Dangerous Places

A short story by Emily Pohl-Weary

M. confessed he was still in love or at least in rebound with S. the second time we hung out together. He did this knowing she was my roommate, and I would have to go home and see her face over breakfast the next morning.

He was leaning up against me and my back was against a wall and I was so happy because he was slurring his words from six bottles of beer. He was on the edge of telling me something deep and then out popped, "We met reaching for the same book at a secondhand bookstore."

That was my second date with M. At least I would call it a date, but now I'm not so sure whether M. would. I had a great time, actually, up until the conversation. We went to this party where free beer was flowing like Niagara Falls, and then, on our way home, to a sardine-packed concert by a really cute, really amazing acoustic punk woman.

*

When I got home after that second date, I called on will power and shut the door on M., who insisted on walking me home through the alleyways and shortcuts I always take by myself. I laughed a bit at his concern for my safety. I am not and never have been one to shy away from dangerous places. I try not to bother with fear too much.

I really did shut the door in M.'s face. S. was already in bed. I know because her light was out. I threw myself face-down on my bed with my jeans bagging up underneath me. I dreamt of skateboards and smoky bars and boys with curly brown hair.

M. and I had a great time together the first time we went out as well. I gave the jerk my black flower necklace when we were dancing our asses off at El Convento Rico. Imagine a guy who can relax and get down on the dance floor on your first date. I mean really get down. And he kissed me late that night, after the drag show, when the music was too cheese to actually dance to. Sometimes the DJ at El Convento is so space-cadet.

But now my abuelita's advice comes to mind. She always says, "Los hombres son como aguacates." Men are like avocados. You never can tell a good one until you cut it open.

Where's my abuela when I need her most? I was so sure about M.

*

For a few hours on Friday night, after M. told me about S., I thought I was cool with it all.

But the next morning, when S. came dancing out of her yellow room, I realized it wasn't going to be that easy. She was wearing a purple towel. Her short red hair seemed redder. She saw me heading towards the bathroom and scampered in there before I could react. She called out as she pulled the door closed, "Sorry, late for work. Hope you don't mind..."

I minded very much actually, but that's not what you're supposed to say to roommates who are in a rush, so I kept quiet. Instead, I sat down on the stairs to the third floor and waited outside the bathroom for her to finish. The wooden door wasn't tightly closed. It swung open just enough for me to watch her work in front of the mirror.

I got bored. Eventually, partly because I wanted to make small talk, and partly because I just had to tell somebody, it burst out of my mouth, "I went out with M. last night."

"Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere special. Dancing." I said, already feeling miserable for telling her. She was plucking her eyebrows. Gross.

After a couple minutes she called out, "M.'s great on the dance floor. So alive."

"Mmm," I responded. I shouldn't have told her, no matter how strong my urge to gossip. I leaned back against the stairs, stared up at the chipped-paint ceiling. I waited like that for five minutes or so until she finally shoved the door open and came out.

"You two dated for a while, eh?" I asked in spite of myself.

"Yeah," she said, and her lips curled into a crooked grin. "It's still kind of weird to think he's moving on, even though I did pretty much immediately..."

"Mmm."

"You know," she said, as she walked past me to her canary-yellow bedroom. "The hardest thing about living here with all you women in this big house has not been the lineup for the bathroom."

"Mmm?"

"I think we use it about as much as men would... The hardest thing is not being the cutest girl around." I was squinting pretty hard at her then and, objectively speaking, she looked pretty good to me. I wanted to see her naked, but when she went into her bedroom, she pulled the door closed tight.

*

In the kitchen, my hair still damp from the shower, she wasn't around. I poured myself some juice and put the water on to boil for coffee. I flipped open the paper.

I was reading my horoscope and munching on a bowl of cereal when she walked in. She was carrying skater shoes in her right hand and gray wool socks in her left. She sat down across from me and hiked up the taffeta party dress she was wearing to pull on those itchy looking socks.

"Like your dress," I said keeping my head down. I was pretending to be fascinated by my bowl of soggy cereal and the answers to all my sagittarian questions.

I know I'm not exactly Queen of Style, but her sneakers truly clashed with the party dress. Fashion statement or not, the taffeta had definitely seen better days. The cream-coloured blouse had elbow-length pouffy sleeves, and the skirt was the colour of red wine. Before she put on the wool socks and skater shoes, she reminded me of Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. That's not a compliment.

When she finished with her footwear, she straightened up, "Can't talk long, but the hardest part about living with all you women is the fact that my ego has been knocked down a few notches."

I looked up at her over my bowl of cereal.

She reached up and curled a piece of hair around her finger, "When I was on my own, there was no give and take that way."

I took another bite of cereal.

S. stood up and walked to the front closet. She opened the door and took out her skateboard with the Riot Grrrl stickers peeling off like bad skin. She said, "Have to go now, though. I'm late for work and I need to ride there or I'll be in a crazy headspace all day."

"Sure."

"You know, it's over between me and M. We're not made for each other." She smiled at me and pulled open the front door. "It's just a bit... sloppy."

"Guess it always is."

"Yeah, when you find a person who's close, but not quite right, you question your decisions."

"Mmm."

"Well, I'll see you..." She started to leave, put her hand on the front doorknob and was pulling it closed behind her.

"Hey S.," I blurted at the last second. She stopped. "Take the alleyways. They always help me when I need to think."

"Nothing like a shortcut." She said, diving out of the door.

I noticed she didn't lock the front door behind her. It's a rule we have - to keep the front door locked. But she just pulled it shut and skated off. I walked over and flipped the deadbolt.

Just then the phone rang. I ignored it. If it was M., I was in no mood to speak to him. I sat down to finish my cereal. The kettle blew hot air.

Lately, though, I can't seem to help it. All my dreams are filled with skateboards and a boy who looks suspiciously like M.