Fresh Ink 2022
Natalie Schriefer Growing Pains After dinner, Elijah and I walked by Fenway. It was December, dark; there weren’t any street vendors, or any other people at all, really, just Elijah and me and the stadium, the streetlights dotting the road. It had snowed earlier, and the street was slushy now, the sidewalks cleared by the passing of feet. It could’ve been romantic. Elijah kept his eyes on the sidewalk, his beanie pulled down over his curls. We hadn’t said anything in at least a block, so I asked, finally, “What are you thinking about?” Elijah shuffled through a puddle of slush. “Do you think it snowed back home?” “Maybe.” Connecticut seemed eons away. We kept walking. I waited for Elijah to say something else, but he didn’t. After another block, I asked, “Remember Summer, my old roommate?” She was from Connecticut, too. “Yeah,” Elijah said. “What’s she up to?” “She finished her PhD.” I’d seen the photos online. “She’s moving down south.” “I bet it’s a lot warmer there.” I elbowed him, tried to laugh. “You jealous?” Elijah laughed too. He wanted to move to the suburbs when our lease came up in a few months; he’d said as much last week. Headlights traced along the side of a building. We hadn’t talked about it since. Hadn’t talked about Summer, either, not about her and not to her, even though she’d been my best friend, once. Before she moved out west, before her fancy astrophysics friends, I’d been the one she dragged out for stargazing, breathless from the wind, her face and neck wrapped in a scarf. There weren’t any stars out tonight. And now she had a PhD, while I slaved away as a research tech. At least I had a job, right, but in the dark, Elijah silent beside me, my universe felt small and lonely. Cold. When we crossed the next street, I asked, “Do you want to stop for coffee or something?” 76
