Mimosas
/Holden Wright
Josh told me his sister had just learned he was dating another boy half his age, and she was pissed. He tried to laugh it off, but all I could think was, “Another?” and for the first time wondered how many predecessors I had.
Josh was self-conscious about his girth, but I loved to feel the weight of him on top of me, pressing me into the bed. I was in Boise for the first time, visiting him for a long weekend. He’d been to see me once in Corpus Christi, where I took him to a concert and threw up on his shoes after too many margaritas. Before that we dated online nearly six months.
Idaho was almost another country to me: a tidal wave of mountains came at you from the horizon, making the sky seem far away and brittle. I came completely unprepared, wearing a light jacket that was no defense against the October chill. “We’ll get you a real coat,” Josh told me. “And a scarf and gloves.”
Too, I was unprepared for Josh who knew exactly how to unravel me with nothing more than a well-placed look. He was effusive, disarming; we spoke entire conversations over tikka masala with our eyes and hands. Nights, I would lie awake next to him while the wind rammed against the window, waves of sound, making his house somehow cozier. I wondered what it would be to live here with Josh full-time. He was, I think, the first man I ever loved.
The sister, who lived two hours away, showed up one day without announcement. Josh was not an early riser, and we spent our mornings in bed, watching the square of window light crawl lazily down the walls. I answered the door wearing only Josh’s bathrobe, which looked comically large on me, and the first thing I registered was not the woman on Josh’s doorstep, but the world beyond her, white and delicate with an early snow.
Natalie (that was her name) wore her dark hair in a fierce A-line, and her plum-colored lips flattened into a grimace when she saw me. “God,” she said. She pushed her way past the front door and through the house to Josh’s bedroom.
They talked about me the way adults talk to each other about their children, as if I could not hear them. I stood in the kitchen and watched the snow Natalie had tacked in melt on the pale linoleum.
“I don’t think you understand how impressionable a twenty-year-old is. He probably thinks you’re in love with him,” she said. I had to hug the bathrobe tight against my body to keep it from slipping off.
“He’s older than that,” Josh said. “And anyway, we’re just having fun. Nobody’s planning on settling down or anything. Just let us have our fun.”
Josh offered to take us all for brunch. “Let’s get mimosas and talk civilly, I mean really,” he said. He swore he knew a place on Delancey street, but we trekked down Delancey and Parker and Mulligan, and could not find it, the wind rushing us, and the ground slick with snow and ice. We walked in silence, Natalie’s heels smacking loudly against the sidewalk, until Josh stopped, put his hands on his knees and said, “Shit. I need to sit down.”
“Can we go inside?” I asked. I still didn’t have my scarf and gloves.
Natalie threw open the door nearest to us, and we filed in. It was a beauty salon, warm, honey colored. Josh fell into a salon chair with a sigh. We waited for him to catch his breath.
A saleswoman surprised us. “You want to try our new product? Perfect for you!” She said.
“What?” said Josh.
The saleswoman wore a cream-colored pantsuit and long ombre hair. “I’m Francesca,” she said. “We’ve got a new skin cream here. No more wrinkles around your eyes. You want to try? Free sample!” Josh looked up at me, and I saw how tired his eyes were. Tired eyes, a face soft and warm, puffy now from walking, red from the cold.
“Sure,” Josh said. Francesca got to work, rubbing thick lotion under and around his eyes. Her hands looked warm and smooth.
“You here with your wife and kid?” she asked. Natalie snorted.
“My sister, actually,” he said. “And my boyfriend.”
“Ooh!” Francesca said, “Lucky you. He’s a cutie.”
She winked at me. “Hey kid, after this you’re not even gonna recognize your man. Those lines? Poof! Gone! By the time we’re done here, everything’s gonna be different. Watch his face, you’ll see.”
Francesca stepped back to let the magic cream settle in, and I stared into Josh’s eyes, looking not at the creases of pinched skin surrounding them, or at the bags, soft and bulging underneath. I looked past the irises flecked with brown and green, and into the darkness of his pupils. Something crouched there, something I was only beginning to make out.
“Well,” Josh asked, “What do you see?”
Author’s Note: The inspiration for "Mimosas" came from an experience my boyfriend and I had in La Jolla, being accosted by a salesman. The encounter unsettled me: his warmth and familiarity, his persistence, the unequal power dynamic at play. I knew he was only looking for a commission, and yet a part of me was drawn in by his friendliness. I began to wonder how these tactics might look in other circumstances, like a romantic relationship.
Holden Wright is a queer writer with an MFA at Bowling Green State University. He has prose published or forthcoming in Barren Magazine, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. He has worked as an associate editor for Mid-American Review and JuxtaProse.
