The Game of Love

The Game of Love - 1

Eva French

They invaded my air that night. They touched me in places I've barely touched myself—seen parts of me that I've been too embarrassed to even begin to explore. They entered a part of my soul that I never thought existed, opening a realm of darkness that I never knew was even inside of me. I had never let anyone touch me like that. They ruined any stereotypical dreams I had about waiting for the right person. They invaded my space, my soul, my heart, my body, and my mind with their alcohol and cigarette-stained breath, hoarsely drunken laughter, and dark eyes that held no ounce of remorse, fear of being caught, or life.

I didn't tell my Mom what happened to me in the alleyway on our first night in this new city. I saw her sunken eyes, her frizzy and greying hair, and the sallow look on her face the next morning while she sat at the kitchen table with her black coffee. This move had worn her out to the bone. She did not notice the puffiness underneath my bloodshot eyes, perhaps because she was too busy in her own world while her eyes scanned the newspaper underneath her mechanically. 

I wonder what she was thinking about. Maybe she was dreading her new job that barely paid minimum wage. Maybe she was quietly terrified of how to pay the bills for the next few months in this new place. Maybe she was scared to even step outside into this new rural waste of a city. Maybe she was wondering why her husband—my Dad—left us.

I know I was wondering all these things.

After she, and the newly permanent stormy cloud lingering above her head, left for work, I dropped onto the dirty old couch in our cramped little living room and cried and cried and cried into the musky old pillow that came with it. My whole soul shrivelled up and my chest swelled painfully, my hands clammy and shaking. All I could do was cry.

I took a hot shower after this. After there were no tears left. The water was scalding. I rubbed at myself with my hot pink loofah as hard as I could, wanting to wash all these feelings away. To wash them away.

I dressed afterwards. Despite the sun baking outside on this blindingly hot summer day, I put on a baggy sweater and a pair of old jeans. It felt rough against my skin but hid the fact that I had rubbed it raw in the shower. 

Before my Mom had left, she told me tiredly to get milk and eggs, handing me a ten-dollar bill. Not knowing if that was even enough, where I was even going, I stepped outside and was instantly engulfed by an unwelcome wave of sticky and humid air.

I can do this. I chanted to myself inside my head at a consistent rhythm as I forced myself to take step after step. I focused on my worn-out sneakers that strode along the pavement. I only lifted my head for a second when I heard the laughter of children from the park across the street. I momentarily felt safe as I saw them playing on the see-saw and the swings. Perhaps the image of young kids with smiles on their faces was so shockingly opposite of exactly what I had experienced within the last 24 hours. I can do this. I told myself.

The world here was so different. The concrete sidewalks were worn down, the metal on the chain fences rusted, and the twisted trees seemed to be glaring down at me. There were occasional shouts from the distance, a few people here and there, all with an intimidating strut to their step.

My arms subconsciously wrapped around my torso as if I were cradling myself in comfort as I took step after step. I can do this. No big deal. This is easy. I need to get milk and eggs. Just milk and eggs. I continued chanting to myself, even though all I wanted to do was sprint home and lock myself inside.

Finally, I arrived at a small bodega. It sat by itself on the corner of the street looking old and worn. I questioned if it was even open. I looked back behind me hesitantly, wondering if I should go inside. I had walked in a straight line throughout the neighborhood up until now so I should have no problem making my way back home.

This is okay. I chanted to myself. This should be safe. I hope.

I was not welcomed by air conditioning. Instead, I was hit by a distinct smell of packaged food and even muggier air when I stepped into the shop. I did not look up at anyone. I walked directly to the fridge in the back and scanned my eyes quickly and frantically for milk and eggs. God damn the milk and eggs.

I finally found a carton of milk—the last one—and quickly opened the glass door to the fridge and pulled it out. I lingered around to find the eggs. The stupid freaking eggs. Where were they?

"Can I help you?" I heard a guy's voice call over from the other side of the shop from behind the cash register. He sounded young.

My heart raced at the sound of his voice. Ignoring him, I continued scanning the row for eggs.

"Hello?" The voice called again after a couple of seconds. I ignored it. The eggs, where were they!?

Footsteps from behind the cash register slowly tapped softly on the laminated floor until they stopped directly behind me.

"Miss?" He asked, and I did not turn around to look at him, "Are you looking for something?"

"Eggs," I muttered.

"Here," he said, walking past me to tap the glass above. I looked up towards the eggs on the top shelf of the fridge. He slid the fridge door open and started handing me the carton. I saw his tattooed arm inching towards me and I instinctively stepped back. The eggs dropped on the ground.

My anxiety shot through the roof as I heard a faint cracking sound and saw the yellowy whites leak slowly out of the carton. What the hell?

I finally looked up, frantic. His face, which was initially contorted with annoyance, softened slightly. I didn't register this emotion. I didn't register anything, really. I just saw a face that belonged to a male—a stranger—and stepped back even further.

"It's okay. No worries," he said, confused at my absolutely ridiculous behavior.

Before he could say anything else, I shot down to grab the broken carton of eggs. I clutched both the things my Mom had asked me for in my arms, thrust the crumpled ten-dollar bill at him, and ran out of the shop for my dear life. I sprinted all the way home, my mind numb and my skull buzzing with fear and embarrassment, while the eggs leaked onto the sleeves and chest of my sweater.

When I got home, defeated and hysterical, I put the broken eggs and the milk into the fridge and ran up to my room and closed the door, hiding myself underneath my blanket for the rest of the day. 

Stupid fucking eggs.