EM BROUSSEAU
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SOMEONE NOT SOMEONE’S
The first time he calls me his girl, we’re in the laundromat, and I’m watching as he folds a black t-shirt, talking with his phone tucked between neck and shoulder to an unknown caller. I’d love to, man, but I’m with my girl. Cool if she comes? He looks at me like I know who he’s talking to—an expectation too big for the short time I’ve known him. He wants a sense of familiarity before it’s earned. He wants me to be his girl before I know him. Alright. See you then, brother. The phone falls from shoulder to laundromat table, clattering. He keeps folding, relaying no details about the plans. I finally break the faux familiarity and ask what I’ve been roped into. I don’t ask why he called me his girl, and I don’t ask why he asked if I could come, but not if I wanted to go. There are a lot of things I don’t ask. We’re going fishing. The caller is his friend Nate, who’s bringing along his girl Caitlin. It’s a grey fall day, and just the swing of the laundromat door sends the cold seeping into my bones. I imagine how cold it will be by the water. I don’t like fishing. Or new people. Or being cold. I don’t say any of these things. There are a lot of things I don’t say. Caitlin is very nice. Very sweet. She comes with a blanket and two cans of hard seltzer, ready to sit and watch. The girls don’t fish; they observe. This is the routine: the men fish and the girls sit, watching without interrupting, existing without making an impression. To be someone’s girl is to accept that you are not there to be yourself. So we sit and watch, and occasionally the men toss us a line. Nate comes over to offer Caitlin the rest of his cigarette. Myles flashes an ignorant smile, too excited to bring me into this world to consider if I want to be here. Fishing is fruitless. It’s too late in the season to catch anything, and the cold is getting under everyone’s skin. Myles packs the tackle box; Caitlin shakes out the blanket. I stand awkwardly with Nate, who reminds me of my high school principal– tall, authoritative, old. So how old are you, again? he asks, inspecting me as if I were a lure, shiny and bright. Twenty-two, I say. Quiet. Embarrassed. He nods. Nice. There’s nothing left to say. I begin to realize he asked my age as if he already
Santa Fe Literary Review
45
