pomegranate juice
Lilith & Jordan
The pomegranate dribbles down our wrist, its juices bleeding. Seeping into our skin. We are quick to lick what we can, the
rest lacing our arm in red rivulets.
We had cracked the pomegranate open with our bare hands, digging our thumbs into the rind until it split down the center.
We scoop the ruby-red seeds out with our tongue. There’s that satisfying crunch of arils between our teeth, puncturing their
flesh. Such a percussion of crisp pops. The juices fill our mouth, its sweetness running down our throat.
We feel the pith stuck between our teeth and we want more. So much more. Fill our belly until it bloats, our skin sticky with
its juices, tacky and saccharine.
“You’re going to pay for that, yeah?”
The voice comes from behind us. We turn to find a bearded man standing behind the rest of these fruits and vegetables presented
to us. His expression is one of impatience. A stern temperament. His decorated arms are crossed at his chest, adorned with
archaic ornamentation that he hardly knows the meaning of. Primitive patterns of ink.
His tattooed flesh doesn’t appeal to us. So garish. A coloring book for kids.
“Of course,” we say, grinning our warmest smile, as our sticky fingers graze across his forearm, tracing the tattoo along his skin.
We immerse ourselves in his mind, his thoughts—There’s no way we’re gonna break even this season, I’m gonna take a fucking hit, I just know it, how in the hell am I supposed
to stay afloat until the fucking fall—for just a brief moment. Enough to bear witness to what we crave. “Name your price, Calvin.”
Sweet Calvin steps back, adrift on his own two feet. His irises slacken, two apertures opening wider to the woman standing
before him, unnerved by us. We know his name, know what keeps him awake at night, know his deepest, darkest fears. The things
he tries to hide, even from himself. We’ll drag those fatty secrets into the light, sweet and salty.
Tip the scales. Our gift to him. To all humanity.
You’ll do terrible things one day, Calvin. Awful things. Just you wait . . .
I sure will be. Waiting for you.
Some of us wish to contribute to the abyss below. It is in our nature to go foraging. Find those willing souls easily corrupted
and lure them down, where we can all feed.
Mankind has always been suggestible. Such impressionable beings. So soft. Fruit begging to bruise. Corruptibility is a part
of your own nature, so eager for your own demise.
You all yearn to burn. Who are we to quibble?
We can help.
I offer guidance. Sometimes all it takes is a simple tip of the scales, an added dash of pressure to throw the balance in
our favor. I offer spiritual guidance to those seeking it.
I am an influencer. A simple whisper in your ear. Can you hear me now?
Fruit inevitably spoils. I simply hasten the process. Prod it along. Make a fine wine out of your soul. I’m merely encouraging
you to tap into what’s already inside. Your nature. That darkness within you all. This is my gift to you. Tip the scales.
Simple as that.
I don’t care so much about humanity. About mankind. It’s just fun to play with my food for a bit. These sensations are wasted on you people. It’s fun to indulge my impulses.
We abandon Calvin’s stand. Wander amongst the rest. All the fresh vegetables, tilled from this very soil. The plethora of
exquisite tastes. The succulence of them all.
We want to try everything. Taste everything. Dig our teeth in. Run our tongue over it. Swallow it all, all these earthly pleasures.
We have adapted our patterns to fit, evolved with the times—but even so, sometimes it takes us a second to settle into a rhythm
with the living. Find our flow, as it were.
Have we found it today? Our walk? Our attitude? Our own way of being?
We have a fresh vessel today. A second skin. A pinot grigio. Light-bodied. Hints of citrus. Aspects of apple, perhaps. It
takes some navigating. These hands are not our own. A woman once more, yes, but she’s new to us. Lithe limbs. Soft skin. We
sensed the desire inside. Her vulnerability, her sadness, a chasm which we could cross.
Let me in . . .
There was no resistance. No struggle. The emptiness within her was enough to shimmy in and accept her flesh as our own. We
call her home. For now. Until we find someone more fun.
Why tie ourselves down? There’s so many fish in this sea . . .
We only want one. Jordan.
The flesh that got away.
It’s Lys’s turn to drag me out of the apartment.
“Show me your knuckles,” she said. She popped up at my pad, totally out of the blue, no warning whatsoever. Smart move. She
knew I’d bag if I had any forewarning.
“Do I have to?”
“Damn straight.” Lys doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever. She’s at the door, peering in, trying not to be overt about it. She probably wants to make sure I’m not living in squalor.
“Fine.” I hold out my hands, presenting my scabs.
“The fuck is wrong with you?”
“I lost my temper.”
“On some douchebag’s face? At Sticky Rice? During bingo? The fuck, Jordan . . . ?”
“Deak pulled me out before the cops got called.”
“Lucky you,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s it, you’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“Out. Get some air. Some sun. You look like you need it.”
The farmers market down at the Bottom has been taking place at the Main Street train station for years now. Barely any trains
chug through here anymore—one heading out to Norfolk, one to DC, and that’s about it. The station building is in the Second
Renaissance Revival Style, inspired by wealthy merchant buildings in Florence, complete with arched openings supported by
columns. The overhanging canopies on the surrounding trainshed make for a perfect awning for a farmers market. The stands
all line up in the shade, selling just about every vegetable you can imagine. Seafood comes in fresh from Brandywine, the
blue shells harvested right out of the Chesapeake. Homemade cheeses. Fresh-baked bread. There’s even a bluegrass band playing
as customers mill about.
“You doing okay?” Lys asks between stalls, hefting a tote crammed with kale.
“Peachy.” I’ve been handling the masses differently lately. Every time I get into a large group of people, I find myself getting
lost in their faces. Strangers don’t look the same. Not to me. Not like they used to. Every so often, I find someone staring
back. Someone I’ve never met before. They’ll look at me and I swear I see their skin shift. The tiniest ripple beginning at
their chin, trembling across their cheeks.
Melting. Their faces are melting. Lips drip, cheeks sag. The bags of skin under their eyes drag, bubbling and blistering before popping altogether.
I close my eyes, let my breath settle, force myself to focus, before opening them again. Good as new. Just a regular face. A perfect stranger. Nothing off about them at all.
Ever since Lilith, I haven’t trusted the touch of anything. I can’t believe my own eyes. Unfamiliar faces feel more unfamiliar,
strangers even stranger. It’s like I don’t understand the surface of things anymore. There’s something else, something underneath
these faces.
They’re completely different people, hiding in plain sight.
Wearing masks.
I know how paranoid I sound. Downright delusional. Prep the padded wagons. But it’s true. I’m waiting for Lys to drop the bomb on me, detonation in T-minus three seconds . . .
Three . . .
Two . . .
“We gonna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I say, playing coy, like I don’t know exactly what she’s referring to.
“What’s going on with you.”
“What’s there to say?”
“You hanging in there?”
By a thread. “Oh, you know . . . Can’t complain.” I haven’t been down to this part of Shockoe Bottom since the accident. The streets here
feel different to me now. They warp in ways I hadn’t noticed before, as if the cobblestones under my feet are suddenly rupturing,
every brick boiling over with more bricks, just this endless churning of stones.
“So . . . is this the new you?” Lys asks. “You’re gonna hide in your shell-shocked shell all day, then go postal on frat boys?
Since when did you become such a psychotic turtle?”
“Ouch. Don’t hold back on me now.”
“Should I? Want me to treat you with kiddy gloves?” My grace period for space must be up. A few months in the hospital staring at the ceiling led to a few months in my apartment staring at the wall. Now I’m getting dragged back into the sun and it’s blinding.
None of my friends have seen the things I’ve seen. They don’t know what’s out there. What fate is awaiting us all. I’ve seen
it. Hell or purgatory or whatever you want to call it.
What did I do to deserve damnation? How long until I go back?
“Work on your bedside manner, Lys. Just a little.”
“Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna happen.” Lys has always been the only woman in a boyz club. She gives zero fucks, but sometimes
I wonder if that’s just a brick wall—broadcasting don’t mess with me vibes—for our sake. Clearly she cares, even if she pretends to be tougher than the rest of us. She channels her energy into
activism. She single-handedly organized the food drive for the homeless living in the heart of Monroe Park, feeding the people
living there . . . until the police broke it up.
Have I ever leveled with Lys? Why not let her in? “Look,” I say, “I get that you’re worried. I appreciate it. I really do.
It’s just . . .”
I don’t know why I’m here. Getting out. Getting fresh air. Getting around people. I know I need to immerse myself in activities,
or distract myself, but I can’t do it anymore.
“Just . . . what?” she asks, dragging me back.
“I’m just working through some shit.”
“We’re all worried about you.” What a broken record. “We see you sinking into yourself and it’s . . . it’s just not healthy.”
“Need more kale in my diet, huh?”
“Deak tried,” she says, “and that bombed. Freel’s up next, if you don’t get your shit together, and you just know he’s going
down in a blaze of glory.”
“So that’s what this all is? You guys are taking turns? See who can save me?”
“You got a better idea?” Lys asks. “I’m all for suggestions.”
“Yeah. Leave me the fuck alone.”