what makes you feel vulnerable?

Text message is from N and the sentiment? Universal.

The list of items irredeemably destroyed by the house fire is currently over 800 items long and it is my legal responsibility to click on the photo, verify the item quantity, type, brand name, and current price. If I have the receipt, I am to attach it, and if there are any notes about the size, color, or type of item, I am to type it into the Notes section.

I click on “Waterbottle: 1” and see pictured 7 YETI bottles, two of which were custom made for me by my father, given to me as gifts. I correct the quantity. I total the cost of 7 YETI water bottles but how do you price something your father made just for you?

N spends two of her evenings helping J and I fill in this form from insurance and there is a sudden sense of a trust fall as she looks through our bathroom drawers in the form of an infinite excel spreadsheet. “Oh! menstrual cup!” she exclaims. “What brand?”

*

I walk the Dane outside and three teenage boys approach us, strolling shoulder to shoulder toward me. They’re young but tall and I wish they weren’t three-wide, leaving no room on the sidewalk for anyone else. As they walk by, the boy closest to me leans in slightly and shouts “HILLBILLY REVOLUTION," while I stare at him impassively.

His friends startle, looking at him in surprise, but I am not surprised. They’re not frightening, but I knew at least one of them would not be able to resist trying to engage me—the only other person out on the whole block.

*

I explain to J that the hours of research, the constant and daily weighing of things related to The Dog is my way of expressing excitement. I have recently realized that this kind of obsessive labor is likely my strange way of trying to express joy, to manage how deeply vulnerable I find it. When I have to explain this to J, I cry.

“I feel broken telling you,” I say. “What kind of person has to make a list to find a way into joy?”

*

There is also: My weird dances. My silly voices. Asking for help. Admitting I am wrong. The global moment of brutality. How long it has been since I’ve heard Kurtis’ voice.

*

“How’s the novel going?” M wants to know.

I tell him I am working through edits that are outside my experience—plot! narrative mystery! speculative elements!—but these are edits I want to explore. I want to stretch my capacities as an artist, but it’s hard. I tell M that working in these new forms, these new crafts has me feeling like the project is impossible, bad, beyond what I can make live.

“Is it bad, or am I just bad at it right now?” I wonder aloud.

*

Perfect sun, ancient and blazing on the surface of the reservoir. White triangular sailboats cutting the metal light. Sometimes, the realities of who I am and what is a part of my life make me feel really alone. But beside me is my friend who has a child starting school for the first time in a few days, has started a new job that very day, her own whole universe of troubles and worry, and yet here she is, nodding along as I speak.

*

Another mild and beautifully golden hour of late summer, I walk with a friend down 4th Street. A man is slouched on a bench wearing tan wraparound sunglasses, tinted but I can still see his eyes, can still see the way he immediately shifts his body towards my friend and me.

“Hey,” he calls out.

I step away, but my friend, my glorious, open-to-the-world friend, simply pauses where she stands. The man wants to “take a photo of you two girls, but on your device.” He holds his hand out, large and heavy, expectant.

My friend is so kind, so polite. She shakes her head lightly, “Oh,” she says, “No thanks.”

Immediately, we begin to walk forward but not so quickly that I don’t see the man turn in the bench so he can watch us, spit out, “WHAT? WHY?” as loudly as he can, and then lower, but still audible: “fucking bitches, fu—.”

I don’t hear the end of the expletives because we’re out of ear shot. I watch in the windows of the stores we’re passing by to make sure he’s not following us. I am not afraid but I want to be sure. One of the stores is new. Both my friend and I exclaim that we have never seen it before.

*

My dietary restrictions: Nightshades (tomatoes, eggplant, potatoes, peppers). Dairy. Beef.

Half way through the list, the server I am speaking to looks exactly the same, polite, nodding along, small notepad in her hand but something has changed. I feel it, heat creeping up the back of my neck, the sudden flush in my cheeks, a slight knot in my stomach.

She thinks I’m making it all up, I know that she does. So, I cut the list, myself, off.

Later, when I am using the washroom, through the wall, I listen to the server of our table talk to another server. She’s telling the server that if you can’t eat nightshades (“and what are those anyway?” she wonders) or meat or dairy then you shouldn’t go to a restaurant.

“You can’t let them tell you,” the other server says. “You can’t let them talk. They’re too much. “

I am red hot with shame. I am afraid to go outside the bathroom because then they will know I have heard.

Later, I text my mum and I tell her what has happened. She answers right away. Later, I tell my friends what has been said when I get back to the table. All of them hold my hands. None of us thank the server when we leave. We keep our eyes down, wave politely and then confess, each to the other, that it was so hard not to say “Thank you!” as we left. We throw our arms around each other and laugh. We walk each other home.

---

August’s paid subscriptions have been donated to the Rocky Mountain Community Relief Fund which is supporting disaster response for Jasper wildfire response and recovery. Thank you so much for supporting my writing. You make my dream of writing for a living possible.