Judy Stories by Julia Loach

JUDY STORIES

Julia Loach Judy won’t answer your texts, but it’s nothing personal. Her bike brakes are mostly rust. They make the blaring sound of a multi-vehicle collision, but she’ll never fix them

Judy let me cry on her shoulder during a campus film screening, a montage of a family at a beach first got me weepy, I worsened during the scene where the father picks up his only child from school. I laughed as her hand surveyed my face for tears in the dark, popcorn fell on the floor, people stared, but I felt somewhat proud to be mournfully intertwined with her.

Two years ago, Judy almost knocked me off a chairlift. It was an accident – her snowboard clipped mine as we sat down. With my chest pressed on the seat, hands gripping the backrest, I saw the ground move five, ten, then twenty feet away. By the time I realized I’d break a limb or two if I fell, it didn’t matter, Judy had already hoisted me up while shrieking and giggling.

I think I owe her something I can never deliver, me and the rest of the world, that is. Something intangible, Something that lingers in the moment before we both drift off to sleep, when two people stop murmuring at the same time, letting each other go for a few immaterial hours. I could debate with her, lend her books, pose semi-nude for her paintings, sing about her. Yet, it would not replicate the feeling of her kissing me on the cheek, As she does right after telling me not to be heartbroken over someone.

Judy’s bedroom has a triple window that looks onto her street. Last month, I walked half an hour home from her party, only to realize I had forgotten my keys and my wallet. It was also 3 a.m. and my phone was dead. I trudged back to hers and knocked on her window (Banged really, with my full body – she’s a deep sleeper). I had a full explanation and apology prepared, but she simply handed me pyjama bottoms. “Time for bed” she said in a tired drawl, I sleep talk, she snores.