"Foxy Girls (& Cockerspaniel Boys)" by Calum Robertson

In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.

~Genesis 1:27, New Living Translation

I’m walking downtown, under a bridge, and there’s grass wriggling out from cracks in the concrete. There’s no sun here, except what’s leaking down through the iron gridded rail bridge overhead. Pigeon shit shines more bright than sunbeams diluted by city vibes. I hum to myself, clacking of trains above setting the tempo. My sneakers slap pavement to the same beat. Cars whizz past, a couple feet below me. I’m in a world of my own, bringing my own cosmos with me in this brief venture underground.

My skirt billows out. I like to wrap the ends around my wrists, wings that flounce and float with my arms as I skip alongside the sunken highway, under the gritgreen rust bridge. There’s a dead magpie next to a styrofoam cup full of something orange and chunky. I step over it, the path too narrow to avoid the citysick. I’m careful to lift the hem of my skirt just so, high enough to avoid the speckled mess.

There’s an upward curve now, sidewalk slouching up, out from under the bridge, out from shadow to pristinely cool November sun. It’s late afternoon; I won’t be home until the sun starts to shuffle off a night-cloak and grab at a day-suit to wear again. I blink in the crisp brightness, downtown, out from under the bridge. I spin, watching my skirt ruffles catch air and twirl. It’s delightful. I catch sight of another magpie, scruffy and hungry looking, flutter down to his dead brother’s side. He nibbles with tender affection at the head. Then, plunging, his beak tears away a strip of breast meat. Shredded feathers cling to the vomit in the discarded cup. The magpie goes in for a second helping, but I’m already twirling again, facing away from the bridge.

Surfacing in downtown, city centre, there’s a dozen or so tall buildings winking down at me. Glass sides shimmer in the white light. A thousand drab grey suits, and I’m in six shades of tan, brown, desert sands and mahogany tables and coffee grounds and tea with just a dash of milk stirred in. Corduroy jacket, brown loose shirt, and my skirt. Zebra print Converse. Add a bit of vogue to the outfit. Let eyes dance when they look at me.

Dude! Yo, Dude! The capitalized Dude hits me, pulls me from my skip-skipping revery. Someone I don’t know, in a large bulky hoodie, work boots clacking on the pavement, orange hardhat bobbing on his backpack, rushes over to me. They cross a street, the scant few cars slowing. He breathes heavy. Out of reflex, I grab for the carton of cigarettes in my jacket pocket with one hand. The other hides in my purse, feeling cold metal against warm fabric. I started carrying a knife with me last year, when Iz didn’t come home, when I had to visit her in the hospital, when they said they couldn’t remember what the guys looked like, only the harshness in their voices when they spat out faggot faggot faggot.

Dude! This man seems happy, already laughing at a joke I haven’t told yet. What’s up, Dude? Maybe I do know him. Maybe in an earlier iteration of my life he knew me. Dude, did you lose a bet? Or maybe not.

I smile, muster all my Oscar Wilde glib into two letters: No. I walk on. The man stops his laughing. I can taste his confusion. Good. I love leaving them speechless.

I’m meeting Molly a few blocks from here. Nearer the river. With a cigarette between my lips, my purse rustles, the hand choosing metal lighter over metal knife. I relax. For a moment. A magpie races past me, colliding with the road. A car skids to a stop, but not soon enough. I look away, trying not to hear the soft huff as a bird dies, bone crunches, flesh squishes and a soul slips off to somewhere else. Still, someone will eat well tonight. Probably another magpie. Carnivorous Cain. Beware of hungry brothers when you die.

Crossing the road takes on strange contexts when my skirts swirl behind me. I skip between cracks, tracing the fragile spider-web lines like laugh lines on my granny’s face. No cars. Pockets of stillness motoring along the same roads that, just up ahead, are clogged and congested, thick with commuter snot. Somewhere behind the glass and steel, a train rumbles by. The sound is warm, earthy, a bass line reverberating through the Citysong.

Things seem calm. Tranquil. Car horns, sudden skids of tires stubbing on unseen curbs. What’s hidden emerges. I’m too tense. I always feel like I should be on guard. I think there’s a magpie looking at me, carrion eyes twisting, spirals concentric centering on me. But really, it’s just another winter dusk. Some birds find food, some don’t. It unfolds. And billows. In turn. Folds of my skirt. And I billow.

I see Molly on the corner. Smoke halos her hand, cigarette held, spectre angle. Above, a pride flag ripples in a gust, sent by car wheels rushing or a train trundling. A magpie sits atop the pole, chortling. It sounds happy. I relax. I feel muscles unravel, knots fall. I am elastic, I am fluid, I am dancing in my city-movements.

Molly raises a hand in greeting. I smile, feel the weight of identity shuffle off. It’s so easy to be caught in history’s undertow. No textbook will really convey the small-scale immensity of this moment. How simple nights out course with the force of time’s ongoing stream. Tracks click by, birdwings flutter, wheels spin, slush spurts up the gutter. Cigarette ash falls, blends into the snow. It’s good here. Under the flag. I am calmer, now. There’s a frozen beauty when day puts on their skirts, paints their nails, lines their eyes with black rippling smoke and goes out dancing as fully night as they were ever fully day.

The magpie winks at me.