Raye, H, and Esteban

At this moment in Greensboro, North Carolina, Raye is not conscious of her boobs or that H is looking at them; she may as well have her eyes closed—she’s already deaf— walking down lamp-lit Fir Place over grates clogged with fallen leaves and soggy acorns; the atmosphere is a lightless funnel and then the acorn heads rolling under her flip flops add chaos literally and on a symbolic level. She is about to arrive home from the hospital with her ex, H, having just left Esteban, her man, in the ICU.

H is seeing Raye’s boobs in the orange light, amused that Raye called her of all people to come to the hospital. She has smallish secondary sex traits and she does not even consider what she did with Raye a Relationship. She is walking Raye home for these_____ reasons, although she hasn’t been to her apartment since they stopped messing around. But Raye keeps walking imperiously, no words, like H is a lap dog. But she seems quiet in a remorseful way like she’s lost in an amusement park with a blank cotton candy cone. H doesn't know why since Esteban didn't even come close to dying.

So then H has to take her hand off her cell phone, out of her pocket, face Raye, and say, “Do you want a hug?” which gets Raye started.

“I’m just so frustrated,” she says. “I am one thing, I’m realizing. I want virile, you know? That’s why I couldn’t keep stinking ourselves up like that all private with no one knowing you weren’t just spending the night. Like, take care of me. I know I sound. Sound psychotic, but sometimes that’s what honesty is. This isn’t about me being disappointed in your boredom baggage or Esteban’s ability to check out of his life with sports or injuries or friends or whatever. It’s like why did I have to call you? I mean, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank god, of course. Really. I just feel interminably koala-y. Like munch munch munch on one tree except, ha, I’m BI! I’m just clinging to this sexual Rapunzel role. I don’t take care of others and don’t want to—with religious conviction. I take care of my hair like it’s an upsettable infant and my abs like they’re twin toddlers, always rollicking away. I mean, I’m so glad you’re here. You always make me feel at equilibrium. When I’m alone I feel so quiet but loud in my head like an actual psychotic. So remind me that I’m into this little girl role, histrionic for affection, and whatnot. You were right. And I’m asking for punishment. That’s also what really frustrates me. You were fucking right. I just want a big dick in my life. I can’t baby myself.”

“No,” H said, meaning relax. She had been tugging her pony tail up and down like a water pump and then stopped, wishing for a lollipop. “I don’t think you want that.” Raye seems unsatisfied and a touch haughtier now; she’s back to no talking. But H tries to baby Raye, always has, especially craving the gratification of being needed and going beyond herself to provide like a remarkably handsome welcome mat.

Because H's weakness is resignation and if she doesn’t feel connected—an electrical circuit is a fitting image, especially when Raye is the light bulb—then in a few years all these things might happen such as Harriet Carr becoming an alcoholic, then joins Al-Anon, where she makes friends, wears jeans with a broken zipper, writes and says I love you to her friends a lot, doesn’t find a boyfriend, and she’s getting better at rugby all this time, promoting deaf athletics, and she makes money at a company that takes the taxes out of her checks, which she spends when she has to, on birthday gifts, rugby tournament gas, the weight room at the Y, party supplies, generous things for others and basic things for herself like Vitamin E and an end table and the weight room at the Y.

"That was a lot of pressure. You are so strong," H says.

“Thanks.” They hug again.

When they get to the apartment, H makes a cup with her left fist and stirs with her right index finger and thumb the space in the other hand.

She gets a moment away to fill the electric kettle and, all the while worried about not being worried about Esteban, measures the tea leaves into mugs that say, “Benny, I love you!” Esteban will be fine if he stops getting concussions. Not to mention Raye had already emailed Esteban's family by the time the medics told her that his lung was punctured.

Raye sits down for the first time since leaving the hospital and her ankles are rolled out pushing her feet out of her sandals, stinking. She touches her forehead with the fingertips of her right hand and brings down the shape of the letter "y," over and over again, "Why? Why? Why?"

Now Raye's calm face is moving quicker, more impulsively. Her lips are taut and she mouths "His poor mother! Fuck, this really sucks." with forceful lips. H, Raye, and Esteban all rely on light for communicative and thus symbolic import, in contrast to air, the sole, unmemorable requirement for sonic transport. Raye’s hands are more familiar than her mouth, which H has felt with her own mouth, which she uses for touch more than talking. Raye’s hands are as familiar as her eyes, as her silhouette on the stairs to the outdoor amphitheater at school.
"Could've happened anywhere," H says. She is signing. "Really could've happened anywhere. Don't implode."

Raye mats the tears down on her face, hung to dry like rainy jeans. Tomorrow or the next day, whenever Esteban is awake, Raye will visit him in the hospital, order take-out with him, and from there “keep doing the things they do,” Raye muses in her post-outburst pragmatic, forward-looking tone. Like writing his International Business powerpoints unless H tells her she loves her, which she does. She’s clarifying, too, that she loves Raye’s hunger, anger included, fears at bay, sex up front, and Raye is touched so they mess around like they used to. Baby Raye, my rayby.