The Imaginary Friend
The door to the McDonald’s on the corner hangs loose off its hinges like a salivating tongue. Cautiously, I step inside, tripping over the outstretched legs of people sitting in the dark with their impatient hunger, voices hissing like frozen French fries just submerged in hot oil. I wander to the counter, to the first lineup I can make out, only to find there is no lineup, just bodies milling about, arms in the air, eyes full of confusion.
An employee calls out, “Attention, customers,” as he herds us into a central square, an imaginary space that places us nose to nose, elbow to elbow. The air teems with our voracious breath, forms a storm cloud around us. “All I want are two apple pies,” whines one woman, and I nod at her, thinking of my own want, searching her eyes, longing to commiserate, to make her my friend. I imagine us bonding over the deliciousness of hot apple pies, of us walking as we eat them in a park, sharing secrets, examining flowers. I imagine us at the mall on carefree Saturdays, trying on lipsticks. I imagine us friends forever.
She smacks her gum, blows a bubble, sees me look and nod and smile at her. She says, meanly, “What’re you looking at?”, her eyes rolling up and down the length of my body. And as she turns away, the bubble of her gum pops. It is the loudest sound in the place. I turn my eyes upward, afraid of the hard rain I know is coming.
Someone mutters, “What the hell is happening here?”, but nothing is happening. Employees lounge at the counter, eyes obscured by the McDonald’s caps securely fixed to their heads. But no hot burgers flip. No French fries sizzle in salt. No chicken nuggets rest in cardboard boxes. The lights stay off, and the employee who herded us together, who told us nothing, has left.
In the centre of these bodies, the heat of our appetite grows—it is a sickly stench saturating my forehead. My imaginary friend has slipped between these gesturing limbs and is at the entrance, blowing loud bubbles into the night. I long to follow her, to slip one arm around her tiny waist and go off skipping like best friends do, our hot apple pies held high in the air with our free hands. In solidarity, I take a step forward in that direction, and someone elbows me in the gut. I suck in the sweat that drips off my nose and push back, till we are just a crowd of people jostling and yelling about who gets to be first in this world. I stumble out of this never-ending scramble and run for the door, which still hangs open, still drips with want.
The night air greets me with a giant hug. I slip into it with all the love and hunger I have, and it carries me off, like my imaginary friend, dreaming of hot apple pies.
The Seed
I don’t think anyone will notice if I take one to keep for myself, tucked away in a chest of drawers or left under my pillow, its sweet perfume lulling me to sleep. I only want one—a yellow one—to hold in my hand as delicate as a newborn. It’s not as if I’m asking for the world. But my mother slaps my hand away each time I reach out, thinking that no one is looking. But she is always there, always looking.
So, I stay patient as my mother goes about the day always planning for evening. I hide behind doors, under the dining-room table, as she bustles about, fussing over details, sometimes catching me unawares, sometimes forgetting that I have a name. And it’s at an opportune moment, when the doorbell rings, and she’s pulled out of the room after admonishing me with a point of a finger, that I seize my chance and reach over the fancy dinner plate to the table’s centre and take one. A yellow one. And then I run to my bedroom, slam the door, and fall to my bed, dropping the magical thing onto the comforter.
I stare at it for a minute, admiring its soft drapery, its tiny green veins. It looks so delicious, so easy to pull apart. And yes, the first petal disengages from the cracked stem like a cuticle from an index finger or big toe. I pick it up, rub it in-between my fingers, then put it in my mouth. I chew, tearing to pieces its silk, savouring its strange feel. I pluck the remaining petals to reveal the pollen tube and the filament and the anthers, examining each piece before laying them on the comforter as though individual parts of a machine I plan to put back together. And then I hear my mother, the echo of her annoyance crystal clear as it bounces up the stairwell. I rush to pick up every trace of gladioli and shove it all into my hungry mouth, chewing and chewing and chewing until she’s at the door, knocking, but already turning the doorknob, already walking in.
I swallow hard and fast, as she stands, in my bedroom, the bouquet of orange, yellow, and white gladioli in her arms. She pulls out one stem, its decapitated tip, and pokes the air. The other flowers jiggle and threaten to fall off, to ruin the bouquet, its balance. I kneel on the bed, my legs tucked beneath me, my muscles tight. Mother stands as though the stem were a sword, newly dulled, but poised to messily chop a petulant head off. She spits, glowering, ready to battle—“What have you done?”—as a puff of pollen escapes my lips and I turn my eyes to her, cheeks flushed, heart bursting with the knowledge that in the pit of my stomach a gladioli of my own has taken root.
Adrienne Weiss is the author of There Are No Solid Gold Dancers Anymore (Nightwood, 2014). She lives in Toronto, Canada.