pomegranate juice #3
I’m lost in her face. The ruddy crust dried to her skin isn’t blood. It’s fruit juice, for fuck’s sake. Cranberries or beets
or something. It glistens against her chin, her lips.
“I’m sorry . . . Do I know you?”
“Don’t you?”
The words don’t sink in. This is not what I was expecting, not what I was expecting to hear from her, this total stranger,
at all. But there’s something about the way she says it, the certainty of it all, that sends this chill down my spine, even
in eighty-degree weather.
I’ve never seen this woman in my life. Never met her. I don’t know who in the hell she is.
How does she know my name?
Head injury, I think. It’s possible. It’s because of my brain getting rattled around from the accident, isn’t it? Patches of my past—people’s
faces—have been completely swallowed up. No getting them back now. Is that why I’m blanking on who she is?
No—I’m positive I’ve never met her before. I would remember her, I’m sure of it. Then how in hell does she know who I am?
Who the fuck is she?
“So we’ve met,” I say, trying to play it cool.
“Once.” If she’s offended, she doesn’t let on.
“Freshen my memory.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
So she’s fucking with me. Toying with me. “You want me to guess?”
“It’ll come back to you. Eventually. I always do.”
“Okay. Sure. You want to play? Let’s play.”
“Play. I like that.”
“Do I at least get a hint?” I ask.
“Do you need one?”
I’m not enjoying this. At all. I’m starting to get the sneaking suspicion that I’m being punked. That this is all some kind
of weird practical joke and I’m the butt of it.
“I’m coming up blank, sorry. I’m pretty bad with faces.”
“Fine, then,” she says with a smile, closing in on me. “We’ll give you a hint.” Her face oscillates. Just the tiniest pebble
tossed into the pond of her face, rippling across her skin.
The fuck?
This woman—this stranger—is so close now. One second, there’s a gulf of people between us, the next, she’s standing directly
in front of me. I can’t help but hold my breath, my lungs grabbing at the oxygen, as if I need to keep my grip for fear she
might take it away.
“Hell and back. That’s what you told us. Where you’ve been.”
Wait. Hold up. I only told that to . . .
To . . .
“There it is,” she says. “You’re catching on now.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s me.”
“Who?”
“Lilith.”
What is going on here? Who is this woman? She must be one of Lilith’s friends. That’s it. Totally makes sense. Was she at
Sticky Rice? Maybe. I can’t remember.
“Did Lilith put you up to this?” There’s enough force in my voice to push her back.
“Put me up to . . . this?” Her sunglasses make it difficult for me to gauge her reaction.
“Look, I get that she doesn’t want to talk to me. Message received, loud and clear . . . but I don’t get this, whatever the hell this is. She wants to fuck with me now?”
The smile that had been on her lips diminishes, her mouth flatlining.
“You don’t recognize me.” It’s not a question. More a statement. An acknowledgment of fact for herself. An epiphany is hitting
her, hard, and it hurts. Stings.
“I don’t know you,” I say, my voice rising more than I want it to. I catch sight of passing glances from those around us,
trying hard not to stare. There are eyes on us now.
“You don’t believe.” The expression on her face changes. Hardens, somehow.
“Believe,” I say with the slightest huff.
“Should I prove it to you?”
“That you’re Lilith?” I can’t help but feel curious. “How are you going to do that?”
She considers this. The silence between us stretches and I can’t help but wonder what she’s about to do. Should I be worried?
“Do you remember the music hall?” she asks.
“The Flood Zone.”
“We met there.”
“Lilith, yeah. You? Nah . . .” I shake my head. “Can’t say we did, sorry.”
“Do you remember what you were drinking? A whiskey on ice. Several.”
Still not buying it. “Lilith could’ve told you that, easily.”
The air thickens between us. Her breath. The pulse in her neck. The sound of our surroundings silences itself. There’s nothing
else to hear. I can even see the steady thrum from her jugular along the side of her neck. “What about the alleyway behind
it? What about your apartment? The bike frame on the wall? What about your bed? Your body?”
“Again,” I say. “The devil’s in the details. Lilith could’ve told you all of this.”
Silence. I’m thinking the jig is up, game over. I’ve called her out.
Then she sings.
To me.
Just a sotto voce serenade. “I’m going down, down to the River of Jordan . . . and let the cool waters cleanse my soul.”
I feel it just then. This chill. The air escapes my lungs straight away.
Lilith could easily have given her girlfriend this little tidbit. She could’ve shared every last little detail about our night
together, leaving no fucking stone unturned. Down to the very scars.
And . . . yet. Hearing her sing. Something shifts inside. I sense it. Feel it.
Her.
It’s not possible. There’s no way, no fucking way, that this could be Lilith. This is a completely different woman. They don’t
even look remotely alike. They don’t sound alike. The words, the cadence in her intonation, may be the same—but the voice.
It’s not hers.
I wasn’t that drunk. I know who she was, and this is certainly not Lilith . . .
. . . Is it?
“No,” I say. More to myself. More forcefully, I repeat it, “There’s no way.”
“But it is.”
“How is that . . . you? You’re not—” the same person “—you.”
“You’re only focusing on the flesh, Jordan.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s what is on the inside that matters, yes? Isn’t that what they all say?” She reaches her hand out. Her finger grazes
mine. Just the faintest touch, but a jolt of electricity comes with it. A cold shock. “That’s where you’ll find me. You just
have to look deeper.”
I step back. I need distance. Need air. Something to breathe.