Words by Willa Umansky PZ ’27

Everything was so normal, not homey or cozy or anything too good or warm, but normal. Starkly so, in a way that I’m not particularly used to. Pleasantries were upheld and honored, I’d laughed politely about twelve times in a thirty minute period.

I think my slight discomfort, inability to relax wholly, was bred from the strict adherence to southern sensibilities. Grandma Ruth grew up in Birmingham and ever since Sabba died her cold cultural tinge had asserted itself as a domineering force. It was all so fucking weird, everyone had like silently agreed to abide by the most conservative social norms in the room. I guess restriction is kind of sexy in the same way that faceless figures in black button downs holding champagne on a platter are. 

“Do you think they’re actually all fucking?” I whispered to my friend Margot while nodding at my cousin Leonard, his wife, and his wife’s best friend. They were both quite beautiful. One looked like every Rabbi’s attractive daughter, who kissed a few too many boys in middle school. The other one had red hair. She smelled like cinnamon and wine, wore a soft looking gray sweater that came off as effortlessly elegant, and had implemented a bit of a vocal fry at the ends of her words. The drawing out of final consonants was eye-roll inducing, but sexy nonetheless. Margot and I were talking in the bathroom about the fact that Leonard kind of seemed desperate to fuck the redhead. Turns out that’s supposedly just the best friend.

The woman brought it up incessantly. ‘I’m like,’ then she’d laugh and throw her head back, ‘their child!’ She said that specifically at least twice. Both times the statement was accompanied by fashionably lanky fingers dragging down someone’s arm, totally indicative of a tension in the sentiment. That was okay, encouraged by polite laughter, even. I don’t think I understand the bounds of propriety.

“Yes. We talked about this. Maybe,” Margot paused and looked around, “wanna run to the kitchen and grab some pasta or something? Get some food in that tummy?”

We slid our chairs back and made our way into the kitchen. I caught my own eye in the mirrors that lined the wall. Grandma Ruth and Sabba used to live in a house, but an apartment was the logical next step when Sabba got sick. I wondered if the walls were always reflective or if that was something Ruth had done to enhance opulence? Perhaps she wanted to continually remind herself of her beauty, defying the odds of old age. I don’t know, all I know is that watching myself shit from twelve different angles is a little bit exhausting and I can’t help but stare at myself at least once every five minutes.

Margot and I piled pasta, salad, chicken, and veggies onto our plates. I laughed as I let some of the tomatoes from the pasta stain the table cloth that ornamented the kitchen’s marble island. 

“I’m gonna grab another,” Margot gestured to her wine stained glass. “I think you’re fine for now.”

We went back to our spot sharing the head of the table. There was a warmth to my limbs that even I had the self awareness of to recognize as a signifier of my need for food. As I worked on filling my stomach with absorbents, this old guy came up to me. He wore a coat somehow too big on him, despite the swell of his belly. He said something like, ‘Hey, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Rich Weiner.’ He looked at me expectantly, maybe he knew it was funny. I turned my head to Margot, internally begging her to let out a smirk or something so that I wasn’t alone. She looked uneasy more than responsive to my longing for understanding. I offered my just name to Rich Weiner and I ran my tongue along my teeth to soothe the urge to laugh, because I felt a cackle ready to slip out.

“Leila Eliana, can you help me get the dessert ready?” My smile absolutely vanished, as I got up to walk towards the kitchen I locked eyes with none other than myself and decided to both straighten my back and adjust my shirt. 

“Wash your face and eat this bread,” my grandmother said as she sliced a thick piece of challah from the loaf atop the cutting board that read ‘Ruth’s cozy kitchen.’ I did as I was told, shuffling towards the sink as I dragged the edge of my sleeve up my forearm. I let the water run against my hands for a moment before bringing it to my cheeks. I grabbed the rag that hung from the rack pressing against my hip to dry my face. I would have worried about it being gross, but I had to wipe down the fridge handles after my late night snacks or Ruth would’ve had a conniption, so I doubted she’d let her towels marinate for more than a day.

“Sorry,” I offered vacantly.

“Eat the bread,” with that she walked out of the kitchen.

I sauntered over to the cutting board and thought about how much more fun this would be if Sabba was here. After finishing the bread and rinsing my face for a second time I slipped back into my seat at the large table, feeling anew. I focused my attention on my food as Margot was caught up in what she was pretending to be a riveting conversation with Sharon Weiner. 

“So what’s dating like in college these days?” The best friend with the soft sweater and cinnamon scent had turned her attention away from Rich Weiner, to me. She had confined her food to one side of her mouth and maintained an almost masculine hold on her fork. I blinked myself out of whatever trance I had fallen into and begged my brain to think of something to say.

“Oh,” I looked at her dumbly. “Just as trepidatious as one can imagine, I guess. How’s dating in Eagle Rock?”

“Like a fucking lobotomy,” she further covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes squinted into a laugh. I smiled and let out some semblance of a breathy chuckle in response. 

“Care to further explain?”

“No, honestly. But I can and will because I’d rather be talking to you than,” she whipped her head around dramatically, “Rich Weiner.” She mouthed his name and tilted her head towards his. She told me about how Peter Pan syndrome ravaged LA men and in return I explained the emergence of “situationships” and the hellish romance scene that in turn exists in university. I voiced my irritation with “my grandma’s whole anal schtick,” as I called it. I explained that she’s uptight but owns pieces like her lime green leather jacket, indicative of a more laid-back time in her life.

“I’ve gotta see this jacket,” she insisted. 

“I have to pee, wanna come and I can show you the jacket on the way back?” I felt emboldened by the flow of conversation and the wine that probably still wreaked havoc on my better judgment. She said yes. We giggled down the hallway in our socks, allowing every step to propel us into a glide.

“Can I just ask…I’d just really like to know. I know it’s improper.”

“You’re making me nervous,” she laughed and feigned a coy look of concern. 

“Are you all fucking? I just like have to know. And I can’t ask Leonard. Family and fucking don’t really play well together, even just like semantically.” My eyes lock on this weird drawing that had fascinated me ever since I noticed it. It lived mounted on the wall, or rather mirror. It was some kind of abstract piece, mostly in red pencil, of these figures having sex. The woman is on top, pinning down the mans hands. The next panel shows the woman running away. The caption says “Lilith refused to submit to Adam.” I never understood its presence in this home. Lilith isn’t recognized in the Jewish biblical canon and obviously sex on the wall is antithetical to the whole southern sensibilities thing. But suddenly we were talking about sex and my eyes were frantically darting between the drawing and the faux ginger friend, the wine only elevated what I assumed to be the inevitable tightening of my stomach. 

“So improper.” She drew out the R so her teeth vaguely indented the top of her bottom lip. “What do you think?” I cocked my head, giving her a look like I just wouldn’t quit and certainly wouldn’t answer in her attempts to stall. She continued, “Fuckings a bit dramatic, fucked sure, but the present participle implies a certain severity.”

All of a sudden I couldn’t help but notice the warmth of the light speckling her freckled skin. I was drunk and horny and she was there and God was she fucking hot. Hot in a terrible way, she ruled over engineers at Amazon and joked at dinner about how there’s a classified department that she thinks has something to do with weapons manufacturing. It was fucked and she wasn’t kidding, but that made the pull and heightened pulse thing just ruminate into something unquenchable. I had to kiss her, honestly.