existential allergies, Lilith Frakes

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

existential allergies Lilith Frakes

Citrus | Clara Spars

every moment of stillness. Sometimes she’d draw comics of Miro as a lizard navigating life with one missing leg. “Why a lizard? And what happened to my leg?” he demanded. “Would you rather a snake?” Darcy doodled his scaly avatar sunbathing on a beach. “Snakes don’t have legs to begin with.” Miro pouted. “What am I doing now?” Darcy had started a new panel that featured the lizard digging through what looked to be a pile of dirt. “I think you’re confusing lizards with dogs,” Miro sighed, knitting his fingers together and stretching his arms above his head. “You’re looking for your buried placenta.” Miro smiled childishly, pleased that she remembered. “It’s supposed to be under a tree.” “Draw it yourself, then.” “I can’t draw.” “Then learn. Take a class with me.” The closest Miro had ever gotten to sketching was penciling in the squares of his graph paper while struggling with math problems, but the thought of being in a class with Darcy, sitting at a bench sketching their homework, was enough for him to sign up for Drawing II that very night.

desire. The next art assignment was an abstract piece representing

“This piece is completely open to interpretation. Feel the heat and let it guide you, let your creative juices flow,” Bethany sang. Two minutes in, Darcy had already produced a masterpiece, a beautiful composition of warm swirling colors and geometric shapes. Miro couldn’t draw a straight line, even with a ruler. He scrapped the first draft of his drawing and tried again on a new sheet of paper. He had finally produced a single squiggle that he was somewhat satisfied with when the classroom door swung open. A bespectacled young man stood in the threshold, the sunlight from outside flexing around him and bleaching the floor. “Bethany? Is there a Bethany here? So sorry I’m late.” The whole class gaped at the lanky man in his wool turtleneck.

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

Bethany paused the smooth jazz that she had started playing from a bluetooth speaker. “I am she. And you are… The model, I presume.” “That’s me. Where should I set up?” Bethany gestured at the wooden stage, and the model helped her wheel it over to the center. She giggled, but her voice was woven with a thread of uncertainty. “I forgot that there was a model coming today! Silly, silly,” she chirped. “Class, do your best to incorporate, um—” She beckoned at the model. “Adam!” The man in the sweater chimed in and bowed. “Adam. Great. Do your best to work Adam’s figure into your interpretive pieces.” “Do we have to?” Darcy groaned quietly. She was nearly finished already. “Do what you can,” Bethany smiled. Miro looked back at the single graphite mark that sliced the center of his page in half. He started drawing what he thought resembled Adam’s head just underneath it.

Miro was struggling. When he signed up for this art class, he hadn’t cared in the slightest if his drawings looked like shit — it was an elective course that he wasn’t even taking for a letter grade, and he had no interest in becoming an artist. He hadn’t expected to develop deep embarrassment over his lack of skill and a looming sense of dread every time he had to present his work. When it was his turn for a class-wide critique, students gawked at the misshapen lumps scribbled onto his paper, not knowing where to begin with their feedback. One person mistook his still life of flowers for an abstract interpretation of explosive anger. “I guess I thought the petals were supposed to be like fireworks,” the girl had said after he had explained it to her. Worst of all was the look on Darcy’s face. It wasn’t disapproval or contempt, more like a quiet but obvious exasperation. He felt guilty for making her take a lower-level class with him. Miro attended Bethany’s office hours one day, wanting to

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improve without Darcy’s help. Bethany finished talking to the last student from her previous class before directing her attention to him. “Hello, hello, handsome fellow!” She perched herself atop one of the nearest tables and swung her legs expectantly. “How can I help you?”

“I wanted to get some extra practice in.” “Wonderful! Why don’t you take out your sketchbook.” Bethany set up miniature statues on a nearby desk, shuffling them around and switching the angles of the light source from time to time. She went over tips for finding forms, recognizing negative space, and estimating proportions, all from less than a foot away. “Is art something you want to pursue in the future, Miro?” Bethany asked him. He let out a snort. “No, I just wanted to—” he started to say, but stopped himself. “You just wanted to…?” Miro exhaled. “I wanted to impress a girl. Or something.” Bethany breathed a laugh that tinkled like a wind chime. She smiled knowingly. “Of course you do, honey. Is it working?” He shook his head defeatedly and stared at his paper, “Not with drawings like this. At this rate, I’d be better off as one of the models.” Bethany’s eyes narrowed. “You could try that, you know.” “I’m sorry?” “You could model for a class I’m teaching in thirty minutes.” Miro stared blankly. “You mean nude?” “Well, as nude as you’re comfortable with.” “No way.” She furrowed her brows as though offended. “Why not? I used to model all the time in college! It’s an excellent way to gain confidence!” “I really don’t think—” “Come with me, it’s just a building over. You can decide when we get there.” It was more of a command than a suggestion. Miro packed up his stuff and followed her out nervously.

In the neighboring building, Bethany led Miro down the

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

hallway, tossing a bright “Come on!” over her shoulder every now and then to keep him moving. When they arrived at the classroom, Bethany opened the door to reveal twelve senior citizens stationed at various easels around the room. There were walkers and canes strewn about them.

“I teach the elderly every Tuesday at five. Isn’t that wonderful?” she twittered. Miro nodded. “See? There’s nothing to be intimidated by here.” She leaned in and added, “Some of them can barely even see!” Then, turning her attention to the class, she shouted, “Good afternoon, everyone!” Some appeared to have heard her. “Instead of doing our usual still life exercise today, we’ll be drawing Miro, here.” A combination of adrenaline and sheer pressure made Miro gravitate toward the small stage at the center of the room. A few students turned to look at him. Bethany motioned for him to mount the stage. He did so uncertainly, removing his jacket, and after an encouraging nod from Bethany, his shirt. He shot her a look of panic and waited for her to explain what to do. “Miro will be holding a pose for one minute at a time, starting

now.”

Miro was mortified, his cheeks flushing, his underarms sweating. He stuck an arm above his head awkwardly and did his best to hold still, gazing at a crack he found at the corner of the back wall to distract himself. His arm started to tingle, then to burn, then to hurt. He shook it out a few times before returning it to its position over his head. He wondered if people could see his sweat. “One minute is up! Next pose.” Miro scrambled to rearrange himself in a sitting position, leaning back on one arm and resting the other over a bent knee as naturally as he thought possible. This time, he hesitantly looked out at his audience. He expected that everyone’s gaze trained on his body would plunge him further into humiliation, but he noticed as the students’ cloudy eyes traced his face and limbs, they weren’t really looking at him. Like the miniature statues or the knobby looking squash that Bethany used as models, they were simply internalizing his form, with no judgment or contemplation other than how to connect one line to

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the next, how much space to leave between one mark and the other. He relaxed a little. By his fifth minute, he was settling into a rhythm. He reorganized his limbs in ways that he thought were interesting, without being too uncomfortable, crossing one leg over another, turning his head one way and then another. He no longer thought about the people drawing him, but rather what position he should assume next. When the exercise was over, he felt good. A few of the elderly had completed beautiful sketches. Some could hardly see the paper, and ended up with a few unintelligible marks, but even those impressed and touched him. He thanked Bethany, who called him “a natural” and told him to come back soon, winking. Then he left the classroom feeling light.

“You did what?” Darcy gasped, already bursting into laughter. “I’m not kidding!” Miro told her about the class while eating lunch in a dining hall the following day. “What possessed you to become a nude model? Did Bethany seduce you? Oh my god, don’t tell me she blackmailed you.” “I told you I wasn’t nude. And it was a one time thing.” “Okay, but why’d you do it?” Miro paused, he felt oddly defensive. “I don’t know, she seemed to really want me to. It was honestly kind of fun. The old people were nice and some of them made cool drawings. Plus, it’s like a… Confidence thing.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You posed for old people to boost your confidence?” He felt his frustration growing, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah, I

did.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t need to work on confidence.” “How would you know that?” He couldn’t stop himself from blurting. “Miro, please. You’re fine as you—” “I mean, I’m obviously not good enough for you.” “Whoa, what?” “Tell me I’m wrong.” “What are you—”

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

“I’m not good enough for you.” He had stopped bringing up the fact that they had slept together, since Darcy never responded to it. The confusion and agitation and affection and longing puffed and deflated in his chest like a balloon depending on what day of the week it was. Some days he could hardly contain it, and wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Other days, he was content just knowing she existed at all. He hated loving her. His life and their friendship would be easier if he didn’t. But whether it was her pretty face that seemed to get prettier each day, her dry sense of humor, or the way she started talking three times more quickly when he brought up things that she was passionate about, his feelings for her weren’t fading. He felt the balloon of frustration grow and grow, until it reached its limit and slowly deflated in defeat. There was no sense in scaring her away. He exhaled. “Never mind. Sorry. I’m in a weird mood.” He ran his fingers through his hair. Darcy gazed at him and said, “Okay.” She didn’t bring it up

again.

Part II: Darcy

Darcy wasn’t clueless. She knew Miro was in love with her. A big part of her desperately wanted to fall in love with him, too, but the other half knew that it was more out of convenience than real desire. He was handsome and tall, with a humble but keen sense of style that made him look like a kid who might play bass in some starry-eyed indie pop band. His curly hair and kind brown eyes were soft accents to his boyish friendliness, and he tended to her with a quiet focus and care that no one ever had before. But no matter how hard she fixated on Miro’s wonderful qualities or how compatible they were, when he was around, she didn’t feel the swells of nervous energy that she associated with attraction. She felt comfortable in the way one would with a best friend or close family member. After weeks of uncertainty over her own feelings, sleeping with him only cemented that reality, and from then on she avoided acknowledging that it had ever happened. The memory of that night after the party crossed her mind as

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the two of them walked back from a dining hall one afternoon. Darcy felt languid and contemplative. She looked at Miro, thinking to herself that he was goodlooking — cute, even — but the thought sat weightlessly in her head, and when he smiled at her goofily all she could think of was that he once laughed so hard in the dining hall that milk shot out of his nose and he spent the rest of the afternoon smelling like sour cream. She grinned back. On the other side of the walkway, she noticed a man in a bright orange vest stoop over the edge of a fountain. He had a bucket in one gloved hand, and his other wielded a massive blue net. “What’s that guy up to?” She wondered aloud. They watched the worker as he dipped his net into the shallow water and stirred it around. When he lifted it over the surface, it chinked with dozens of wet pennies. He shook them off before emptying the net into the bucket, and after a few minutes of collecting, he lifted the bucket and carried it away. “Where do you think he’s taking the money?” Darcy asked. She passed the fountain multiple times a day on her way from one class to another, and had frequently seen people tossing coins in it as part of a campus tradition. She had never thought about anyone cleaning the coins out. “Maybe it gets sprinkled into the university’s endowment,” Miro offered. “Or maybe he takes it for himself.” “People make wishes on those coins.” Miro stuck out his lower lip to blow a strand of hair away from his forehead. “You know what they say. One man’s wish is another man’s burden.” Darcy smirked, “Who said that?” “Plato. Or was it Pacino?” She rolled her eyes and went back to staring at the man. “Have you ever made a wish at that fountain?” Miro nodded. “Have you?” “Nope. What’d you wish for?” “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” “Bullshit.” “Okay,” Miro huffed. “What would you wish for?” “For world peace. Or more money.”

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

real.” “You’re a real hero.” “I prefer ‘saint.’” “Those are cop-out answers. You have to wish for something

“Like what?” “The first thing that comes to mind the second you toss the coin. It’s a psychological thing. ” “According to whom?” “Freud. Or maybe it was Fallon.” “Stop doing that.” Miro’s eyes widened, and he ducked behind Darcy’s right shoulder. Bethany was making her way up the path to the bookstore on the opposite side of the plaza. She wore a black hat with an enormous brim and sunglasses that covered nearly half of her face. Her wispy blonde hair flew around in tendrils, glowing eerily in the sun. She moved more hastily than her usual bendy strut allowed. “Should we say hi?” Darcy smirked. “Please don’t,” Miro sighed, “The last time I saw her I was shirtless for the elderly.” He let his face drop onto Darcy’s shoulder and shook his head into it. She felt his curls tickle her neck. She patted the top of his head before playfully shoving it off.

Another nude model interrupted their drawing class. Bethany gave the same fluttery speech about forgetting the modeling schedule, but there was something off about the way she carried herself. She spoke flatly and briskly, not bothering to help the woman get situated. When the model asked about setting up the stage, Bethany tensed, telling her to just do whatever she pleased in a tone that was almost cold, and went back to helping the student she had been working with before the class was interrupted. The model was a beautiful young woman with reddish hair, pale, freckled limbs, and voluptuous curves. She showed up just as Darcy had finished laying out the groundwork for her midterm piece. Darcy did her best to squeeze the model’s body into a corner of the composition, but no matter how she adjusted the figure’s pose or dimensions, it sat on the page with an unnatural, layered disjointedness

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that made her want to rip her own hair out. She was relieved when the class ended. That evening, Darcy and Miro worked on art homework in Miro’s room. Darcy finished her sketches long before he did. “Draw me while you wait, then,” he suggested. “I’m fresh out of inspiration for lizard doodles.” “No, like a real portrait. Draw me.” She shook her head, grumbling that she had other homework. “Why not? You see my face every day, it’ll be easy.” She groaned and flipped open her sketchbook. As Miro continued to draw, she sketched the general masses of his head and hair. Her eyes traced his outline and her hands translated them to paper. She captured the tip of his nose, the folds in his ears, the swoop of his eyelashes that cast subtle streaks of shadow down his cheeks under the icy light of his dorm. Every now and then, he’d tilt the plate of his face toward the ceiling to stretch his neck, and Darcy imagined him watching the moon somewhere above the roof. A few minutes in, he quietly slid out of his T-shirt. All that rested on his chest was the small silver pendant she had bought for him for his birthday. Darcy had found it at a local antique store while looking for a cheap couch for her dorm room. “So that you can finally reach your full indie-boy potential,” she had joked when she gave it to him. Seeing it now against his bare skin made her chest tighten. “What are you doing?” she snapped. “Those old people must have really gotten to you—” “Just draw me, Darcy.” His tone was impatient, almost harsh. She quieted and gave in reluctantly, outlining the mounds of his shoulders, the ropy muscles in his biceps, the timid puffs of hair on his chest, the glimmer of the pendant against his skin. When she looked up again, he was staring at her, and her face grew hot. “Let me see.” He leaned over the top edge of her sketchbook, their foreheads inches apart. Darcy tried to comprehend the unfamiliar speed of her own heart rate. She remembered the night after the party, how Miro had held her so close and kissed her so passionately. Then she submitted to herself. The balmy night became one in which she could no longer distinguish the neutral comfort of another human being from the sort of affection that meant more. All she

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

understood was that sitting in front of her was a person who clearly cared deeply and fixedly, a person opening himself without restraint, and for the moment, that felt like enough. She craved the physical contact that breathed security and validation deep into her lungs. So she leaned in. While they kissed, she imagined loving him, walking around between classes with her hand in his, sleeping in the same twin bed every night as the other couples she knew at school did. She pictured it, and felt a tingling sensation growing within herself, something that spun and teetered with what must have been her heart as the fulcrum. She was terrified. As Darcy took off her own shirt, she heard a voice in her head telling her you do love him, you do, you do, you do. But it was a voice, not a feeling, and the voice eventually relinquished itself to silence. Then she was left with herself, and her body, and his body — and with nowhere left to go she felt herself leaving her body behind, floating over it and watching herself, naked and rolling around an ugly carpet while kissing her best friend. Suddenly her stomach was filled with something that felt like shame, or guilt, or some awful combination of the two. Returning to herself, she looked up into Miro’s closed eyelids and discomfort washed over her in nauseating waves. She laid a palm over Miro’s chest, catching the pendant and pressing it against him. She pressed until she was pushing, and then she pushed him off. “Whoa, are you okay?” A look of panic set into Miro’s eyes. “Darcy, what’s going on?” She stared. There was a red circular indentation where she had pressed the pendant into his chest. For half a second, she remembered reading on some tacky CVS greeting card that only the misfortunate and the blessed know how to laugh at themselves. Then she started laughing. And she laughed and she laughed until tears formed in her eyes, and then before either of them could tell what was happening, she was crying. “Oh my god, did I hurt you? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” And after a moment, he told her he loved her. And she told him not to. And he insisted he’d wait for her, even if it meant she’d never love him back. And she told him that was ridiculous because they were only

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twenty years old, and they had only known each other a few years, and that he’d meet someone better. She cried even harder, and part of her wished that she could be outside, somewhere cold and wet where her tears could be masked as weather, instead of under a gross fluorescent dorm light with a boy that she loved deeply, but not in that way, where he could see her sitting stupidly on his ugly grey carpet, confused and crying for no reason. “I just wish... ” Miro started to say, but his voice trailed off. Darcy put on her clothes and walked back to her dorm, leaving her drawing with him.

The next day, Bethany held office hours for the midterm project. Darcy was nearly finished. When she entered the art studio, she was the only student there. Bethany’s eyes were red and puffy. She looked older and weaker than her usual self, and was gazing blankly at an easel set up in front of her as though she could see right through it. When Darcy let the door shut behind her, Bethany straightened herself and shook out her hair, rubbing her hands against the sides of her jeans. “Darcy! What can I do for you?” Her voice was shrill. “Just looking for some advice on my midterm.” Bethany pursed her lips into a delicate smile. “Let’s see it.” She smacked her hand onto a table next to her own easel where she expected Darcy to lay out her work, and let her fingers slide off the surface one by one. Darcy’s drawing was a muted forest stretching somberly toward a purple horizon. One of the models’ naked forms sprawled out awkwardly under one of the trees, staring up at its branches. Darcy frowned. The crisp, pale body stood out intrusively against the peaceful blend of color. “Oh, how lovely,” Bethany cooed, smoothing out the paper. She pointed out a few areas that could be sharpened, places that needed a little more shadow. Darcy nodded along. Bethany eventually raised an eyebrow, “Why didn’t you sign up for the advanced class? You obviously know what you’re doing.” “My friend’s a beginner and wanted to try an art class. Thought

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

we’d meet each other halfway.” “Miro, right?” Darcy nodded, her stomach turning. She hasn’t seen or spoken to him since the night before. “Funny, I thought you two were dating. Cute boy.” Bethany’s tired eyes glinted. “No. Just friends.” “Oh, come on. I was in college once too, you know!” Darcy cleared her throat, laughing uncomfortably. “There’s really nothing going on, I swear.” Leaning over her own drawing, Darcy noticed the easel Bethany had been staring at when she first walked in. On the sketchpad’s surface was a drawing of the most recent model with the red hair. Her face had been scribbled out. “Beautiful sketch,” Darcy commented. “Ah! Thank you. Just a little exploration of negative space. Thought I’d make use of the model while she was here.” Darcy smiled awkwardly, eyeing the violent strikes of charcoal where the woman’s head was supposed to be.“Speaking of the models, what I actually came here to ask about is whether I need to include the human body in my midterm drawing. The model feels out of place, so I was hoping I could just leave it out entirely.” Bethany nodded slowly, “Right, I’m sorry about that. I really should keep better track of when the models are scheduled to come in so you have more time to prepare. Silly me!” She tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder and flashed her teeth. Darcy straightened up and gazed at her quizzically, “They come in almost every single class.” There was a pause, and she prodded further. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there a reason for that?” Bethany’s face darkened and relit like a flickering candle. For an instant, the redness in her eyes made it look as though she might cry, but her expression rearranged itself to its usual calm. “Drawing the human body is a great way to recognize basic forms in a subject.” Darcy hadn’t eaten and was feeling lightheaded and queasy. She was in a foul mood, and in spite of Bethany’s peculiar distraughtness, she felt her own confusion border on impatience. “But they show up even for the classes where we don’t need them. Like for the abstract section, or the landscape pieces. No one even really draws

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them.”

Bethany heaved a deep sigh, her thin eyebrows furrowing into zigzags. “To be completely honest with you, Darcy, I don’t really know when they’re coming.” “What do you mean?” Bethany tapped her nails on the table and smoothed her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ears and biting her lip. “I’ve made some mistakes like any other woman has. You know what I mean.” She started fidgeting with things around her, organizing pencils on the desk, and then rearranging them. She pulled her skinny jeans higher up her waist.

love.” “I’m not sure I do,” Darcy responded hesitantly. Bethany sighed again, deeper. “I was married to a man I didn’t

“Okay.” “And one day, the stars aligned and I crossed paths with someone whose soul matched mine — perfect reflections!” She stared off into the ceiling dramatically. “You should have seen it. The sparks, the energies. Everything about us fit perfectly.” “That’s great.” “I fell for him almost instantly. The temptation... It was a spiritual connection, too special to go to waste.” “What happened?” “I followed my heart.” “So you had an affair?” Darcy’s hand flew to her own mouth. She hadn’t intended to be so blunt. Bethany waved it off. “Well, yes, but to be fair, you couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be married to that man. Our parents set us up. They told me it was the only way I could pursue art seriously.” “I didn’t mean—” “All his complaining, all the time. He never credited me for my work or appreciated my art.” Bethany’s voice began to rise. “He’d — God, he’d wear street clothes in bed, his pants were always unzipped, his gut just grew and grew, and he wore these awful chartreuse buttonups… Can you imagine? Chartreuse button-ups?” “No, I can’t say I—” “And don’t get me started on his complete lack of sensuality.” “I really don’t—”

Leland Quarterly | Winter 2021

“As if he could ever fully satisfy me emotionally. Or sexually! Ha! The man was about as lively as an ironing board. And I, the hot, steamy iron, ready to—” She stopped herself. “I’m sure you’re old enough to understand.” Bethany traced the edge of Darcy’s drawing absentmindedly and shifted her weight to her other leg so that her hip jutted out. Her face morphed from hysterical to brooding in the span of a few seconds. “I’m not much older than you, you know. Not even thirty-five yet.” “Right. Of course... I’m not really sure I see how this connects with the models.” “Well, you see,” Bethany exhaled, pinching at the bridge of her nose, “my ex-husband runs the biggest nude modeling agency in the state.”

Darcy blinked. It hadn’t ever occurred to her that there were agencies specifically for nude models. “So you get them to come to your classes for free?” “Mmm, that’s one way of putting it…” Bethany now rubbed her temples in slow circles. “Listen, I hope you won’t speak a word of this to any of the other students.” Darcy nodded warily. “I have a restraining order against Bill — my ex-husband. I left him, but he just couldn’t keep away. The police were involved, it was a whole mess. It was actually the inspiration behind my Red Period. Did you ever get a chance to see that exhibit? No? Shame. Some of my best work.”

“So he just sends you nude models now?” “It’s his way of communicating, I suppose. Some weird form of a ‘fuck you and your appreciation for the human body!’ Or something.” “Can’t you just report him?” Bethany stared at her own sketch of the model, at its scribbly mess of a head. “Oddly enough, I feel as though I deserve it.” “What?” “It’s the price I pay for… The affair, as you said. And maybe it’s not even punishment at all!” Bethany pulled her shoulders back so that her chest puffed. “The human body is beautiful. I’m lucky I get to admire it in so many forms.” “Right...” There was a brief pause while Bethany collected herself. “So the

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answer is yes.” “I’m sorry?” “Yes, you must keep the human form in the midterm drawing. I just decided.” “Can I ask why?” “It’s your punishment. And maybe your blessing!” “Punishment for what?” “Trust the process, honey. The human body will surprise you.” Darcy had no idea what she meant, and almost wished she had never come to office hours. She packed up her things and had her hand on the door handle when Bethany called out her name once more. “I’m sorry if I overshared,” she breathed. “It’s been a mess.” Darcy gazed at Bethany, who looked small next to her easel, then released a weak smile. She nodded and told her it was no burden. She stepped out the door.

On her way back to her dorm, Darcy strode along slowly. The fresh air eased her headache and nausea marginally. When she passed the campus cafe, she recognized the gentle tuft of Miro’s hair through the window. He was seated in a corner where he often did his homework, this time with three other people, and no laptops or books spread on the table. They were talking animatedly, waving their hands around and erupting in laughter. One of them was a girl Darcy recognized from one of her classes. She hadn’t realized they were friends. Darcy watched them, relieved to see Miro laughing. The part of her that imagined him sulking alone in his room after her rejection and departure untethered itself from her chest, where it had clung tightly all day.

For an instant, her uneasiness melted into something warm and reassuring. When Miro had told her that he loved her the day before, he had said it with a subdued kind of desperation that almost made her feel like he’d be okay without her — a longing that was more about him than her. She exhaled. Miro loved her because she was sitting right there, she told herself. He loved her because she had been right there from the

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start, ever since she called him over with that stupid bag of mandarins. If anyone else had been in her place for those years, he’d have loved them just the same. For a few minutes, Darcy watched the four of them take sips from their paper cups of what must have been the cafe’s specialty lukewarm coffee. Miro often chewed the lip of his cup until it was ragged and unusable — something Darcy often chastised him for. She wondered if he was doing this now, but the thought of his mouth made her queasy all over again. The girl from Darcy’s class tossed her head back in a glamorous laugh. She briefly laid a hand on Miro’s arm, and retracted it to take another sip of her coffee. Darcy turned away, feeling like she’d witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to see. She shook it off and kept walking. She stopped at the fountain, and marveled at the way the floor of it glistened copper like the scales of a fish. So many pennies. She had never tossed any in before, and suddenly she had the urge to. She fished a coin from the loose change that lived at the bottom of her backpack and tossed it high in the air. The second it left her fingertips, she waited for a wish to come to her. The coin glimmered, turning once, twice, three times. Wishing for money felt silly in the act of tossing a coin away. Instead, she thought about the man who would come to clean the fountain. The man who would collect the little pieces of copper and the wishes that weighed them down to the shallow depths of the water. She wondered again where these pennies would go. When she got back to her room she unrolled her drawing once more. She pictured herself sprawled along the edge of her own forest, where the nude models’ faceless figure sat, gazing up at the leaves against the purple sky. With a marker from her desk, Darcy drew a copper-colored dot on one of the trees, so small that she could barely see it. She imagined it was a mandarin. Somewhere beneath the dirt, a part of someone was starting to grow.