So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,39

she asked, nodding to the pictures and the ornate cross on the wall, pressing her palms tight around the mug so it could burn a little.

“I believe in it most of the time,” he said, before drinking his coffee.

AND

DIRTY: She took a drink of hers and didn’t hate it. It tasted like something dark and sweet and dirty. She told him that. Opened up and told him she wished she had an infinity of immortal fireflies in mason jars and an Australian accent although she was scared to go to Australia because she heard about the spiders. She liked how he looked at her like she was fucking crazy. It made her feel dark and sweet and dirty. And she didn’t ask permission before walking down the glossy hallway in her black-tights-feet to his bedroom so she could check out his books. To see who he really was. She’d already made up her mind to go wild with him. The preachers’ kids sinning up a storm, together; two beery baptized believers. A night for new things! He was the one, it was okay. This was it. And he wasn’t Jesus or the devil or some monster. She had a vision of two empty white-as-snow hearts, refilling with red-black blood. She lay back on his pillow—soft as the lamb of God—and let go. Clean.

Home Safe

Felix Phoenix is a baseball player, a good one. I collect his dirty uniform after the games. Not only his—all the players’ uniforms—but Felix Phoenix is my favorite. I am missing something by not being more involved in his life. That’s why I go through his locker when the stadium lights are turned off and only the janitors and the cleaning ladies are here. The only thing I can tell from his uniform is how dirty he got during the game—whether he slid full on his belly or his butt. Sometimes, both—or his sides. I know he didn’t have a good game if his uniform isn’t dirty, if the home whites stay white, or even whitish. There are some players whose uniforms get super-dirty every time they play, no matter what. I smell Felix’s uniform before I load it up for the cleaners. I even like his stink—hot wild onions in burnt brown-sugar dirt. I hold it to my nose and breathe in deep and I make sure no one sees me doing this because I know how creepy it is. I know! I don’t need anyone to tell me. I don’t need anyone to know. I also know I shouldn’t go through his things, but I’m not hurting anyone and isn’t that how we rationalize and measure whether or not what we’re doing is truly wrong?

Q: AM I HURTING SOMEONE BY DOING WHAT I’M DOING?

A: NO

Q: SO IS IT OKAY FOR ME TO GO ON AND KEEP DOING THE THING AS LONG AS THE OTHER PERSON DOESN’T FIND OUT AND AS LONG AS THE OTHER PERSON DOESN’T GET HURT?

A: OF COURSE IT IS. IT’S FINE! YOU’RE FINE! AND EVEN IF IT IS CRAZY, IT’S ONLY SLIGHTLY CRAZY, SO YOU’RE STILL FINE!

I have a pen stuck in my hair and I slip it out and write YOU’RE STILL FINE on the back of my hand. Someone had dropped a crumpled piece of paper in front of Felix’s locker and I bend down and grab it, determined to save it for later. I’ll go home, make a too-hot bath and pour a glass of wine. Take my time getting in and once I am in, I’ll look at the paper. Maybe it’s a love note to me. Yeah right. But! He always says hi to me when he sees me. He always smiles too. I love his smile. It’s Cheshire-cat-electric and looks like he’s about to get into trouble. Or use it to get out of trouble. I see that smile when I close my eyes at night and think about him. Thinking about Felix is my favorite thing to do. Felix isn’t married and neither am I and I’d marry Felix in a heartbeat, but he does have a girlfriend. I have already steeled my heart for the day he proposes because I worry he’ll do it at the stadium and I’ll have to work that night and see her name up on the scoreboard, hear her gasp when Felix and his out-of-this-world baseball thighs get down on one knee. I spend too much time thinking about whether or not Felix thinks I’m pretty. I look nothing