes orange today. There was more yellow in the centre, too. “How about I make you tea at mine, then?”64

I raised my eyebrows at her. She was persistent. And I wasn’t ready to go home. “Sure.”65

So we kept going on past the painter and his fire, as I had come to think of it, and to Bridget’s apartment.66

I wasn’t prepared for what was up the warped steps and behind the door worn ragged from the knocks of fists over the centuries.67

Books were scattered everywhere, half of them with titles I only barely recognized from skipped English classes and the other half not even English at all. There were three more pairs of running shoes, most near the old-lady-floral-print couch where Bridget had probably kicked them off without a thought. A giant black bean bag sat next to a cushy blue recliner. The oak coffee table was littered with empty coasters and a couple of outdated Advocate magazines and it could have used a polish, but it was sturdy and the wood genuine. If the TV hadn’t been a thin flatscreen, it probably would have had a few books on it as well. And there were Post-its. Sticky notes adhering to almost every free surface that would hold the adhesive. Most were written on, some weren’t. Just on walking in, I saw about five that said, “Pay rent,” in various degrees of excitement.68

When she saw me flicking one of the blank ones, she said, “Found my planner, huh? It’s the only thing that works for me. I have to see it or I’ll totally forget, you know?”69

I tiptoed my way around the stack of books labeled by a blue sticky note, “l’histoire de langue d’oc,” to sit on the couch. I heard Bridget slamming a cabinet and banging some metal about and then she poked her head from the kitchen to the living room. 70

“Hey, make yourself at home. Only, do you mind if I change real quick? I’ll be back in a sec.” Then her head disappeared again, so I started flipping through the pages of an Advocate, skimming through stories about famous gays I’d never even heard of.71

The kettle had been whistling for a minute before Bridget came out with two mugs smelling of mint and honey and glorious heat.72

“Hope it’s alright?” She watched me cautiously sip mine as she stirred hers.73

It was piping hot and scalded the tip of my tongue but it was deliciously sweet and the heat ran down my throat and warmed my chest. I sighed and nodded. My cough eased and I felt like I was breathing clearly for the first time in years.74

“Good. You were starting to sound like you needed it.”75

I just nodded and stared into my cup. The tan liquid rippled when I blew on it, hoping she would keep talking so that I wouldn’t have to.76

She did, but only after waiting a minute or two for me to fill in the space. To unburden myself, if I wanted to. Which I didn’t.77

Instead, she flipped on some television show on the gay channel and I learned that she went to Eastern, too, and was writing her honors essay on the history of a medieval French dialect. She laughed when I told her I hated medieval history enough that I had to major in it so I could justify myself properly. She eased me into talking about medieval France with her and I surprised myself with my enthusiasm. I hadn’t known I liked it so much. She also wanted a dog to run with, but her landlord was “a scrooge of an animal hater and would rather get arrested for shooting the beasts with BBs than let one set foot in her establishment.”78

A few hours ticked by, never once disturbed by a call or a text from Sarah. We ended up watching the movie version of one of my favourite books. An 18th century almost-love story, a woman gave up everything she had to free the woman she loved from jail, only to be victim to the most staggering, unforeseeable betrayal.79

I had held up well until then. I’d spent the past few days numbing myself, avoiding music and books that would remind me of the pain I was avoiding. As the lead found everything stolen from her and her lover gone, I could feel the burn behind my nose and the tears bunching up in the corners of my eyes.80

“Hey! Hey, don’t cry.” Bridget’s words were soft and she gathered me up into her arms, knocking the tears from their shelves and spilling them over my cheeks. “Shh, it’s okay, alright? Shh.” She rocked me back and forth and murmured sweet sounding things I couldn’t understand while a few more tears beaded and slipped down to the corners of my mouth.81

Some time after I stopped crying, she still held me close to her chest and my fingers were tangled in the damp chest of her shirt. Her chest rose and fell steadily and her thumbs rubbed my shoulders. Another shuddering breath and I unfolded myself and fell into her eyes. Wide with concern, they were blue surrounded by purple. Her chest stopped moving and mine might have, too. I could hear my blood pulsing, each double-thud like thunder in my ears. We were so close. I might’ve counted the tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose; they were kind of like mine, almost in the same places.82

And then I couldn’t count them anymore because my eyes were closed and my lips were pressed against hers and our noses were slid into place, locking perfectly, and her lips were soft and I could smell the mint on her breath. I pulled her closer, so she squeezed tighter. Almost as tight as Sarah did. At the thought of Sarah, my chewed-down finger nails dug into Bridget’s shoulders and I tugged at her bottom lip with my teeth as I pressed her further into the arm of the couch. It was sudden and violent and it scared the hell out of me. It felt good. And it might have been my imagination, but her lips seemed to burn almost as much as the tea. 83

Then she hissed sharply and pulled away, her finger testing her lip. “This isn’t a great idea.” Which is her way of saying, what the fuck are you doing, aren’t you engaged? Her breath came in gasps as she stared at me over her and I was surprised; she hadn’t been this out of breath even when she’d been running.84

“Why not?”85

She just shook her head at me, her eyes half-squinted with skepticism. But when I kissed her again, she didn’t fight it.86

Bridget was right, it wasn’t the best idea of the times, but I ignored her. We did it anyway. Not then, but a couple weeks later. Sarah was gone so often and for so long that she hardly noticed that I started staying away more, too. Sometimes, I wondered if Sinn ever ran out of food when neither of us was there.87

And every time I was with Bridge, I could see the question in her eyes. Are you still with her? But we never answered it. We watched movies, drank tea, went for walks, watched our painter stoke his fire. We never talked about Sarah or about us. We just did.88

Nothing ever happened until Sarah and I actually had some quality time together. I was reading about King Richard the Lionhearted and his squabble with his brother John when Sarah came home early.89

“Michelle?” Sarah’s startling soprano yanked me away from imagining Prince John as a thumb sucking lion. 90

As went Robin Hood, so went my pretense of innocence. My heart sat cold in my stomach. I’d almost forgotten how to act with her. We hadn’t had more than broken, distracted conversations between our school and jobs and lovers, and I didn’t have a convenient escape arranged.91

“I’m in the kitchen,” I called. I took gulp of the lukewarm coffee I had brewed from beans I stole from work. It was what I knew. It was comforting.92

She shuffled in with her duffle bag and her planner, her gym shorts hanging just above her knee and showing off the defined muscle in her legs I’d initially been so attracted to. After sliding her bag on the floor by the dining table I sat at, she blinked slowly at me, like I was doing something strange. “Oh! The desk! I’m so sorry, honey. I’ll get that set up for you.”93

I had heard that before and it still hadn’t been done. But she didn’t leave to go fix it or to do any of her own business. She just hovered there. I raised my eyebrows, Yeah, and?94

“Can we talk for a bit?”95

Oh no.96

“Okay.” I closed my books and the lid to my laptop, then sat back in my chair and folded my arms, my jaw set.97

She ran her fingers through her hair and started to speak a few times before anything actually came out.98

“I cheated. I had a client—she and I—and I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I was hoping that you would be able to forgive me someday.” 99

And there it was, out.100

“Just like that? Please, tell me you’re not serious.” I stared at her, my mouth hanging and my heart pounding.101

“But, swee—Michelle, I—” She looked so lost, her hands plucking at her gym shorts. My heart trembled to think—she might actually be sorry.102

“No!” I jumped up, my hands slicing the air as my chair teetered dangerously. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let her be sorry. I couldn’t, not when my own throat was tight with guilt. If she was sorry, was I still vindicated?103

“You can’t just control it away like that! No! You—you—you can’t expect to apologise and sweep me back into your bed. I saw you guys and fuck all if I didn’t die, Sarah!” A month or so later and the memory was still fresh. Her head tossed back in the throes of amusement while they sauntered, hands locked together without a damned thought about me and how I would feel if I knew. I’d seen them. It was enough to make me clench my stomach to fend off the agony.104

“How long?” I whispered. I was glad I had cried out all my tears already, even if my voice cracked.105

Sarah squeezed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath before mumbling, “Aroundfourmonths.”106

“What?”107

“Around…around four months, Michelle. And I’m sorry. For each month, for each day.”108

Four months. I backed away, feeling for my chair and falling into it. How the hell had I let myself be fooled for so long? How much longer would I have stayed in the dark if I hadn’t caught them?109

Sarah shuffled around to sit on the other side of the square table, looking up at me through limp, sweaty strands of hair hanging in her face. I was speechless and Sinn was the only thing we could hear for a few moments, his paws padding between the kitchen and the bathroom.110

“I…” She faltered and toyed with her hands, picking at a hangnail, interlacing them, glossing the tabletop. I’d never seen her so lost for words before. For the first time, I realized she didn’t know what to expect. She was scared. Of what?111

“I know…that…you were with someone else, too.” She looked up from her hands to my eyes, sweeping her hair back.112

My jaw dropped slack and I slumped back again. How did she know? But I realized I didn’t really care about that answer. Light gleamed off of the tears in her gray eyes. God. I sucked in my bottom lip and nodded.113

“So can we just call it even and start over?” She blinked and the tears fell free. “Please? We messed up. I made a mistake.”114

I was frozen in my seat, and my insides felt like ice.115

“Sarah, I don’t know.”116

Silence as we stared each other down. She looked away first.117

“Alright.” She pushed herself up and I heard her walk heavily to our room and then back to the living room.118

I dragged myself to our room after taking a few more minutes to make sure my knees would cooperate. My pillow was the only one, and the fleece blanket we kept at the foot of the bed was gone. I would be sleeping alone tonight.119

The bed was too big for just me. I rolled about, not because I actually had illusions of a comfortable sleep, but because I wasn’t used to having this much space all night. Lying in the middle of the bed, the moon sent a bar of light right on my face and hand. The diamond on my left hand glittered and sparked like it could start a fire if I let it. I remembered the painter’s fire, blazing in my mind with the searing heat of Bridge’s caresses.120

It almost dawn when I wondered if the flames could be quenched by Sarah’s tears. I sat up, staring out the window. The sky was burnt red at the bottom and it faded into orange-yellow before going green and cooling off completely to nighttime blue-purple.121

Who knew? I certainly didn’t. I lay back down again, and this time, I was unconscious as soon as my head touched the pillow.122

#123

The walk to Bridge’s was lengthy when I was looking forward to seeing her. Today, it was even longer. My arms were heavy as bags of coffee beans when I knocked on the worn patch on her door.124

She opened the door smiling, but the smile slipped when she saw my face.125

“Bridge? Can we talk?”126

She took a deep breath. “Yep. C’mon.” She hitched her head and I followed her to her couch. That couch. I cleared my throat and smiled sadly at the old lady fabric cushions.127

When we sat down, there was a whole cushion space between us. Her blue eyes watched me wearily, her eyebrows tilted up anxiously and her eyelids heavy.128

“I can’t--” I stopped and swallowed. Ending this was harder than starting it. “I don’t…won’t…” She started nodding before I even got the words out. I rubbed my hands against the rough cotton flowers, trying to dry the sweat on my palms. 129

“I’m going to go back to Sarah.” It came out as one word, but her grimace said she heard every word. Or at least one. Sarah.130

She nodded again and folded up, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. Her chest moved slowly, one deep breath every few seconds. “Mmkay.”131

“Okay?”132

“Well, I can’t really say anything else, you know? You were with her first. I told you this—us—was a bad idea.”133

“Then why did you stay with me? We even—” I dug the toes of my shoes into her plushy carpet.134

“Yeah, I know. Maybe not my best call. Can’t say I knew what I was getting into but a part of me really wanted to. It happens.”135

“We’ve been together for five years.” I couldn’t suppress the need to justify myself. I moved my hands to my lap, and then rubbed them off again. “Most of the time, we get each other. I would feel like a coward if I didn’t try and fix it first.” We have a cat together. And an apartment.136

“Yep. I get it. I’ll be fine.”137

“I’m sorry I wasted your time.”138

“Don’t worry about it. Really, Miche. I’ll survive.” Her voice was tight and she spoke deliberately. “I’m not thrilled and it’s not fair. But my ma’s been telling me that life isn’t fair for twenty-four years. It had to knock me over sometime.”139

“I’m sorry, Bridge.”140

“Shh, stop. Jesus, please, stop it.” She rolled her eyes and sat up, sweeping her fingers through the gold on her head. “C’mere.”141

She held open her arms and we slid together. She rubbed my arm and kissed the top of my head.142

“I need to go back, though,” I whispered, my forehead against her temple. “Do you know what I mean? She’s my—we’re engaged. I want to try and make it work, at least.”143

I felt wetness between her cheek and my nose. I hated this. 144

“Of course. It was a bad place, you know? I get it, ‘kay? Don’t worry about it.” But she squeezed me tighter and when her chest expanded, I felt it hitch and tremble.145

I pulled away and she turned her face away and unwound her arms from my back, and after she wiped the corner of her eyes, she was almost as good as new. Happy as the day we met. Only her smile didn’t reach her eyes today, and her lips were too tight, the smile somewhat shaky.146

“Before you go, I got you something. You’re taking it,” she said over my protests. She ran into her kitchen and came back with a huge rectangle, about 4’x 3’, covered in brown paper.147

“Here.” She thrust it into my hands. “I don’t care what happens to it when you step out of this apartment. Just take it now.”148

I didn’t know what to say, so I took it. When I got to the door, I kissed her cheek and backed away.149

“Bye,” I whispered.150

“See ya.”151

The door clicked shut softly behind me.152

Outside, I sat on a bench and unwrapped the brown paper while pigeons begged at my feet. I was too mesmerized to kick at them.153

The painter’s fire was more than just a campfire. It was a wildfire, the bloody red now only a border, an outline to the thin streaks of orange and the massive yellow centre that was barely an inch away from any edge. In the corners, there were little spots of black. I was staring into an inferno. I was staring straight into the sun.154

My sudden laugh scattered the poor birds and they flew up, most to a different bench, but a couple just a little higher. A couple flew high enough to outline themselves against the sun before resting on a building.155

I laughed until my sides ached, until I could feel my eyes start to water, and then I carefully lugged my sun the whole long walk home back to Sarah and Sinn. Sarah didn’t have to know where I got it from. Just some crazy painter with crooked eyes and wings on his jacket.156