Navel

Emma Wu

And it is the crepe, plummed skin, sallow under her eyes. And maybe the twelve empty glass rice wine bottles that chime slowly in the wind outside of her cracked front window. In any case, The thin veneer of sun, here with us now, plated lazily between us. She laughs in bellied guffaws, her chest attenuated by the American great depression and hollow enough now to echo (can you hear it?).

The fragile alabaster of doily after doily, lace lily pads on every surface. The stiff syrup of red wine spills our laughter on the ground.

Does she mind that I walk her house like a forest?

In any case, the small jade statues and collection of snuff bottles, mounted eye-level, make me feel comfortable. She makes us chrysanthemum tea. This was my grandpa’s favorite. In some ways, she does remind me of my family: worn silk slippers and secret love for polyester, silver hair dyed pitch, vegetables steamed with a tablespoon of sugar, almond eyes and eyelids without a crease.

“Would you like another cup?” I indicate towards the tea, then the wine. She lets a gentle upturning of the lips blur her face, not quite happy but pleased. Her face beams scarlet and warm from the alcohol.

“Tea, please,” she says as she purses her lips, allowing the mass of her body to weigh her towards the back of her upholstered armchair, a hand outstretched towards me and the tea pot. She lets her eyes close for the second I pour.

Philadelphia doesn’t have much as far as an Asian community: a small enclave to escape Italian food, an even smaller arts organization. Occasionally, on the Market-Frankford Line, my small nod will be met, imitated.

Mary’s real name is pronounced Kuh-Ling, and we met at a Philadelphia protest for Black Lives Matter. Can you imagine it, the gritty city, the city of brotherly love, lathered in the rage and reformation effort of tens of thousands? And a Chinese woman perched on the curb of the Parkway, squatting flatfooted and drinking a chocolate protein shake from a plastic bottle. I smile at her, for the irony, but she identifies as American so who’s to say. Mary pocketed my smile. Or maybe, coupled with sheer cultural deprivation, it felt genuine enough to pursue. Mary and I took to weekly drinking.

And it is late last night when Liz comes home with her new and probably temporary man-friend who she probably met at the bar just a minute ago. And I know this story because I have seen it before. I wait for them to settle, clink an ice cube in each glass, to make my way to the bathroom, make my presence known to both Liz and visitor (I’m awake too, can you see? Just using the restroom. Totally casual.). Can I hear their whispers on the couch before dawn?

“Hi, enjoy yourselves,” I squeak awkwardly as Liz turns and winks at me, leading her suitor to the bed in the room next to mine. I notice the whites of his eyes have fallen to a pleasant hue of pink, his shoes smack loudly on the linoleum. Her door shuts.

To be this roommate in this shoot of patchy, incandescent light. I’ve seen her already: TV, movies,

books – media has her pinned. Available, amicable, flexible. In seventh grade, Liz collected money from everyone in our middle school for six days before she got caught, “rent” for sitting in “her” cafeteria. I envied her power and then her wit. She let me sit for free the last couple of days, called it an “owner’s special” and offered me the first look at her new signature wink.

Once, a few months ago, after hearing me say that yes, I do smoke the occasional cigarette, Mary clawed my arm sharply, leaving three deep, yellow marks. Her snuff bottle collection chuckled around me. “No drugs,” she said to me startlingly and I hesitated to recognize and then accept this guardianship. “No drugs,” she repeated, welling her directions at me for the first of her many rules.

After a moment, again, “No drugs.”

I don’t identify as a smoker: a Marlboro Gold outside a Saturday night party off Baltimore Ave, a quick Parliament with Liz on the cool marble stoop of our row home. In the muddle of wine, I decide to keep this promise. Why not keep this promise?

“Okay, no drugs.” Done. Because who’s to say wielding a promise isn’t supposed to feel righteous. Mary’s list of rules is extensive and affects anyone in her sight. Her diet and routine are strict “to alleviate the fist of our big brother.” Some common: no carbs past 10 p.m., no feet on the table, no drugs. Some peculiar: no lighters in the house, cruelty-free makeup only, something fermented paired with dinner.

And no drugs. I don’t like conflict.

Because she doesn’t tire of sugared broccoli over rice and because once, when she was small, she followed the soft whispers (as we all do) and found, there, a fire somewhere between a crackle and a roar and left it: one person and two dogs burned dead. I prepare dinner on the stove, out of sight.

Academic woman that she is, unshaven armpits, always pees after sex with a man. No UTIs here. Can she see me still in the bathroom? Of course she can. Liz in her glowing grandeur, spying me still hugging myself. Me: perimeter of red, tie-dyed, raccoon-eyed, sat.

I can tell you ten different ways to know how to say no.

“Are you okay?” she asks me. And what she means is, did I do something wrong? Or maybe even, can I do something for you? And can I tell you then that something built in me like an enormous beached ship, and maybe I said “I’m sorry” when I pulled the soft bow of her robe, feigning to use it as an aid to stand from my crouch, revealing bareness. Kissed her navel.

And then a quick snatch, like a cat, securing the robe and a

S T E P STEP step S L A M. oh what a bloom of redness. shame.

“Can you hear something end?” I feel the question slip from my mouth onto Mary’s lap. I’ve overpoured her tea. A bit has dribbled on the sunlight between our feet. “I’m sorry,” I add quickly.

“You can hear some ends.” Mary says softly, quickly, as if without intending to. And what she means is shame is shame, and an end is an end, and those two things are different.

I nod, knowingly, nod with such ardor. And then, a residual species happiness settles in, something like silence but so loud it thumps, so bright it gleams.