Ophelia After All by Racquel Marie

Author:Racquel Marie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

* * *

“I just don’t get Barthes,” Talia groans, lifting her laptop over her head and tucking her knees into her chest. She looks so small, even though she could easily curl her whole body around mine in that position.

We’re sitting on her bedroom floor, the carpet scratchy against my bare legs. We’ve been “working” on our papers for over an hour now, but all she’s typed is her name and the title while I’ve barely made it past my introductory paragraph. Turns out we aren’t the most productive pair, but I’m not complaining. I’d stay up all night writing both our papers if she asked me to, just to keep laughing at the random memes she shows me whenever I manage to write another sentence.

She doesn’t ask me to write her paper though, thankfully, so I decide to do her one better and make good on my promise to be helpful. “All right, shut your laptop and humor me for a second.”

She unfolds her body and watches me attentively, straight-faced, and I have to look away before I get stuck staring at her like this.

“Okay, so.” I think of how Mom tried to explain literary theorists to me last year when I started looking into college programs and she was still convinced I could be swayed into studying English. Literary theory is surprisingly interesting, but I’ll still take examining different forms of fungal root rot over it any day.

“Have you ever really, really wanted a piece of chocolate cake?” I start, and Talia’s blank stare shifts into a suppressed smile. She doesn’t stop me to tease though, so I keep going. “Like you’ve been thinking about cake all day, how it’ll melt in your mouth and feel against your tongue and sliding down your throat? You think about the thickness and the moisture and the flavor until you’re driving yourself mad with how much you want that cake?” I pause for her to nod, wanting to be sure I haven’t lost her. “Roland Barthes said that what you really want is that want itself, not the cake. When you eat the cake, you don’t really focus on all those things. You eat it, and you’re left unsatisfied because the cake wasn’t everything you wanted. Because it can’t ever live up to what you built it up to be. You just wanted the act of wanting something.”

She nods slowly, her lips pressed together. “What if I don’t like chocolate cake?” she says, trying to keep her face serious. But her laughter gets the better of her. I throw a pillow at her, and she only laughs harder.

“What kind of cake do you like, then?” I ask mockingly, hands on my hips as I sit up. I feel like a parody of my mom.

“Tres leches?” she tries, shrugging.

“Feel free to retract my Latine card, but I’ve never been able to stomach tres leches,” I admit. Now it’s her turn to throw a pillow at me.

“You’re lucky your love of papas rellenas

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