By Sonali Mudunuri PZ ‘26

I’ve been having this nightmare where I’m twenty-six again in an A-line, bone-white, lacy gown that sits tight around my stomach. The air stands stiff and stilted; the silence crawls up my skin like starved gutter rats. In front of me, the unfamiliar sea of guests — which until now, just appeared as an amorphous, breathing fog — is staring with unblinking shark eyes, waiting. They’re all gaunt and gorgeous with perfect porcelain faces and taut shoulders pulled forward in suffocating anticipation as the words clumsily bounce around in the back of my throat. I feel sick; I think about pardoning myself to hurl into a bouquet but shake off the thought. Trembling, I hold up a sheet of paper that’s gone crumpled and sweaty against the awkward grip of my too-large palm, only to realize that this time, it’s hastily scrawled with words in a language I don’t recognize. 

In a naïve endeavor to speak from the heart, I open my mouth ever-so-slightly and find a stream of blood gushing out into a horrific mess, causing a ripple of screams to echo throughout the church. I should be used to this part by now, but the sheer weight of it all still catches me off guard. Forcing an apprehensive grin, I clamp my hands over my mouth as though I’ve committed a rather embarrassing faux pas. It’s futile; the stuff starts pouring out of my ears instead. The scene before me is a familiar blur, one that feels almost comforting: hordes of women like music box dancers in vintage watercolor dresses, all spinning and twirling their way out of the grand double doors in dramatic fashion, nutcracker men with square shoulders and broad jaws shuffling out in thundering, synchronized steps. The discordant whine of the violins, glass crunching underneath polished wing-tipped shoes, roses pushed into the flood and staining muddy crimson in a rather uninspired metaphor.

Still, he hasn’t left me; he never does. Instead, he reaches a hand out instinctively to wipe some of the filth off my chin, allowing the calloused pad of his thumb to rest there for a small eternity. There’s a sweet, almost childishly romantic gaze shared between us before the inevitable plummeting — his fingers start rotting, very slowly and then far too quickly for the eye to even take in. It spreads upwards instantaneously, and now he’s just this shriveled, pulsating thing that collapses and crumbles without so much as a final scream.

There is no time to mourn; I’m at once viciously clawed at by a pair of humanoid vultures with tandem snarls and banshee-like screeching about how I’ve ruined their beautiful boy. So I run, like I always do, wrestling the painfully narrow heels off my aching feet and throwing them behind me in a hurried attempt to stop the two of them.

Eventually, I reach a clearing in a magical, far-off place: dreamy and hazy and vaguely reminiscent of something I can’t recall, like an old movie I watched as a kid or a story I made up to help myself fall asleep once. This new world sprawling around me is lush with candy apple trees that gleam a brilliant chartreuse, cotton candy clouds in cool tones of lavender and rose, and rivers twisted into ribbons that snake around my ankles, glimmering like sapphires. I crouch, peer into a mirror laid flat on the ground — one ornately decorated with a gilded frame and little cream rosettes, and wait for her to arrive. Sure enough, she glides into view with as much poise as ever, looking coy and serene at the same time. Her eyes are brighter than I remember.

“I don’t know why you keep coming here,” she tuts, pursing her lips. “It’s making you unhappy.”

“I don’t want to come here,” I say bluntly, feeling irritated.

“I think you do,” she replies sympathetically, without an air of condescension. “I think it’s just that you don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Well, where the fuck am I supposed to go?”

“You think I know? Christ, just invent it like you invented this. This hasn’t been your home for a long time…it doesn’t want you here.” She sighs like she’s been rehearsing this in her head for a while.

“You’re not as nice as you should be.” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. This is jarringly new, the coldness. I feel pathetic.

“Well, you’re not as mature as you should be. I kind of expected better from you by now, to be honest.” She says all this very politely, almost maternally, and yet it feels like an acid is burning away at me from the inside.

“You’re just angry that this is what we became. You think I fucked myself up, which means I fucked you up too.”

“I don’t think you fucked either of us up. Not yet, at least,” she says evenly, the way that therapists placate you so you feel less compelled to do something rash and self-destructive. “That’s why I’m telling you to get out. Before it’s really too late.”

“You really think I can make it? That there’s something good for me?” My voice is small now, pleading.

“I don’t know,” she responds plainly. “I don’t even really know you, to be honest. I can’t tell if you’re lucky enough to find what you want, or clever enough to keep it, or kind enough to deserve it. I don’t know anything. I have no idea why you trust me.”

I laugh dryly. “You’re, like, really shitty at this.”

“I’m tired too, okay? You’re supposed to know more than me by now. I’m not this pristine thing you think I am. I just — and I mean this with the best of intentions — I don’t want to see you again, okay? I think we’d both be better off. I’m supposed to be stuck here. You aren’t. So do something worthwhile for once. Go.” 

The image of her is getting watery and fuzzy. I could protest, but the world around me is already muting and dissolving. Plus, I want her to like me.

“Fine. For what it’s worth, I’ll miss you.”

“That’s nice of you. By the way, you’ve got blood on your…everywhere.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I rise groggily at half past eleven in the morning in an aggressively feathered robe that feels like a knockoff of something much fancier and less ostentatious. Immediately after hobbling out of bed, I examine myself in the mirror and frown; I was supposed to wash my hair yesterday. Traces of glitter still linger on the curves of my cheekbones. As I hobble toward the kitchen and feel around for the light switch, I decide to indulge myself in a decadent breakfast of exactly one-fourth of a chocolate sheet cake and a Tylenol to mitigate the pounding migraine. I used to look forward to this sort of freedom as a little kid, but I regret it. I feel unwell.

The apartment feels empty. There’s a berry-colored lipstick left behind by the woman who was here twelve days ago. I’ve been trying to forget her name so it stings less, but it plays too nicely on the lips: Selma. I’m too anxious to text her and ask if she’d like to come over and pick it back up; maybe it’s not one of her favorite lipsticks and she hadn’t noticed it was gone, or maybe just doesn’t care to see me again. I repeat the former explanation roughly a hundred times in my head to feel better. She asked to borrow one of my perfume samples — top notes of bergamot, coconut in the middle, and a vanilla base — when I showed her my prized collection. I don’t mind that it’s gone, but my heart crumples at the thought that it’s in some lively and faraway apartment I’ll never get to see.

My phone is buzzing incessantly. There’s a very enthusiastic student worker calling from Oberlin, asking if I’m interested in attending the Alumni Weekend with my husband this year since we haven’t filled out the registration forms yet. I tell her I’ll have to consult him about it and ask if she can stay on the line for a minute: “He’s just finishing up a meeting, it shouldn’t take too long!”

I mute the call and spend my sixty seconds examining and disapproving of the state of my eyebrows, before I  decide I don’t have time to fix them. When I return to the conversation, I very politely let her know that we both decided we might not have it in us to fly all the way down on account of how tiring our anniversary trip was, but that I appreciate her outreach. I can hear the smile in her voice as she congratulates me and asks how long we’ve been together: “Seven years! Actually, that was a lie — it’ll be seven tomorrow.” My neurosis bleeds out into a kind of apprehensive enthusiasm I thought I’d lost back in high school. I ramble on about the mushroom gnocchi dish I’m planning on making for tonight for a minute too long.

“Sounds delicious!” She replies in as bubbly and corporate a tone as ever, and it’s now that I realize she doesn’t want to be here. “Well, thank you so much for your time, and I hope you have a lovely evening tomorrow! Your husband sounds like a lucky guy!”

My laugh turns into something of a choked wail, but she’s already hung up the phone.

I have a nasty habit of checking my email every fifteen minutes, and today is no exception. I’m never quite sure what I’m looking for, but I always leave disgruntled. Today is no exception:

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Deflated, I look at my phone again. A text from my mom wishing me a happy half-birthday that I’ll respond to later when I’m less grumpy. A text from Nancy Pelosi asking to fundraise for upcoming elections — time is apparently of the essence! I refresh the app, hoping for something fantastical to fall into my lap. When nothing happens, I throw it across the room and wince as it misses my bed by a rather wide margin.

I turn my attention back to the computer on my desk, where I’m meant to be working on a review of some new indie-pop-rock-contemporary album my boss mentioned like six days ago. It’s a miracle I haven’t received an exasperated call from her complaining about my poor work ethic, so I feel guilty and give it a listen. It’s no use: every song sounds the same and I decide I hate all of them. I assure myself I’m just not cut out to work right now and take the rest of the day off.

I’ve been promising myself to watch a thriller that’s been on my list for months, but I’m too hungover to consume anything that boasts even somewhat of a coherent narrative. So I turn on QVC and watch a woman with unnaturally straight teeth tout the miracle properties of an anti-aging cream promising to strip ten years off your skin. I look down at my hands, which feel heavy. I need to get out of here.

The walk to the convenience store is impossibly long. I’ve forgotten my earbuds, so I’m forced to appreciate the scene around me: a sky peppered with low-hanging clouds, the last remnants of shriveled-up flowering weeds, and willowy street lamps lining the sidewalk. I pretend that when the lights blink off, they waltz across the road together to the music of the crickets, and the thought makes me bite the inside of my cheek harder than I want to.

Just before entering the fluorescent cocoon of the store, I realize that I’ve left my wallet at home too. I pause, wondering if I’m at least pretty enough to flirt my way into a free bag of sour cream and onion chips — not because I’m hungry, just to prove I can. It’s a narcissistic thought, so I just try to enjoy my time here.

The place itself is more homey than you’d expect it to be. The vibrant colors of various foodstuffs incite a youthful whimsy that allows my heart to swell for just a moment, and the linoleum floors prompt me to imagine I’m gliding across a checkered ballroom. I take stock of the other two patrons: a blonde-haired man with sunken eyes and a dry cough, and a kind-looking older woman in a floral blue jacket and worn loafers. I contemplate striking up a conversation with the cashier — if nothing else, at least so I can say I’ve spoken to a real human being in person today — but I chicken out at the last second. He looks bored.

When I step back outside, I lock eyes with a couple of kids who can’t be older than eighteen. The taller one, a boy, is all angles and shadows. His eyes — somewhat of a muddied hazel color –– are outlined in a smudgy pool of black, his fingers laden with misshapen silver rings. The smaller one, a girl, is recalling a gripping anecdote with envious vigor, waving her hands frantically as every other sentence is punctuated by throaty laughs. Her hair is haphazardly fashioned into two long plaits that run down her back, and the gesticulation is made that much more dramatic by her long acrylic nails — dark vermillion and rounded off at the ends. As she finishes up her story and leans against the wall with him, his hand drapes over her shoulder.

For the first time in quite a while, I feel old. There’s a sort of effortlessness to the both of them; the boy wears a knit sweater threatening to spill over his shoulders, a tartan green skirt that looks like something from my schoolgirl days, and dark boots that are too large for his narrow calves, while the girl’s gauzy cream top shimmers in the pale moonlight as her denim jeans pool at her feet. I try to remember what I dressed like in high school and instinctively wrinkle my nose in embarrassment at the thought. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and she pulls out a bedazzled lighter in response. There’s a quiet lull as they take a drag in tandem and look up at the sky, fingers interlocked.

I bite down a pang of something juvenile, composing myself, and ask to bum a cig (do kids still say that?) in as nonchalant a manner as possible. The two of them look at each other, a private joke shared between their intimate gaze, but their smiles are warm and genuine as they indulge me. For a moment, I feel a flicker of calm.

My eyelids are heavy. I blink and the two of them are gone, just like that.

A man in a pickup truck pulls by, asking if I want a ride home. Steely gray eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and a hard, square jaw. I say that I’m waiting for my husband to grab something from the inside, bouncing on the edge of my tip-toes. He smiles too widely — he knows I’m lying. He tells me it’s okay, that I don’t have to be nervous, and I feel my hands ball up into fists. I wish I was stronger. I can’t for the life of me figure out how to break the terse silence, so I start screaming at the top of my lungs, voice as ear-splitting and grating as possible, until his eyebrows shoot up in a panic and he drives off in a hurry.

One of the customers steps outside — the older woman — and asks if I’m okay. Without taking a moment to think, I start bawling. She lets me cry into her shoulder for a minute, occasionally patting my back in reassurance, before I hurriedly apologize for bothering her and insist on walking home.

“Oh, honey, it’s just not safe this time of night! You have to let me take you.” I feel guilty enough, but the terror in her expression is palpable.

“Okay,” I say numbly, looking down at the floor like a little kid.

It’s a surprisingly nice drive. The full moon is out tonight, and it’s almost Christmas, so twinkling multicolor lights creep up every few houses along with the occasional extravagant inflatable snowman or reindeer. She asks if I have time to go through the whole neighborhood with her — she never really gets a chance to do this sort of thing with anyone — and I gratefully oblige.

I listen intently as she gushes about her granddaughter: “You’d like her! Brilliant kid. Studying…I think it was environmental science over at Irvine — gosh, these kids are going to save the world, aren’t they? I do miss her to pieces. You remind me of her, you know. Spunky. Sweet.” I miss my mom.

I ask her why she was out so late at the gas station. She sighs, toying with the beaded turquoise necklace that rests at her collarbones, and tells me that she stops by every Friday to buy lottery tickets and bet on her dead husband’s birthday numbers. She says she buys his favorite beer and his favorite brand of peanuts and listens to all his old records on the drive there because she’s terrified of forgetting: “It’s a little less lonely that way.” I tell her I understand. When the woman drops me home at last, she reaches a hand out to clasp mine gingerly.

“You have the prettiest eyes, dear. I hope you have a lovely night.” It’s all I can do to not burst into tears again.

My heart feels lighter, but I’m still afraid to sleep. I can sense it already: the stale air of the church’s interior, the light trace of woodsy cologne emanating from his warm body, the dull pain of a thousand bobby pins jammed against my scalp to fasten my updo in place. With an imperceptible shake of the head, I open up my computer and try to distract myself with something else. Anything.

BetterHelp: Reminder — everyone deserves a fresh start. Click the link below to find out how you can transform your life with BetterHelp!

“Fuck you,” I grumble to no one in particular, still forgetting to unsubscribe from the mailing list. You need to get your shit together.

It’s the time of day where I settle back into my body. I finally text my mom back with a GIF of a banner held up by two cartoon dogs that reads: “You’re the best!” and ask if she wants to grab lunch on Sunday. I take my first shower of the day and treat myself to a fancy lemon verbena soap I stole from a hotel a couple months ago. I listen to the album again, not so I can critique  it, just so I can experience it. (It’s not half-bad this time around.)

My phone buzzes. The message isn’t from a wrong number, or a scammer, or the former Speaker of the House trying to convince me that my three dollars will save democracy. It’s Selma, asking if I’m home.

I wince; it’s laundry day. I’m wearing old heather gray sweatpants I found at the back of my closet this morning and a men’s XL free t-shirt I picked up at an arts and crafts festival advertising an insurance company that I don’t think exists anymore. My socks are woefully mismatched: one is tall and fuzzy with snowflakes, the other thin and lime green and a little too small for my size nine feet. I could tell her now isn’t a good time.

Shamefully, though, I ache.

I open the door sheepishly, like a dog who’s just done something it shouldn’t have. Of course, she looks beautiful — eyelids gold and sparkly, lips painted hazelnut brown, hair tousled but soft as it grazes the nape of her neck.

“Hey.” My voice comes out unnaturally high-pitched.

“Hey. I wanted to say sorry…I used up the rest of your sample. I liked it too much. I got you a new one, though.” She sticks a hand out to present me with the offering, which she’s tied a lilac ribbon around. Cute.

“Th-thanks,” I half-whisper a little dumbfoundedly, still not quite convinced this is real. “Your – um, I have your…” I scurry back into my bedroom to retrieve her lipstick, relieved that I had the sense to tidy up the place beforehand. Once she accepts the offering, I’m prepared to say a cordial goodbye and make it easier for her to leave soon — maybe she’s going to a dinner party, or just gotten back from one — but she continues.

“And also, I’m sorry. I should’ve called you. This is embarrassing, but…”

I raise my eyebrows perhaps too curiously, my fingers twisting together like I’m in middle school again.

“I liked you. More than I wanted to, really. And I think it kind of freaked me out a little. I just—I don’t know how to fucking do any of this,” she says with a vague and frantic gesture of her hands. “But I was tired of being stupid, and I was tired of not being able to see you again. So I guess here I am.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say coyly, breathing in a warm and exhilarating feeling before asking to take her coat.

Our fingertips brush against each other for a moment, and something restarts in my brain — like an amusement park flaring to life, it’s as though every lightbulb is miraculously turning on, Ferris wheels are beginning to make their measured rotations, and merry-go-rounds have started spinning as intricately painted horses gently slide up and down. The night is new.

Once I’ve drifted off with her by my side, I dream of the mundane: I wash the dishes, I pick up the dry-cleaning, I find a ladybug on the side of the road during my walk and gently scoop her up with a finger so she can find refuge atop a pale pink peony. The sunset is especially gorgeous tonight: a quilt of muted pastels melting into one another without fear. Ahead of me, a dandelion yellow bus is dropping off a gaggle of tittering elementary schoolers, all donning vibrant backpacks with jingly keychains. The vast evening sky is soft around the edges and all-consuming of their hushed whispers and giggles, of the cool wind darting through the towering elm trees, of my even breath and unconscious humming. There’s music everywhere.

I wake up grinning ear-to-ear.