Coq by Ali Bryan

Author:Ali Bryan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Freehand Books
Published: 2023-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

twenty-five

I wait at the fountain for a response, but nothing comes. Scientists probably don’t sign up for notifications. I try texting instead, crossing my fingers that I’ve transcribed his number from my arm correctly. I stare at my phone. My reflection looks desperate. I splash water on my face and immediately regret it. It’s probably filthy. Tinged with bleach or bacteria or bird. Contaminated with lost wishes and the regrets of the dying. I’m drying my cheeks on my sleeve when my phone chimes with a response. It’s not from Felix. It’s Cody from Joggins. More specifically, his dick. It’s a helluva of a pic. Like he might have taken it in the woods after building a cabin with his bare hands, or wrestling a bear. I delete the text and block the number. I touch my wrist where Felix’s phone number was once inked into my skin. Of course the last digit wasn’t a seven. That would have been lucky. There’s nowhere to go but back to the hotel.

I hail a taxi from the Eiffel Tower. The driver is an old-growth forest. Hair sprouts from his ears and shoulders. A Serbian flag spins from a cord on his rear-view mirror.

“You doing what in Paris?” he asks, his accent thick, austere.

His question catches me off guard, though it probably shouldn’t. It’s the exact question I’d ask if I were driving a cab in Paris, if I were driving a cab anywhere. But for a second, I don’t know why I’m in Paris, in this cab, clutching a bag of trinkets.

He eyes me in the rear-view mirror, waiting for a response. “I don’t know.”

He furls his brows. “You don’t know?”

“No idea.” I start to laugh.

He taps the steering wheel, gently nodding as though processing my response. A bus cuts us off. The driver swerves, causing the dangling Serbian flag to spin. On the backside of it is a poorly-laminated photograph.

“Your family?” I ask, pointing to the picture.

We pass a pharmacy with an electric green sign. We’re close to the hotel.

The cab driver cups the photo in his hand, while gunning through an amber light.

“My mother,” he replies.

“I guess that’s why I’m here,” I say. “My mom.”

A tram, lit up like a display window, lumbers by cradling weary passengers. Shift workers and hustlers. Teens. I can’t help but think of Wes. I don’t want think of Wes.

A passenger van is parked in front of the hotel. A sports team with matching duffel bags and tracksuits spills out. My driver waits for the chaos to clear and then pulls over to the curb.

“How much?” I ask, gathering my belongings.

He waves, like he can’t be bothered to collect the fare. I dig down in my purse for cash, but I’ve spent it all on souvenirs.

“Twenty-nine years since I see my mother,” he says quietly.

“Ten for me,” I say, edging toward the door.

“And yet I still remember her voice. Very serious,” he says, smiling, “like mine.”

I sit back with the understanding I’ll be here for a while, paying my fare with commiseration.

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