The train lurches to a halt, screeching and wailing, as the thin ice layer on the track impedes its braking. There is brilliant, blinding, white snow cover outside the doors. It blankets the A line light rail stop at Peoria Station. Wind outside howls furiously now that the rumbling of the worn wheels and tracks is gone.
The door opens with a puff of the pneumatic lock. The intercom’s robotic voice announces the stop: “Peoria Station, next stop: Central Park Station.” The doors swing open and the cold rushes in. Its vengeance known to all of the passengers who had dared to seek refuge from it.
Among the passengers is a tall woman, with a few inches on most of the others in the crowd. She is well prepared for the weather: a jacket, followed by an undercoat covered with an overcoat and dense sweater leggings tucked into tall winter boots. A comically thick knit pink beanie lies loosely on her head. The pom catches the wind and dances. Thick, knit mittens finish the look of a creature adapted for the harsh cold. She has a few bags with her: a rolling duffle bag, a practical canvas backpack, and a larger checked bag with a hard shell.
She shuffles out of the train onto the platform. The small gap between the train and the yellow caution bar of the platform provides a great deal of resistance to her rolling duffle bag. For a moment, the wheel gets caught in the gap between the train car and the wet concrete platform. She yanks firmly on the handle of the luggage. It catches for a moment, her wool mitten slips between her skin and the handle, before the wheel dislodges.
The station is covered in the particular type of gray slush that is a product of foot traffic and road salt mingling into a hideous solution. In the less trafficked areas, the sprinkling of salt leaves pock marks in the otherwise pristine and hardened, shell-like surface of the snow. The blotted sun struggles to illuminate the open station. Her footsteps crash down causing the slush to schlop loudly.
Another gust threatens to knock over the dozen or so commuters who just emerged from the train. She instinctively braces, but she is shielded from the brunt of the chill by her coats. She quickly regains her composure and looks around, searching.
Another woman hurriedly approaches. She is less bundled up: a suede long coat and a hoodie underneath. Her shins are half covered by tall fur lined boots with sweat pants tucked in. An ushanka covers her ears and comes down over her forehead. She knows exactly who she’s looking for. She’s on a mission, and she doesn’t care about the shrill gust of snowy wind, nor about the slush.
She marches up to the tall woman, a foot shorter than her. “Ipomoea?” She poses it as a question, but she’s certain. Ipomoea doesn’t exactly blend into a crowd. “Wow, you’ve changed quite a bit,” she says.
“I think we’ve all changed quite a bit over the last few years, Amaranth.” The taller girl remarks, aloof. “We gotta get on the R Line, it’ll be here in like 10 minutes.” She knows that eventually she’s going to have to confront Amaranth at some point, but now is the time to reconnect. They take a seat on the frozen bench in the center of the platform.
“Yeah, if you don’t freeze solid,” the shorter girl chuckles. “I know you aren’t used to this kind of cold. I doubt it gets anywhere near negative 5 in Florida.”
“I’ve gotten soft to the cold, I know.” Ipomoea manages to squeeze out a few words before the cold breeches her defenses and forces her teeth to chatter. “How has it been staying here?”
“Same old same old.” Amaranth pauses. “I just thought I’d get out of here some day... like you.” She takes a deep breath, “I don’t want to be here forever. It’s complicated having everyone here know who I was.”
“I know, Amaranth, but I think it’s something that we just have to live with. There’s still a piece of me here,” Ipomoea says. The wind has calmed down and she can speak without shuddering. “Maybe it’s naïve to say that I truly miss it here, not only for the people, but for what I didn’t get to experience when I was here as a kid. I’m an adult now... Like a real drink-at-the-bar and buy-a-joint adult.”
“Yeah, that’s good for you, but I’m not a real, buy-a-joint adult like you.” Amaranth pauses for a moment to think. “Well not legally at least.” She laughs deeply, and she gets lost in it. Her laughter rises through her stomach into her shoulders and shakes her whole top half. Ipomoea can’t help but envy her authenticity.
“You always were a joker,” Ipomoea says. “You remember when we went down to the little reservoir by the weir with Jonah and Noah? We’d take rocks and beat through the ice and pretend we were mining up the frozen dirt. We’d stack up the chunks into tall sculptures.”
“You got your leg stuck in the mud, almost took your whole boot off. Wet up to the thigh on your blue jeans. We all had to help pull you out. And every time we would climb out of the lake and our pants would be frozen solid to the knees- clanging like bells.” Amaranth continues.
“Those were the days.” Ipomoea slumps back and closes her eyes. Another gust reminds them that the cold is still present now as it was back then. She pulls down her beanie, the slack becoming taught. “God, it so damn cold. How the hell did I ever deal with this?”
The hazard bells clang to indicate the arrival of the R train. Ipomoea comes to attention. Amaranth adjusts her hat and stomps the frost off her boots. “Well, where are you staying?”
“It’s on Iliff, not too far from the stop. Cheapest place that I could find close to the light rail,” Ipomoea says.
“Let’s go. I’ll take your suitcase.”
The train screeches and slips and slides to an indeterminate stop. It waits a second to ensure its footing on the platform, then it opens its doors with a pneumatic puff. The women enter the train on the same car.
—
The train screeches again as it makes its stop on the platform. A ride of only thirty-five minutes to get to the stop at Iliff Station. The platform overlooks the off-ramp from interstate 225 to Iliff Avenue. From the vantage of the station, the snow-dusted landscape below looks peaceful. Small gusts push loose snow off the surface of the compacted bulk in waves that resemble the surf of the beach. The sun peaks out strongly through the newly cleared skies.
Ipomoea reminds herself how odd and fickle the weather is up here. Buffeting snowstorms immediately followed by serene peace. It’s only a matter of time before the wind remembers its grudge.
A pathway is visible when she faces with the sun behind her right shoulder, north, she remembers this from her time with the scouts. A steep canyon is carved in the snow. Winding down the artificial hill, there is a footpath with a shallow grade, shoveled by hand recently. A thin dense residue of the snow pack remains tightly clinging to the concrete panels.
“I can see the hotel from here,” Ipomoea says to the other woman. “About a quarter mile down the road.” She’s confident in her ability to navigate. An internal assuredness that took so long to hone. One glance of a point on a map and she is off with only her senses.
“Well, we’re not getting any closer just standing here,” Amaranth says.
—
Ipomoea and Amaranth were two mischievous teens— two sides of the same coin, constantly butting heads, but forgetting their drama as fast as they started it, most of the time. That was a lifetime ago, and Ipomoea doesn’t like to think about that now. Amaranth, on the other hand, is so aloof that it’s nearly impossible for Ipomoea to discern her true motives or thoughts.
As they make their way to the end of the path, they take a right at the south sidewalk of Iliff Avenue. The traffic and wind are too loud to hold a conversation, but both women are content to keep silent to each other.
Everything feels so important when you’re young, Ipomoea thinks. She wasn’t an adult back then. Perhaps, she was human, just barely. Probably, Amaranth was the same. Possibly, it’s not even worth mentioning what happened.
She takes a deep breath as the cars pass. Cold, sharp, and painful in her nose. Dull dryness in the back of her throat. Warm and sensation-less in her lungs. She lets go of the breath, letting the steam cloud escape her lips, before it’s redirected through her nose and its humid warmth soothes her ailing airways.
They stop to cross. There’s a dull fluttering feeling in her calves— a latent sensation of her boots descending roughly on the hard concrete. Overloaded and overstimulated. It’s an almost painful sensation that’s only sated by walking even more.
Ipomoea’s retracted. She wanted to say something. Maybe it’s too late? She tries in vain to formulate something intelligent and thoughtful to say. An apology? No. Not really. There’s nothing to apologize for anymore. Though the nebulous fog of hormonal rage of the past, she doesn’t even really remember what happened. She realizes, she doesn’t even remember who was at fault for the fight. There was no clarity, no victor, no loser. All that remains is the sore memory of something bad regarding two people who don’t really exist anymore. A story that lies deep in the section of her mind labeled ‘truths,’ but... that’s not right either.
Truths need names, events, story lines, battles, territory. A war map with arrows and blocks and numbers and dates and context. Great generals and historical figures that conquer and win. Truths need a breakthrough, a scientific axiom that is provable regardless of time and place. Data and measurement. Something that can be known and discovered and found out regardless of time and place. Great minds, thinkers and people who had bold ideas and fought against established paradigm because they knew the truth beyond a shadow of a doubt. Truths need to be physical objects, and a physical reality that you can point to and touch and ...be. External to self, contrary to Descartes. She takes a deep breath with her shoulders to stop spiraling. She scoffs.
No this little spat of theirs was not one of those ‘truths.’
The walk indicator signals safety to walk across the busy road. It’s a precarious situation: the only thing stopping the two-ton death machine from flattening her is a red light and a driver’s commitment to believing in its power.
Safety is again reassured by the sound of the wheels of the luggage struggling to mount the yellow, tactile ramp onto the sidewalk. The women have an almost single-minded focus to reach their destination. They say nothing, but they are imagining an entire conversation. Neither want to break the silence.
The long walk comes to an end, not that this walk of a quarter-mile was long, but this was one of the longest walks that Ipomoea has ever had. They turn left into the parking lot, and they arrive under the awning of the Best Western. The sliding door opens wide with a thunk as it opens fully. The atrium is calm with a damp floor, rings of salt visible as the wet spot retreated from its maximum extent. The second set of doors opens automatically into the lobby. Warm air hits both of the women in a wave. Not quite cozy, but the characteristic temperature and smell of a minimum comfort hotel.
Amaranth hands off the luggage to Ipomoea, who walks up to the desk and checks in.
“I’m checking in for last name Taylor,” Ipomoea hands over her ID and credit card with her head down.
The receptionist lazily swings the keypad around, “Please sign.” Ipomoea quickly signs a scribble that’s so mutated and flowing that it’s hard to call it a signature out of context. “Room 438, fourth floor on the right.” She takes the room key and her cards.
Ipomoea says meekly, quietly, “Thank you.” The receptionist slumps back down. As she turns back around she sees that Amaranth is slouching in an absurd manner on the cheap pleather couch in the lobby. Ipomoea heads to the elevator and enters. She punches floor 4 into the call pad, and the doors close once again. The elevator whirs and staggers. Silently humming on its way to the fourth floor before opening again.
She steps off with her luggage and makes her way to room 438. The numbers descend from the elevator foyer. There’s a smell of mildew and old cleaning products. The halls are decorated with beige plasticine walls and patterned, low-pile carpet with uncountable water marks. She comes upon her room and fumbles with the lock, but she eventually manages to make her way in.
She rolls her bags into the closet quickly and sheds her outer layers. Her long sleeve shirt is ironed to her skin. The folds are prominent and defined, they are fixed in place by her sweat. She grabs the hem of her shirt and fluffs it out.
She digs through her canvas bag to take inventory of her most important belongings. It’s all there, including her medication. She sighs a small relief that it didn’t freeze— although she had a backup plan involving the coffee maker in case it was. She puts it back in the black leather case with the rest of her toiletries and puts it on the bathroom counter.
She sees herself in the mirror: snotty and cold-beaten. She rolled out of bed to get to the plane on time. What a mess, “You’re such a pathetic fucking mess,” she berates herself, “you can’t say anything that you need to. You’re miserable and pathetic.” The waterworks begin to start. Better now than after she puts on her makeup. Once she starts crying there’s no stopping. The velocity of it, the onset and the catharsis. Her therapist said that she had to try to be kind to herself, but she also said that Ipomoea should try to cry more, so there’s some mixed signaling there.
She manages to stem the flow after a few minutes. She takes out her makeup bag out of the duffle and gets to work. She’s done this for a long time, and she’s very scientific about it. Every stroke of the brush is calculated and purposeful- every layer has a reason to be. There’s a method to it; she needs people to look at her eyes first and foremost, being tall and such. It’s more difficult this time: her skin is so pallid, nose and cheeks flushed, eyes red and puffy. Her foundation smears like paint on a canvas, it obviously doesn’t match. She goes for it anyways, knowing that follow-through is more important than execution. Contour to raise her cheeks, subtle. Placement of eye-shadow on her upper eyelid, something warm and natural: peach. Her mom, she remembers, told her not to wear eye-liner, it attracts unwanted attention. She’s older now, and can make those decisions on her own, at least that what she thinks. She isn’t radiant. She isn’t anything. It’s perfect.
She puts on her coat, this time without the jacket underneath, and she dons her beanie again. She fusses with her hair, and she pulls her purse out of the canvas bag. It’s a keepsake from her late grandma— a simple, brown clutch. She puts her wallet inside with the hotel key and makes her way out of the room, down the elevator, to the lobby.
She checks her phone for the first time since getting on the A line. It’s 2:10. One notification from Amaranth: “At the platform” received 11:56. She remembers boarding the first train at about 11:50.
Ipomoea decided to come to Colorado to be away from her family. Although, some deep yearning in the deep recesses of her brain compelled her to come back. Bad timing to come during the worst snowstorm of the year, but, after the holidays with her family, she desperately needed some time away. She is here for three days, and Amaranth, out of a dozen people, is the only one who texted back.
—
Amaranth is typing in her phone, relaxed on the cheap pleather couch, she hadn’t moved an inch. The gas fireplace eternally burns the ceramic log behind her. A comodified hell. Ipomoea sits beside Amaranth, and the couch barks as it settles. A small respite after lugging around those bags. Silently the two women rest for a little while.
“Let’s get some food,” Amaranth says after a while, “I’m starving.”
“Where are you thinking?”
“There’s one of those cookie stores nearby. Big honkin’ cookies bigger than your head.”
“You know cookies aren’t food right?”
“Says you,” Amaranth says.
“It’s all empty calories. You won’t feel full.”
“Sweet treats are the only fuel my body needs.”
“Whatever, maybe.” Ipomoea remembers that she is supposed to say ‘yes’ to situations like this, as per her therapist’s instructions. “Fuck it. I could go for a little treat.” Ipomoea relents. Maybe something like this is what she needs to open up.
“That’s the spirit.” Amaranth stops tapping and sheathes her phone in her coat pocket. “It’s right around the corner.” They get up and swiftly plunge back into the frigid urban sprawl with renewed hope of obtaining a sweet treat.
The sun is beaming, and it melts the snow on the the sidewalk. Small wisps of steam appear to stream off the blacktop. They march further eastward down Iliff Avenue. A bit lighter now.
“God, I forgot how much walking we used to do. You still don’t have a car do you?” Ipomoea says.
“Nah. Never really needed one. I live right by Nine Mile Station. Remember?”
“You haven’t moved then.”
“Same old home. Same old city” Amaranth says. “I have baggage here. Everyone knows who I should’ve been. Who I didn’t become.” She pauses for a bit. “I think if I had a chance to move away I wouldn’t drag my feet like you did.” She thinks for a moment, “I guess, maybe I wouldn’t want to move to the South.”
Ipomoea was no stranger to reinvention. She had moved at least half a dozen times in her formative years. But, Colorado was different. She spent her adolescence here, made lifelong friends, laid down roots. Her big sister still lives here, moved out before being dragged down South with the rest of the nuclear family unit. Every time she had to move, she became a slightly different person. Maybe more honest? Definitely more secluded. “It’s... warmer... that’s about it.” Ipomoea struggles to formulate words.
“The chance to be a nobody, that’s what I need.” They arrive at the cookie shop. Ipomoea opens the door, and Amaranth enters quickly after speaking. And they decide to leave it at that.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding. Those are bigger than my head.” She looks at the options: quarter cookies for $5 a piece, four for $18. She decides they can each get two and she’ll pay. “How about we each get two flavors.”
“Sounds good,” Amaranth turns to the exhausted employee, weathered down by incessant questions about peanut allergies and gluten. The employee approaches lazily, her name tag is a cheap plastic plate with a label printer sticker on it: SAMANTHA. She looks a little bit excited that the person on the other side of the display isn’t another bratty child with an exhausted mother. “Can I get the rocky road and the cinnamon sugar. And she’ll get...” She gestures to Ipomoea.
“Caramel fudge and frosted cake cookie.”
“That’ll be all?” Samantha says.
“Yep!” Amaranth beams with anticipation to sink her teeth into the, probably randomly, chosen cookie-quarter victims.
“That’ll be $19.42.” Amaranth winces a little, but she pulls her card out faster than Ipomoea can. They take their square white box of warm cookies to one of the tables in the store and settle in. Amaranth opens the box and bites into the rocky road quarter with a ferocity only rivaled by a wild lioness sinking her teeth into some unlucky gazelle. Cautiously, as to not disturb the prideful beast, Ipomoea reaches into the box and grabs the frosted sugar cookie quarter. She takes a bite of the chalky, crumbly piece. Her mouth immediately parches as she struggles to muster enough saliva to combat the dryness.
Amaranth and Ipomoea met when they were both around fourteen. Amaranth was almost a year younger— just a couple months shy. They were both invited to and attended Noah’s birthday party. Amaranth and Ipomoea immediately hit it off. Not outshining the birthday boy, but they definitely clicked together in a way that was so palpable to the both of them. Ipomoea had just moved to Colorado. She was the new kid. She was from a world away. Across the Mississippi, past the Great Lakes, well, one of them. She was awkward, but radiated a certain allure that was hard to deny. Noah was one of her first friends here. They don’t talk anymore. They drifted apart after Noah got sweet with a girl none of the others in the friend group knew after sophomore year. Amaranth and Ipomoea, however, were inseparable, attached at the hip. A lifetime bond that is forged through collective hardships, a shared strife that welds two people together. They fought, sure, but they always made up and persevered. They were truly platonic soul mates. There was one cake cookie left, blue frosting. No one else at the party wanted any, except for Amaranth and Ipomoea. They ended up splitting it, marking the first compromise of many. Chalky, choking, crumby. The type of cookie that saps all of the water from your mouth and threatens to desiccate you to the bones if you don’t pace yourself. They both agreed that the cookie was terrible.
She manages to swallow the dampened mass of cookie matter.
—
The women finish eating. Amaranth ate both of her cookie quarters. Ipomoea couldn’t finish the second quarter, so she asks the employee for a smaller box for the caramel fudge quarter in the box and spirits it away into her purse.
They both get up and brave the cold again. The sun hangs low in the south-western sky. It touches the peaks of the distant Rockies, a dim orange hue begins to bathe the sprawl.
“I was thinking about going to that nickel arcade nearby,” Amaranth suggests.
“Still open?”
“Yeah, haven’t even raised their prices a cent,” she chuckles. They begin to walk towards the sun.
The orange light strikes Amaranth’s auburn hair scattering in rays. She is in desperate need of a haircut... and conditioner. With about six inches draping beneath her ushanka, the health of her hair is evident. Her hair splits about an inch and a half and frizzes wildly, betraying her naturally straight hair. Ipomoea would kill to have her hair, and she can’t even take care of it properly. Ice clods at the fraying ends, doing additional harm. Amaranth is unbothered.
As they continue walking wordlessly, the plaza with the arcade appears. It wasn’t far from the cookie shop- maybe a quarter mile. The arcade plaza is a strip mall with around a dozen stores and restaurants. A parking lot that’s far too large and has far too few cars in it to justify its prominence. The arcade is one of the smaller venues, in the shadow of the Kohl’s to its left. Of a higher caste than the dry-cleaner to its right. It has a modest sized sign with the word ARCADE in glowing blue sans-serif letters. They cut through the parking lot, weaving through the wall of snowbanks that are piled up in the back of the lot.
Amaranth pulls the door open forcefully. A bell rings. The warm air rushes out as the two make their way in. Immediately the familiar, moldy aroma hits them. They pay the five dollar entry fee, and move past the poorly implemented turnstile. Right past the entrance, there’s a machine that dispenses nickels as change for bills in order to put credits in the arcade games. Although more of the machines now seem to have a need for multiple credits per play, defeating the main conceit of the nickel arcade.
“Amaranth, you fucking liar. All of these machines are at least twice as expensive than the last time I was here,” Ipomoea says.
“Well it’s still nickels at least,” Amaranth replies.
They make their way towards the back of the arcade with the game cabinets, away from the ticket machines. The natural light from the windowed facade of the building fades into dingy yellow-green fluorescent lighting. There were just a couple cabinets that she vaguely recalls from her last time here: the ever popular Street Fighter and ubiquitous zombie shooter booth. Everything else is different. The water stains on the carpet also seem a little larger, detracting from the bright neon spots and geometric shapes on the dark blue background. The walls are still scuffed, revealing the drywall underneath the thin, dark blue paint. Someone is at the new-ish Streets of Rage cabinet, “Jonah?” Ipomoea says.
Jonah has a single-minded focus on the cabinet. He says nothing, but intensely mashes buttons before his character falls back and the screen blinks the insert coin message. He swivels around dejectedly, and he takes a moment to inspect the distraction. He looks the tall woman up and down confused. A moment of realization palpably washes over his face under the grungy fluorescent lighting. “Whoa, you are different... Ipomoea?” He immediately reaches for a handshake. Ipomoea signals for a hug, she wins out. “Long time no see, how have you been?”
“Same same, but different. You know?” Ipomoea queues up next to him, player two on the machine. “Funny meeting you here, are you a psychic or something?”
Amaranth chuckles almost inaudibly. “Strange coincidence, indeed.” She makes her way to the ticket machines at the front of the arcade.
“Yeah I figured you’d be here, Amaranth said you were coming over,” Jonah says. “Didn’t even know you were here until about half an hour ago.”
“I should have gotten your new number earlier, I would’ve told you,” Ipomoea mutters.
“Yeah you wiped all of your socials, what was that all about?”
“Makes me more employable not having all of those pictures up,” Ipomoea lies. She deleted all of her social media and became a recluse after moving away. They both put a nickel in the machine. “It’s a shame you had to change your number right after that.” Ipomoea starts mashing the buttons. Maneuvering the joystick to move the character that she thought was hers towards the enemies before rapidly smashing the four buttons with her right hand. If she hits all the buttons she might look like she knows how to play. She realizes too late that she is focused on the wrong character, the burly red fighter isn’t her. The similarly burly blue character is punching the air in the top left corner. “Damn, my bad.”
“I have no idea how you’ve been doing for the past four years. Had to have Amaranth assure me you were still doing okay. I know you barely even talked to her after you left.” Jonah flinches as his character gets downed. He puts in another nickel. “You just sorta fell off the map. After whatever happened between you and Amaranth. What was that even about?”
“It’s a long story. It was mutual I think,” Ipomoea sighs. “Still strange how she never even deleted my number. I mean, we reconnected, but I never really trusted her like I did before... well.” Her breath goes shallow. Her mind is racing to figure out what to tell Jonah.
“I get it.” Jonah says. His nonchalance cuts through Ipomoea’s anxiety, and she realizes that it really doesn’t matter how much he knows. It’s not going to change anything now. Jonah’s character falls down again. He reaches into his pocket, “Huh, out of nickels.”
“I can spot you some,” Ipomoea offers.
“Nah. I’m kinda tired of this game. Let’s try some of the others.”
—
The sun is well and truly gone. Yellow-green fluorescent light flickers in a strobe over the whole arcade. The cabinets exude their multicolored lights. The concessions of the arcade take up all of twenty square feet in the alcove between the two sections of the arcade, it is opposite to the redemption counter. It has two gray, Formica counters and an industrial toaster-oven specifically designed to cook frozen pizza. The signage above the concessions looks older than history: yellow cracking plastic over bleached images of pizza, hot dogs and fountain drinks. The three misfits sit at one of the two gray round tables over a cardboard-crusted pizza.
Ipomoea checks her phone. No battery left. “Hey what time is it?” she asks Jonah and Amaranth. Amaranth checks her phone, also dead.
Jonah checks his phone begrudgingly. “It’s like 8:20”
“Shit. I gotta go.” Ipomoea gathers her stuff. Amaranth follows suit. Jonah relaxes back. “Hey Jonah, gimme your phone for a sec.”
“Uh, okay, what for?” Jonah says confused.
“You’re so clueless, I need to give you my number.”
“Yeah, sure.” Jonah navigates to the messaging app, and he hands the phone to Ipomoea, who puts her number in and hits send.
The two women make their way out of the arcade and trudge back to the hotel through the now even more bitter cold. The streetlights are still the old amber lights on this minor street. As they make their way carefully, but swiftly, through the re-frozen slush, they pass the plaza with the cookie shop and approach Iliff Avenue. Its lights are the newer white style, they give more visibility, and Ipomoea can finally see in color again. The Best Western becomes visible as they trudge eastward in the north side of the street.
“Still wanna hang out tomorrow?” Amaranth asks.
“That’d be nice.” Ipomoea replies. “Be safe, okay.” They begin to part on their own separate paths for the night. “Hey, Amaranth?” Ipomoea turns to say. She hasn’t considered what she’ll say next.
“What’s up?” Amaranth comes to attention.
“I’m sorry...” Ipomoea pauses. And the next words catch in her throat, “For what I did before I left.”
“I forgive you.”
“I was so terrible.” Ipomoea feels the tug of tears at the back of her throat. “It was all my fault. I’m so sorry.” She quickly chokes the words out, thoughtlessly.
“No, no. You weren’t, we both said things that I know we would like to take back.”
“I thought that you hated me for the longest time,” Ipomoea sobs.
“I did. For quite a while. But, I guess I mostly hated myself.” Amaranth sighs, and it catches in a sob. “You know, we were such different people back then. Both of us in so many ways.” Amaranth chuckles. “The people who got into that fight don’t exist anymore.”
“We’re not dead.”
“But, the two kids who fought like it was the only thing that mattered are.”
“Thanks for being here,” Ipomoea says.
“Thanks for trusting me,” Amaranth replies.
They share a meaningful hug before they finally depart for the night.
—
As Ipomoea enters room 438 again, she grabs a change of clothes and heads into the bathroom to take a shower. The grime, sweat, and moldy stench of the arcade melt away into the drain. The warmth of the shower burns painfully as it washes over her cold-adapted fingers and face, but it’s comfortable on the rest of her body. She towels off, silently appreciating how the fog obscures the mirror so she doesn’t have to see the form of her body. She steps out of the bathroom to peek at the clock: 9:00, perfect timing.
She obtains her vial of medication and a sterile wrapped one-milliliter syringe from her bag. She grabs an 18 gauge drawing needle with a pink base, a 28 gauge injection needle with a turquoise base, a small adhesive bandage, and an alcohol prep pad. She places these items on the counter in the bathroom. Another ritual, a weekly ritual. She inspects the vial: it’s 5ml of clear oily fluid. The label reads ‘Depo-Estrodiol. estradiol cypionate USP 5mg/ml.’ She inspects the rubber stopper on the top and swirls the contents. She convinces herself that she is checking for debris like the doctor told her to. In reality she knows that she is stalling. She takes a breath and tears open the alcohol prep pad, She peels the lining off the syringe, leaving a small amount of sterile covering on the tip. She peels the paper off the 18 gauge needle slightly to reveal the connecting side. She swiftly unsheathes the syringe and attaches the needle in a swift motion. She takes the capped needle out of the paper.
She wipes the stopper of the vial and inserts the needle, drawing 0.8 milliliters of the oil into the syringe. She unravels the paper on the 28 gauge needle similarly. She pulls the drawing needle out of the vial and taps out the air. She puts the plastic cap back on the drawing needle and twists it off. Swiftly she inserts the needle-less syringe into the amber base of the injection needle and puts down the prepared dose.
Deep breaths.
She wipes the surface of her thigh- behind the knee and to the side. The needle is intimidating, its an inch long, relatively thin. She knows that the needle needs to be situated into the center of her muscle. Every time she visualizes its path she goes lightheaded. She uncaps the needle and presses the plunger until a microscopic droplet seeps from the tip.
Inhale. Exhale. Three. Two. One. She presses the tip of the needle to her sanitized skin.
Shit. She locks up. Push. Damn it. She forces her hand to move against her brain’s will. Slowly, methodically. She feels the needle puncture her epidermis. Click. It pierces her dermis. A small sharp pain freezes her again. She feels like she is pushing hard, but she knows that she is pushing with the same force. Click. The needle enters her muscle. A dull ache begins. She pushes the needle until the turquoise part touches the skin. She inhales again, realizing she forgot to breathe during the needle’s journey through her flesh. She steadies the body of the syringe with middle finger, ring finger and thumb, and she presses the plunger slowly with her index finger. Firmly and steadily she pushes the 0.8 milliliters of viscous oil into her muscle over the agonizing course of a minute. She waits as the plunger reaches the base, 10 seconds she counts. Then she pulls the needle out slowly as to not damage the flesh. A hill of skin clings to the needle as it is retracted. When the needle emerges, a small spot of blood emerges from the wound. She covers it with the adhesive bandage. She recaps the needle, much to the chagrin of her doctor, and keeps the needle and syringe attached as she places it into the leather bag.
“The boys from back then don’t exist anymore,” Ipomoea corrects.
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