The Sun Will Rise and We Will Try Again
I’m wondering how I got to this. Lucy and I are examining my arm, where a tender tattoo of a sunset sits on my forearm. It’s still red, and a little bit welted. All I have is my fragmented memory and this tattoo, but I still feel the connection between us. Even her name escapes me. It’s an odd sensation as I physically feel what I see, knowing that it was not there this time yesterday. In lieu of it, I try my hardest to remember what the fuck happened last night.
I remember Soraya, and that stupid-ass Instagram caption about how she was only engaging with people who brought her peace from now on; her, with that stupid-ass boyfriend and that stupid-ass I’m officially over Myra post she felt compelled to put on all of her stupid-ass social media platforms. Me deleting Instagram in retaliation so I wouldn’t see anything else to push me over the edge. Me, my car keys, and my determination to make bad decisions because of her. Me, Hpnotiq, and swirly floors just like the design on the bottle. The girl. That one suede couch I sunk into for most of the night. The girl; she had pink hair. The bathroom. The puke. The bathtub. The crying. The girl. Soraya and her boyfriend. The girl. The tattoo she gave me.
The only constant memory I have is a mosaic of images and sounds. I haven’t stopped thinking about her, and I hate that I always do this. It’s one thing to temporarily fall in love with anyone who is nice to you, even if you know you’ll never see them again (cheers to you, pretty girl who complimented my earrings), which, granted, I am prone to. But it’s another to spend time in an intimate sphere with someone you’re mutually attracted to – for them to leave without a trace. The impressions she’s left on me are not merely physical, (I’m looking at you, arm-tat). Okay, maybe there is a teensy tiny trace. But what the hell am I supposed to do with this?
“That’s okay. I didn’t ask you a question, or anything,” she says. Lucy has jokes.
“Lucy, seriously, I’ve already told you everything I remember. I mean – I remember it all, but I don’t remember anything valuable. You’re asking me questions I can’t answer right now,” I grouse. My head hurts, and the window is so rude right now. I’m tempted to pin up a blanket to keep the light out.
“I left your apartment at like, seven, and you were fine?”
“Yeah, and at 9:12, Soraya posted that picture with him,” I say, and memory is funny like that. I cannot remember the things I attempt, and cannot rid myself of the things I prefer. Of course, I remember 9:12 PM, and I can’t remember the name of the girl I allowed to ink my skin. “Ryan had invited me to a party, and I told him I wasn’t going. Then I changed my mind.”
“But it’s been three months.” Lucy tries for empathy.
“You can’t predict what triggers you.”
“You can unfollow her, like I told you to,” Lucy snaps back. “Keeping up with her is torturing yourself.”
I don’t respond to logic. That’s why I roll over and try to envision the girl. Nameless, with a cute face. Pink twist-out. I think she wore combat boots.
The thing about Lucy is that she’s way too rational. She’s supposed to be the yin to my yang, but sometimes I feel like we’re much too different. Throughout our entire charade, she just kept trying to plant the seed in my mind that I was being irrational. That I was too invested and being borderline creepy. That being obsessed with the idea of someone I didn’t even know wasn’t good for me. After about thirty minutes of back and forth, I’d had enough of her judgement, and I had to go to work, anyway. Lucy left my apartment still yammering about protecting my mental health. She’s always on about something.
Once she’s gone, I deliberate over calling out, because even taking three Ibuprofen couldn’t shake this headache. That conversation with Lucy threatened to make me late unless I leave right this second. If I was a no-show today, the least I could do was come up with a sob story. Something different this time. However, the more I waste time, the more I realize that none of my creative juices are flowing. I roll my eyes at myself and scan my room for that ugly, offensively bright blue Best Buy shirt. I could’ve sworn I’d slung it over my desk chair, but it sits in a decently-sized pile of clothes next to my dresser. I’ve really gotta do my laundry soon. I pick it up because I can’t be bothered to search for the clean one. In my haste, I knock over the framed Polaroid of Soraya when I grab my keys by the lanyard. The memory of her grates me, and I’m thankful for my clumsiness. She deserves to be face-down in a sticky puddle of body spray. Fuck her.
As I’m slipping on my shoes, my mind wanders back to that girl. My brain is fucking useless as I try my hardest to recall anything significant. It was after my fourth shot of straight vodka; maybe I’d started on the Hpnotiq by then. I’d gone to the bathroom alone because I was making myself sick. My cheek rested on the toilet, and there was a knock. I hadn’t cared to reply. She came in and babied the hell out of me. She brought me a fucking washcloth and wiped my face, and I didn’t even know her name. And I just started bawling – drunk-me is not afraid to ugly-cry. My face was splotchy and my eyes were puffy and I know I was atrocious. I just know I had snot all over her shirt, and she was wearing a cute top, too. God.
I usually regretted living on the fourth floor most days, but today, I really hated it. I can’t remember what I did last night, but my whole body aches as I trudge down the stairs. My back hurts and my joints click, and for a second, I think I have early onset arthritis or something. It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t imagine that I was dancing or anything, seeing how I was sad-drinking all night. Maybe the girl and I had sex.
No, we didn’t.
I laugh at my own assumption as I’m unlocking my car. It needs to be cleaned, internally and externally. Really, though, nobody expects much out of a 2002 Avalon. I’m sure I’ll be fine for a few more days. I don’t even have time to consider sprucing it up a little, because I only have eight minutes to get to work. I abandon all hopes of clocking in on time, and I smile at the fact that I decided to go at all. My smile lingers as I find myself drifting back to thoughts of that girl. She was so pretty.
“What if it’s like a sign, you know?”
I’m speaking to my coworker, Taliah. We’re both slumped over the Geek Squad desk because it’s slow at eleven A.M. It’s good news for me, because I’m still recovering from last night. Taliah and I were making small talk about our weekends, and I decided to get her opinion on the only relevant part. After rehashing everything, like I did with Lucy, I’m assessing her side profile as I eagerly await her reply. We’re not that close, and she doesn’t know me that well, so ironically, I kind of care what she thinks.
“The day Soraya posts her new fucking boyfriend, officially, I meet this girl. What are the odds? Don’t you think it means something?” I say, and I know I’m prompting her, but I need to know if I’m being as crazy as Lucy says.
“I don’t know, girl. I’d say it means that you’re sad, and you want to hold onto something...” Taliah begins, but I don’t want to hear that.
So far, she’s been just like Lucy. Quickly, I look over my shoulder and consider Softlines Shannon who is in her mid-forties. What I need now is some wisdom. Maybe the issue is that I’m asking a bunch of twenty-somethings like me for life advice. Clearly, they don’t know anything. I think better of it because Softlines Shannon can be kind of a bitch, and I’m still early in my shift. Taliah is the best that I’ve got. I want her to endorse me anyway. So, I continue.
“No... Like – We had conversations. Deep-ass conversations, for some hours. I mean – okay, everything feels like hours when you’re drunk. But we were just in the bathroom, and... I don’t remember what we said, or anything, really, but like - who the hell would allow a stranger to give them a tattoo? That’s weird, right?”
I’m certain I have something to hold onto. Taliah doesn’t think so.
“That would be most people who go to tattoo parlors.”
“She gave me the tattoo at the party, in the bathroom. It was a stick and poke.”
“That sounds... Highly infectious,” Taliah remarks, and I don’t have to look at her to know which face she’s making. Her nasally tone was a dead giveaway.
“Probably. Might get herpes.” I say it a bit too casually, and it makes Taliah laugh. “Just kidding. She washed the needle in the bathroom. I don’t think I would have agreed, otherwise.”
Truthfully, I don’t recall whether she did or not, but I’m gonna take my word for it.
“With water?” Taliah nearly shrieks.
I contemplate nodding, just to see the lengths of her reaction. Instead, I tell the truth, “I don’t know, something in a spray bottle.”
“You’re so getting AIDS.” Taliah scrunches up her face. When I look at her, I know it’s the same face she’d made before.
“Worth it. She was so pretty,” I joke. She really was gorgeous. “I wish I knew who she was, though.”
“Bloodborne illnesses aside...” Taliah side-eyes me, “I just don’t know why you’re so... Stuck on it?”
“If drunk-you agreed to get a tattoo, wouldn’t sober-you want to meet the person that gave it to you?” I pose the perfectly rational question everyone seemed to be overlooking.
“Let’s be real. You and I both know this isn’t about making a new friend, or some hookup. You’re wanting this new chick to be your replacement for something you lost, but she won’t be. I won’t even let you go down that road. Let it go.” Taliah isn’t even looking at me when she replies. She’s looking at her phone instead now, and it’s a good thing she didn’t see my expression.
I blanch at her for exposing my intentions so seamlessly. I’m busted, so I drop the charade. “This is so frustrating. Even if nothing happens, I just want to thank her, at the very least.”
Taliah exhales in that way that makes it clear she’s decided not to push the envelope, but wants me to know that she could. Just like she does to the dumbass customers who ask too much of her. Instead of continuing to entertain my plights, she resorts to watching people’s stories on Instagram.
For a moment, I lean on the counter with my chin in the palm of my hand. In that moment, I realize I’d much rather be anywhere but here. I usually loved the idea of getting paid whether I did work or not, but today, I don’t see the point of standing here for 5.5 hours. I think it’s so dumb that they purposefully schedule me short so that I don’t even get a lunch. Just like I think it’s dumb that I can’t fucking remember anything significant enough about this girl to make our encounter worthwhile. And it’s dumb that no one sees it the way I do. Everything is dumb today.
“Hey, you’re in this.” Taliah brings me out of my musings, and I perk up.
She steps closer and angles the screen towards me, and there she is. I mean – there I am too, but I’d rather not see myself like that when I’m hungover. More importantly, there she is. Right there, to the left. She’s in the background, and I can’t really make her out, but I see her pink afro and I think that’s how irony works.
“That’s the girl!”
I feel the exclamation mark. In a move much too bold for our acquaintanceship, I take Taliah’s phone and replay the video. It was a snippet of the party atmosphere, and in less than seven seconds, it rotates to something else. I replay it once more, straining to see the girl better than I did initially. She’s blurry, but she stands out against the background. It’s definitely her.
“Who is @playboyjose1k?” I wonder aloud, because she’s on his Instagram story. I’m going for it.
“This dude named José,” Taliah supplies. “Give me my shit, though.”
“I don’t have Instagram anymore. Can I DM him from yours?” I ask, although I’m halfway into my ‘Hey, I hope this isn’t weird, but...’ pitch, asking who the girl with the pink hair is.
Taliah huffs her resignation as she leans in to see what I’m doing. We’re shoulder-to-shoulder, and I’m glad she’s engaged because we have a case on our hands. I mean, we’re on some Scooby-Doo shit now. As I wait for his reply – it already says he’s read it, typical - I channel my inner Velma, although I think I’m probably just Daphne. Securing her iPhone with both hands now, I’m euphoric. My eyes are glued to the screen as the animated ellipses indicate his typing, and I can’t believe my luck. Taliah just told me to let it go, but now I can’t. The mania is exhilarating, so much so that it jogs a memory. A fragment comes back to me.
When the girl literally picked me up off the tile floor, it didn’t seem to stem from moral obligation; I sure as hell would’ve left me there. The state I’d allowed myself to get in – I would’ve said I deserved to have been found, cheek to ass-soiled toilet seat. But not her; she’d picked me up under my sweaty, gross armpits and didn’t even flinch about it. She helped me sit on the edge of the tub. There was a tenderness to her gestures that I still can’t place. She was soft with me, but became much firmer as I explained how I’d dwindled down to the state she found me in.
Then, I was in the bathtub, slumped over the edge and she sat on the closed toilet lid. Girls in bathrooms are fucking weird, and I have no idea why that scene played out the way it did. Without knowing exactly what I said, I recall spilling my guts to her about Soraya and the breakup and her fuckface new boyfriend and how it made me feel. I told her everything, this lovely stranger of mine, and she listened. Genuinely. She held my hand at some points and tucked my braids back at others, and maybe that’s why I want to find her so badly. I haven’t been caressed since the breakup, and she’d shown me tenderness. There was also the kiss.
“When are you scheduled for your fifteen?” Taliah asks as she scrolls through Twitter now. She’d taken her phone back after about thirty seconds of having it in my possession.
“One,” I reply, and I know I’m short with her but I can’t care about it. I feel like I’m scratching the surface of something monumental. I close my eyes and try to refocus. I open my eyes a second later. “Wait, did he reply yet?”
“Nope.”
I exhale my annoyance and try to clear my head to properly invite the memories. The first image I see is our kiss. I wish I had savored the conversation that preceded it. Maybe a lot of this preoccupation is rooted in our connection. It got deep as hell, using metaphors and shit. I remember her talking about the rising sun, and moving on, and she was so pretty that I almost believed her poetry. Something about trying again. I think it was a song lyric. It’s safe to assume that my dramatic ass said something along the lines of ‘that should be a tattoo,’ and just so happened to say it to a fucking tattoo artist. Because of course I did. I think I consented to it, but I really don’t remember. As I consider the imprint on my arm, I want to say it took at least an hour; I had to have consented. I remember it; it hurts now less than I imagine it did in action. Either way, she’d made a believer out of me, and I agreed to let her tattoo it onto me. I’m sure I thought we were joking. And then it happened. I let it happen. It looks cool, though.
“I swear, she’s my new chance. There’s no other way. That shit does not just – happen. Soraya got hers, and the universe wants me to get mine with this girl.”
My epiphany makes perfect sense. It’s all part of the cosmic balance. I’m sure.
“You don’t even know her name,” Taliah counters. She sets her phone down and it vibrates.
“That’s so not the point.” I gripe, and just as I’m writing her off, @playboyjose1k replies: Ya her name is auri. Wyd
“Auri?” I try it out aloud, let it roll off my tongue, and it sounds foreign.
“There you have it. Your mystery girl isn’t a mystery anymore.” Taliah is uninvested, but it’s not her show, anyway.
I’ve got to figure this out for myself, and I will. That’s why I’m inconspicuously asking if he’s got her handle as Lucy picks at her nails. “Did I tell you we kissed?”
Just then, a customer approaches. Taliah stashes her phone below the desk and flashes him a welcoming grin. It’s funny how easily Taliah switches her persona. Maybe she’s overcompensating for being on her phone, but suddenly, she’s eager to help and completely engages with the customer. Taliah is making eye contact and appears to care about how this man struggles to set up Windows 10 on his Dell laptop. She looks so sincere now when she didn’t care about real issues in the world, like mine. Customer service is a bunch of bullshit. However, it gives me time to think without interruption.
My kiss with the girl (Auri, apparently) happened when I was far from sober. Clearly, the ease of it all said that she was inebriated too. By then, the tears had stopped, and I didn’t feel absolutely queasy anymore. She was sitting on the toilet, assessing me with her chin in the palm of her hands. She told me she hated seeing me like this, although she’d never seen me any other way. I thought it was peculiar. In the movies, they always cue you in on the kiss before it happens; they begin the symphonic music, change the lighting, and boom – fireworks. This kiss of ours was unforeseen, but welcomed.
I can’t remember the line she used just before it, but I vaguely remember her lips. I explicitly remember the embarrassment, because I’d just cleaned myself up from literally purging my sorrows. I remember the confusion, because a gorgeous girl was kissing me after listening to me cry about another gorgeous girl. She had undoubtedly been trying to lift me up in lieu of my crying over my ex. It wasn’t lust, exactly, but it wasn’t natural, either. Impromptu suits it best, and maybe I’m not the only reckless, impulsive one between us. She didn’t ask to kiss me, but I sought no apology afterwards. Just as soon as she’d kissed me, she extended my arm and pierced my skin with a sewing needle.
I’m standing there trying to make sense of the chronology when Taliah’s phone vibrates beneath the counter. I glance at the notification and discover that Mr. Playboy has decided to respond: her @ is psychedelicareola. Why tho
And her name is Aurelia. I remember; she told me as she returned with her stick and poke supplies. I also remember now that she lived at the house of the party. She was wiping down my arm with a cold makeshift gauze and she asked me name as well. Her username makes me laugh; I leave No Way José on read. I find the play on words funny, and also the fact that I do not know her at all, but she hasn’t left my mind since I woke up. My current traumas preceded the exchange of our names. We learned that last. First, she learned that I was reckless with my alcohol. Next, she learned that I tend to overshare. A lot. She learned that I could sit still through an hour-long-something stick and poke session; it was news to me, too. I cannot recall what I’d learned about her, however...
“So, you said you kissed?” Taliah asks, reverting back to her nonchalant state. She glances at me once, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she reaches for her phone again.
“Yes. And by the way, I do know her name now. It’s Aurelia.” Checkmate.
“I’m just saying, you’re clearly not over your ex or whatever... And jumping into this, if it even turns out to be anything, just doesn’t sit right with me.” Taliah gives me her input, but I didn’t ask.
“I’m not doing anything.” I dismiss her, and I’m redownloading Instagram to search up this supposed Psychedelic Areola. Her username tells me she’s funny, and we’re even more compatible.
“You’re being such a water sign right now.” Taliah sucks her teeth, and I want to do it right back at her for saying some shit like that. She gets one astrology book and thinks she knows everything about everyone. She’s annoying.
Lucy continues, talking about how I “need to check my toxic behaviors,” but she doesn’t know anything. I’m half-listening as I admittedly stalk Aurelia’s profile. Her Instagram yields atypical results. There is a lot of appreciation of nature on her profile. Of 58 posts, she only has three pictures of herself, and none of them are selfies. The pink hair is new, then, as she’s typically adorning her natural dark-brown hair color. She showcases her art, and apparently, she is a painter, too. There are photos of battered shoes on dirt paths in locations unbeknownst to me. Captured sunsets and rocks – but on second glance, they’re “healing crystals.” She posts sparingly – the last post was three weeks ago and her oldest is from 2014. Her bio reads, not all who wander are lost – and who the hell is this girl? She is following 593 and has 307 followers; I’m hesitant to make 308.
I scroll more, and Taliah has realized I’m indifferent to her astrological observations of me. And then, May 7th, 2018. There’s a picture of her shoulder with the sun setting, or rising, I guess, beyond her. There’s a caption saying, the sun will rise and we will try again. I’m struck with the memory, and my tattoo makes sense.
I do recall now, she had coaxed me into the tub so that if I spewed again, the cleanup was simple. I was sobbing over Soraya, and she was whispering sweet affirmations to me to calm me down. At first, she assumed the culprit was male, going on a tangent about how men are trash and how I deserved better. When she realized, she switched pronouns and kept on the same track – but Soraya fit none of the descriptions she’d tried to pin on her. And even in tears, even in pain, I defended her. My incoherent monologue must have gone on for upwards of ten minutes, but Aurelia never interrupted me. Instead, she moved to sit on the floor to be level with my red eyes; the eye contact was the other thing about her, now that I think about it.
Our fingers danced as she outlined the dips and curves of my knuckles; I was actively allowing the contact. It placated me in all of the ways her soft voice did not. Because her voice was telling me that moving on was a process – but her hands sang a different tune. Her voice told me that healing is not linear, but her hands told me that I was still worthy of being touched. Her voice said heartache takes time, as her eyes took their time unnerving me – consoling me. Her voice said the sun will rise and we will try again, but her lips said kiss me.
“We were on another level,” I state resolutely, certain that I’m no longer embellishing our encounter. Granted, I have my fair share of fantasies – but Aurelia was real. I know it.
Without another thought, I follow her with the stray hope that she, too, remembers me.
It was three days ago, and I’m a new person now. After all, it can’t be called ghosting if they never replied in the first place. As quickly as it had begun, I’m over her. I don’t need her, and I probably dodged a bullet with the pink hair and all. I’m looking up now, and the girl – Aurelia - has officially faded from importance.
My weekend shifts came and went, and I heard nothing from her. I even stayed up on Sunday, just in case she was a night owl and replied then. I went throughout my entire class schedule on Monday without a single interaction from her, not that it mattered to me. I’m over it. Really. I’m affirming that to myself as I leave my last class of the day. It doesn’t even matter if she didn’t reply; her last post was three and a half whole weeks ago. Who’s to say she even has the app anymore? Right then and there, I decide to stop internalizing how it fared. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I have nothing to feel sorry for. I’m content, walking through the parking lot to my car.
My phone is in my lap as I wrench the key into the ignition. Old fucking car. Just as I get it to turn, my phone dings. It’s Instagram. And then: @psychedelicareola has requested to follow you back.
My stomach flips in the best way, and I’ve never approved of anything faster. And then, still: @psychedelicareola: Hi
And just like that, I know Taliah had it wrong. Lucy, too. I’m validated in all of my daydreams, all of my hunches – ‘delusions,’ if you let them tell it. I instantly know that she remembers me, that we’re both onto this. I know we’ve both embarked on this journey, together, and that she hadn’t left me behind after all.
Already, I can’t wait to tell the spectators about how we met – how I’ll do it with glee. I can see her wearing the pants in the relationship, but we’re about the same size, so maybe we’ll switch from time to time. I wonder what our weekend routines will look like – if I’ll spend more time at her house or her at mine. And our contentions - I hope she doesn’t like kombucha; I can’t do kombucha, or cilantro for that matter, and that may very well be our deal-breaker. But then I decide not to write her off before we’ve truly gotten started, because now, I’m getting ahead of myself. So, I lay off. I lay off with the knowledge that this is but the start of a beautiful story, yet to unfold. And that in our sobriety, as we are consciously, knowingly making memories, we will indeed try again.
