Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,57

Potpourri and rose soap filled the air.

“Sweet stench of rot,” said Cirrus.

“Memento mori,” I said. “Remember you too will die.”

“Being aware of death is supposed to make you appreciate life more,” said Cirrus. “But it doesn’t look like it’s working.”

We pushed our way through a turnstile. I allowed her to go first, like an exemplar of romantical gentlemanliness would.

“If you forgot your twenty-percent-off coupon today, you can always visit BedBathVortex.com to sign up for a free virtual discount,” said a thick voice.

We looked up to see an elderly greeter in an apron.

“You scaled the mountain of life,” I said, “and on its summit was the nation’s largest selection of premium domestic accessories.”

The elderly greeter looked insulted. “It is better than Stalin.”

I froze, then slunk away, taking an astonished Cirrus toward the mists of Humidifiers.

“It is better than the gulag,” cried the greeter.

People were not always what they seemed to be.

Cirrus found an abandoned shopping cart with items still in it, considered the items, and decided to keep them. “Come on. We have to spend three thousand bucks while we’re here.”

“Ha ha,” I said.

“No really. My mom and dad gave me three thousand bucks. To help get me set up.”

My eyes got big. Three thousand dollars was more than what a quarter of the American working population made in a month, after taxes. “What,” I said, “with like DIAMOND-encrusted soap dishes and compression stockings spun from GOLD?”

Cirrus covered her laugh with the back of her hand. “What the hell are compression stockings?”

“They’re these wonderful socks, extra tight, that keep you warm without the bulk, um, increase blood circulation, and also prevent stuff like edema and thrombosis and clots.”

“Thrombosis?” said Cirrus.

“Not that I would know anything about compression stockings,” I said rapidly.

She regarded me with the most tender confusion—strange boy—and drew me into her cloud for a kiss. When I opened my eyes, it was hard to believe I was still on earth.

“Come on,” sang Cirrus, resuming our stroll. “Let’s spend this guilt money.”

“Guilt money?” I said.

Cirrus sighed. “When my parents aren’t around—meaning always—we text the same shortcut phrases: Good morning, how are you, good night. When they are around, they go all out with an all-day boat cruise. And what the hell is this—a carrying case for a single banana?”

She held up a hinged plastic case in the shape of, and for the purpose of containing, a banana.

“Great Pacific Garbage Patch,” I said. “You’re saying there’s no in-between with them. No normalcy.”

We pushed the cart out of one aisle, only to be swallowed by another.

“If I never get to experience normal life with my parents,” said Cirrus, “can you still call them parents?”

“Technically yes?” I said, trying out a laugh.

“Yay,” she said, betraying a flash of bitterness across her face.

I stopped, overcome with the urgent need to make her feel better.

“Do you ever tell them how you feel—?” I said.

“I have, and it’s pointless,” said Cirrus quickly. She snatched a packet off a nearby shelf and brandished it like Perseus with his severed head. “Normal wipes? Nay: man wipes.”

“Society in decline,” I said. “How do they respond?”

Cirrus hesitated, then put the man wipes into the cart. She slowed to a standstill. She closed her eyes.

“I think they’re just not the type,” she muttered.

We walked onward. Cirrus found a desk organizer, put it in the cart. Electric fan, gooseneck lamp, cork board, all in the cart.

“The type of what?” I said. “Oop—you don’t want that, I promise you.”

Cirrus held a big bag of pine cones, each dipped in glitter. She slowly put it back.

“The parenting type,” she said.

“Hey,” I said. “My parents drive me crazy, too.”

“But at least they’re there,” said Cirrus, running her thumb along my cheek. “How about we talk about something else?”

“Hobbies,” I said.

“Don’t have any,” said Cirrus. “Next question.”

“But you cook,” I cried. “You single-handedly invented Brazilian pizza.”

“Lots of people cook,” said Cirrus.

She grew quiet.

I went back, retrieved the big bag of glitter pine cones, and delicately lowered it into the cart. I made a big goofy face.

“You can have these, okay?” I said. “Maybe use them at your next yuletide or winter solstice cleansing ritual.”

Cirrus finally smiled. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a bit of a throwback, Sunny Dae?”

“My brother once called me fifteen going on fifty,” I said. What I didn’t say was that it was after he discovered me using a heating pad on my back to recover after sitting at my workbench for forty-eight hours straight.

“Is that why you choose to play olde tyme