Lily Hoang - Unfinished - stories finished by Lily Hoang

Then I put Kyle in a hoodie and some jeans. Zane took an eight ball, pocked but shining, out of the front of his bag.

We filmed for what seemed like hours. I was tired, getting bored, but we kept on filming: Kyle takes the ball out of his pocket; Kyle puts the ball back into his pocket; Kyle lets the ball roll along the tiled floor; the ball accidentally falls out of his pocket and Kyle says, Oh! or Shit!

This is it? I felt like asking Zane. This is your dialogue? Your script?

But I could see Zane’s position. Before, we’d been waiting with hands in our pockets. From now on, we would wait more actively.

If genius struck, the lights would be on, the camera would be rolling.

Even though we were there deep into morning, we still didn’t meet the cleaning crew, but the next day, the floors were waxed, the carpets didn’t have any debris in them, and our mirrors perfectly reflected truth.

One day, for a day, winter broke. I was out in the skyway above 7th Street. Exhaust-blackened mounds of plowed snow melted into the street, which was flashing in sunlight. I left early, walked home, felt things that had come out of storage — old things that felt new. It was that day, maybe, when I realized we were done. Done before even half-starting.

We had six hours of footage, which Kyle edited down to eight minutes and thirty-some seconds. Despite the complete absence of intention or plan, he did something. He made something of this.

After hours, we finally saw it on a screen that normally played a looping blue commercial for a new cologne. I was stunned. Kyle seemed to have crafted a space which our pictures had perfectly filled.

Zane hated it.

The lighting: bad. The acting: bad. The set: bad. The sound: a crime. This didn’t bear any resemblance, he said, to what we’d decided the film would be.

Was anything ever decided? I asked. And if anything was, you decided it, not us.

It was my vision, not yours.

Look, said Kyle. It’s a good film.

It’s eight fucking minutes.

Can’t you see, though? It’s totally perfect.

Can I say something? said Zane. Fuck you. All right? Fuck you both. It’s shit. You made it shit.

This too, I guess, was something we’d decided together: the film was history. There would be no more talk of a film.

And sometimes at work, I thought of the film, ran through what I remembered — because I was bored, and because it was lovely.

Over the next couple weeks, Zane got bounced around. He was taken off closing shift because Books didn’t generate enough money. The store decided to close down the whole section, and Zane was offered a position in Toddler’s Furniture. But then the manager of Toddler’s Furniture found him too abrasive and unkempt so he was moved to Kitchen Appliances and Hardware. Rather than close down the store, they had him open it. They also cut his hours in half.

Because he needed the money, they offered to let him get rid of the excess Books inventory. By “get rid of,” they meant Zane could box up the books and move them to a warehouse across town.

Zane stopped talking to us. Like everything else with Zane, we didn’t have a choice.

Even though Kyle and I still closed, it wasn’t the same. We didn’t go out after work.

One night, though, as I was leaving, Kyle said, Adele. I’d forgotten how my name could sound amidst that layered silence.

We hadn’t seen Zane in weeks. He was as mystical as the cleaning crew.

I was leaving for law school in days.

I’d thought about dropping an eight ball next to Zane’s car, but I never passed that way. I thought he’d like the symbolism.

That night, I kissed Kyle. He was wearing a brown woolen suit. Its stripes, I recall, were blue-grey.

Every morning, Kitty’s father comes into her room and opens her curtains just enough to let in a single ray of sun. “Good morning, Kitty!” he says. Every morning it is the same.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she answers. Her voice is still drowsy and heavy, but her eyes are vibrant.

Kitty’s father waits for her cue — a cracked smile — to fully open her pink, linen curtains. Then, he lifts her out of bed, and together, they stand at the window to look for the moon. Some mornings, the moon is still visible against the pale morning sky.

“Moon” was Kitty’s first word. It had come out more as two words — “moo” and “one” — but Kitty’s father knew exactly what she meant.

Then, he lets Kitty pick out her clothes for the day and carries her downstairs to have cereal and strawberries.

This morning, like every morning, Kitty’s father comes into her room and opens her curtains to let her greet the day. “Good morning, Kitty!” he says.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she squeals.

This morning, Kitty had woken up extra early. She’d wanted to surprise her daddy, but then she fell back asleep and dreamt of the different kinds of fruit the moon could grow.

Kitty’s father lifts her out of bed and carries her to the open window. Together, they see the moon sitting in the pale, pink morning sky, but something about it is different.

“Does the moon look a little brighter to you today, Daddy?” Kitty asks.

“Yes, it does, Kitty,” he answers.

They pause at the window. They gaze at the moon in the pink sky. Then, slowly, as Kitty and her daddy aren’t the type of people to hurry here and hurry there, they make their way downstairs to have breakfast. Today, Kitty’s father prepares pancakes, which are Kitty’s favorite. They have their pancakes along with their staples: tea with milk, orange juice, and strawberries. There is nothing peculiar about this morning. It is a regular morning. Kitty always tries to surprise her daddy, and he is always doing nice things for her, like preparing her favorite foods.

But Kitty looks at her pink teapot on her pink stove, which is smaller than the big stove, but even with his big fingers, Kitty’s father doesn’t mind using it. She sighs, on the verge of tears, uncertain why.

Kitty’s father says, “Kitty, what’s wrong?”

Kitty shakes her head, sucking on her lower lip, which is always a sure indication that something isn’t right.

Kitty’s father pats his knee, and she climbs onto his lap, her straight hair nests under the scruff of his unshaven face.

“Are you worried about the moon, Kitty?”

Kitty looks up at her father, amazed by his ability to read her mind.

“You don’t have to worry, sweetheart. The moon is fine.”

Kitty hears her father say all this, but the more he repeats himself, the more she knows that he is lying to her. It’s the first time Kitty’s father has ever lied to her, but she recognizes his dishonesty immediately.

Kitty and her father continue with their day, slowly doing this or that, until night comes, but all day long, Kitty is distracted, her mind unable to extract itself from the moon. She wonders if maybe the moon is sick or if it will disappear entirely, both of which are not pleasing options to Kitty.

When the sun finally hides behind the horizon, Kitty and her father go search for the moon. He takes out his telescope and sets it up on the deck outside of Kitty’s window.

“Kitty! Come here!” he says.

Kitty presses one eye onto the tube and squints her other eye.

“It’s what we’ve been waiting for, Daddy! It’s here!” Kitty says.

“Yes, Kitty, it is.”

“I’ve already packed my suitcase, Daddy!”

Kitty’s father says, “Me too!”

Inside, there is a pink suitcase filled with pink clothes. Next to it, Kitty’s father placed a larger white suitcase.

Kitty’s father says, “Tomorrow, Kitty.”