How to Pronounce Knife - Souvankham Thammavongsa Page 0,35

She was an independent accountant. She didn’t want to be part of anything, didn’t want to answer to someone. She liked the thrill of having the whole enterprise succeed or fail with her. During the tax season she often found work by setting up a clinic or pop-up office. She had many types of clients. They all surprised her with their needs and problems and desires. Because the tax form asked you to declare a marital status, she saw every stage of love. There was the initial giddiness at having found each other, the boredom of having been together for too long, the anguish of separation, the finality of a divorce, the clinging one did in the hopes of a reconciliation that was not coming. She liked spending her days listening to people describe how things had fallen apart. It was like watching a play being acted out in front of her, the feelings raw and real—all of it up close. She didn’t have to feel what they felt, but what they told her about themselves stayed with her.

Mary always remembered the last client of every tax season. The last was usually the most dramatic. The previous year, it was a woman who worked for the government. Educated, well-to-do, financially independent. She said her ex wanted to claim the child-care expenses even though she was the one who paid them. Mary reviewed the woman’s papers laid out on the table and advised her that since she and her ex were no longer together, and the child lived with her, it was her right to claim the exemptions. The woman’s eyes welled with tears as Mary started on the return. This went on for quite some time—Mary filling in the lines, and the woman with her tears. The woman apologized. “I’ve been with incredible men,” she said. “Men who really loved me and cared for me. And appreciated me. But it didn’t happen with them.” Her story sounded like a cheap old country song. “Given my age, I didn’t think I could have a baby. So when I got together with this guy, I wasn’t thinking. Suddenly I’m pregnant. After all the tests, the pills, and giving up on them, he’s the only one it happened with. And he was the worst!” Mary did not say anything. She continued filling out the forms.

THE GAS STATION was on the edge of town, before you hit the interstate. It was bright green, like a tennis ball. Easily spotted from miles away. This was where he worked. The gas station man. He came out to pump the gas. He was not beautiful, but she liked looking at him. Beauty was boring. To be ugly was to be particular, memorable, unforgettable even. He was uglier than that. Grotesque seemed right to describe him. It was not yet spring and there was a chill in the air, but the man was shirtless. He had hair like barnacles all over his chest. It reminded Mary of pubic hair, messy and wet and shining. There was something bold about him, walking around so bare like that.

From inside the car, Mary pushed the button that unlocked the door to the gas tank. She watched the man in the side mirror, where there was a note of warning that said objects in mirror were closer than they appeared.

He knew what to do each time. He came over and pushed aside the gas tank’s door, reached his hand inside, and twisted the lid to a little hole. He turned, pressed a few buttons on the machine, brought over the pump, and pushed the nozzle in. Mary could hear the gasoline, how it rushed in, eager and desperate. It took a while to fill that voluminous tank.

She had seen him often like this, but they never talked. He had a reputation for being someone women fell in love with, and he was known to abandon them when that happened, leaving them wailing in the street below his window, begging to know why. Mary wondered what it was he did to make them lose themselves that way. She wanted to know if it could happen to her.

She ironed out the wrinkles on a bill with the warmth of her palms. She pressed on the side with that old man’s face, and pressed again on the image of a white building on the other side. All the money in this country was green. It was easy to give away the wrong denomination. She checked