Marie-Helene Bertino - Safe as Houses

What was a friendship anyway? A pile of leaves and some twine. A dinner every so often. Every so often a long, shattering phone call. By defriending her, Marcel was saying, You are not worth my every so often . This bothered Emily more than the fact that she would never again smell like his soap.

She reached Café Diabolique, their favorite. Marcel and his date sat by the window. Emily was grateful for the camouflage of her umbrella so she could watch them from across the street. Seeing his face after months was as immediate as a pointed gun. He wore jeans and an Iron & Wine T-shirt. He had always listened to the music of a more sensitive man. She had let several relationship cruelties slide because of it.

The woman looked familiar. For a moment Emily mistook her for a mutual friend and prepared to get gorilla earthquake crazy. Then she realized who it was.

It was her. Her her. Emily her. Marcel’s Idea of Emily.

Emily said “ha” out loud. Proof: he still thought of her. She could go home now and sleep, eat, brush her teeth.

At first glance, the other woman was an exact replica. Yet as Emily looked closer, small differences emerged. This woman’s long hair was gathered in a loose ponytail. Soft strands fell into her face.

“Get a barrette!” Emily said.

This woman wore a black T-shirt with a band’s insignia that Emily stepped in a puddle attempting to read.

Marcel was telling a story. He was no doubt expounding on his favorite topic — negative space, how what was not there was as important as what was there. The other woman listened with what looked like rapt attention.

The check came. Marcel in the restaurant and Emily on the street said, “We didn’t order this!” The other Emily laughed like it was funny. She produced a credit card, but Marcel wouldn’t hear of it; this was obvious in his wagging head, hand slicing through the air, no!

So there is a woman on earth he will pay for. Emily sniffed. This woman is nothing like me! I would never wear a band T-shirt on a date! Me , she reminded herself. This me. In front of her, the streetlight clicked to green. It hit her: Marcel was not having dinner with his Idea of Emily but the Emily he wished she was. His Ideal Emily.

Rain slipped off her umbrella and landed at her feet in large gasps. She envied her umbrella because it knew its job and because it felt no pain. Because it had never dated Marcel and because it didn’t have to go around being human, pricing produce, and feeling emotions. Because it had never fallen in love with the South.

Marcel was from Louisiana, so for four years Emily had been southern by association. She insisted on Lynchburg Lemonades. She scheduled interviews around the Gators. She championed gentility. Anyone at a dinner party who thought they could tell a joke making fun of the region encountered a faceful of Emily, quick and ferocious as a convert, as a woman who loved a man.

Emily now had no claim to the South. The region and its interests would proceed without her. Same went for Swiss cheese, drafting tables, being hypoglycemic, the movie Breakin’ and all of its sequels.

She looked back to the couple in time to see a picture she recognized — Marcel before a kiss. He straightened his shoulders and drummed his knees.

The real Emily’s breath halted in her throat. She reached for anything that would stop the moment, a button to summon the walk signal. She pushed and pushed.

Marcel leaned over the table to kiss the (walk!) woman who also leaned in and (walk!), before their lips met (walk! walk! walk!), pulled away.

“Ha,” he said. A word easily gleaned through glass.

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Tease.”

The Ideal Emily anchored her falling hair behind her ear again in, Emily had to admit, a charming way. This woman laughed with her whole body. She made funny faces. Here was a girl you nickname — a soft fruit or a petite flying insect.

The moment was over. Marcel and the woman stood and vanished into the restaurant.

How dare he , thought Emily, invent this dime-store version of me in a band T-shirt! Emboldened by misdirected anger the origin of which was muddy at best, Emily decided to cross the street and confront the couple.

Ironically, the light was red. She waited for the walk signal.

Marcel and the other woman reappeared, pushing through the front door of the restaurant. The rain had downgraded to a measly drizzle. Marcel held out his hand to test. Emily was halfway across the street. She was about to call out when the Ideal Emily jogged in place, yelled “Catch me if you can!” and took off.

Marcel took off after her.

“Ballstein,” Emily said. Since everyone was running, she ran too.

“Emily!” Marcel cried.

“Marcel!” Emily answered, but her voice was lost in the sound of a passing truck.

The Ideal Emily set a fast pace, legs pumping and toned, ponytail beating behind her. The air was thick. The real Emily struggled to breathe, run, and hold her umbrella at the same time. How was chain-smoking, donut-eating Marcel doing it? She could hear his phone clacking against his hip a block away.

As she ran, Emily wondered what it would be like to have a slim pair of scissors as legs. She thought: hummingbird, dragon-fly, peach, pear, mango.

The three-person chase moved down, then up the street.

Finally, simultaneous Don’t Walk lights. The Ideal Emily, the real Marcel, and the real Emily stopped on three different corners. Cars flew by. The real Emily, stooping to catch her breath, heard someone yell, “Buttercup!”

A block away, the idea of Marcel was waving the forgotten sleeve of daffodils and working himself up to a jog.

“I can’t wait until tomorrow!” he said. “I must know your opinions on jazz!”

“Double Ballstein,” Emily said.

All lights turned green. All parties ran.

Emily, now pursued by the Idea of Marcel, chased after the real Marcel chasing after the Ideal Emily.

“Emily!” cried Marcel.

“Marcel!” cried Emily.

“Coltrane!” cried the Idea of Marcel.

The only silent party was the Ideal Emily, jogging beautifully, breasts bouncing in a compelling way.

Wasp nest, horsefly, rotted, maggot-ridden banana.

The Idea of Marcel yelled, “Buttercup! I will catch you if it takes all night!”

Like most strong women, Emily longed for a man to chase after her, screaming epithets of love. However, the Idea of Marcel ran like a giraffe, and his words sounded like they had been translated into Japanese and back to English.

“Exhilarate!” he said. “Brilliant chase!”

Running, Emily rolled her eyes.

Ahead, holding the slim bar of a baby carriage, a mother waited to cross the street. The Ideal Emily ran past, cleanly. The mother pushed her carriage into the path of the real Marcel, who jockeyed around it, lost his footing, yelled, “Fuck, lady!” and kept running. The mother, disoriented, wheeled around into the face of the real Emily. Each dodged right, then left, then right before Emily was able to shake her. She called out apologies as she sprinted away. When he reached the woman, the Idea of Marcel halted, escorted mother and baby across the street, then double-ran to rejoin the pursuit.

“Children,” he cried. “Glorious safety!”

Finally, after reaching some personal landmark of fantastic, the Ideal Emily stopped, pivoted, and performed a pretty jog-in-place while Marcel caught up. A few moments later, Emily caught up, then the Idea of Marcel, who, misjudging his stopping time, hit Emily, who jostled the real Marcel, who looked up and with disbelief said, “Emily?”

The Idea stretched his right leg on a streetlight. “Capital night for a chase.”

“Who the hell is that?” Marcel said.