Enjoy Being Human

L. N. Holmes

All the Waves Resound

Miriam insists you go to a department store to purchase a dress for your date. She lowers the sun visor and flips open the cover. A thin layer of dust coats the vanity mirror and she wipes at it with her fingers, grunting disapprovingly at your slovenliness. You try to watch the traffic surrounding your Chevy Cruze instead of the tip of the gloss wand gliding across her lips.

She screws on the cap of the tube and then releases the lip gloss into the depths of her purse, which rests between her feet. She fishes out her mascara next. "What kind of dress do you want to wear? Short and sexy? Maybe black?"

"I like a dress with pants," you say.

Miriam sighs dramatically, an action made comical by her widened eyes and darkened lashes. "That's not a dress."

Her phone vibrates in her lap. She quickly covers it with her free hand. You notice a small cut below her ear, half-hidden by tendrils of her hair, and wonder how she received the wound.

A dark thought occurs to you. "Why weren't you ready this morning? You told me to come at nine—"

"I overslept. I told you."

"—and then you wouldn't let me come upstairs."

"My apartment is a mess."

"When has that ever bothered me?"

"It's really bad."

You don't believe her.

For two years now you pretended that a man wouldn't come between you and this attractive twenty-two-year-old woman. You pretended that, like you, she finds satisfaction in new museum exhibits and discussions of intense science fiction novels. Since the day you met her in a literature course you took on a whim at the University of Toledo, you've yearned for her to remain yours and yours alone.

Now, you suspect Miriam has found someone else.

"The guy that contacted you on PlentyofFish sounded really nice," Miriam says, referring to the dating site she insisted you join. She finishes her makeup application, her Andromeda-like beauty effectively exaggerated.

Unable to respond, you take the exit that leads to the Franklin Mall. The streets are clogged with brightly colored cars, grouped together by buoyed traffic lights. The sky brightens to a sunlit blue, frothy with cirrus clouds. The car feels stuffy, lacking oxygen, and you turn on the AC.

You turn off of the main streets and park near the east side of Franklin Mall. Your car fits easily between the yellow prongs of your parking spot. Inside the mall, Miriam chatters about the stores she thinks you should explore first. Headless mannequins wearing coral pink sweaters observe your progress behind thick display windows, which are smudged with the slime of countless fingers. Teenagers in twos and threes, with watching eyes, divide and slip past. Even with the advantage of youth, Miriam outshines their predatory beauty.

Somewhere along the way you have taken a wrong turn and end up in front of a Dick's and beside the Forever 21 store that used to be a Borders. Suddenly you are tired and want to go home.

"I think Macy's is the other way," she says.

"I have dresses at home, too," you say.

"Don't be difficult. Your dresses make you look like a rectangle."

In Macy's, at last, Miriam guides you to the women's clothing section. You realize, too late, that you have forgotten to shave your legs. You follow Miriam through clusters of dresses, dragging your fingers along each chiffon and satin creation, the fabric swaying on the hangers like cattails in a breeze.

Miriam picks out a few dresses for you—one pink, one red, one blue. They are all short with revealing necklines. You're worried they are at least one size too small. She hands them to you and you notice a small bruise on her wrist. Before you can ask her about it, she waves you away, and you obediently walk toward the dressing room. You hope this part will be over soon, so you can go back to Miriam's apartment and binge watch melodramatic westerns.

Inside the changing stall, the first dress you try on is the blue one and it doesn't make it past your hips. You hear Miriam's phone ring, the shrill tone of her "Hello?" You worry it is the man she's lying to you about. You need to get out of this stall and so you try to wriggle free of your dress. The fabric entangles you like the ropes of a net.

Miriam's voice projecting through the stall door startles you. "I'm sorry to do this but something's come up and I have to leave. Do you think you can find a dress on your own?"

You trip and slam against the wall, ripping the fabric.

"You okay in there? Hey look, I really have to go, my ride is waiting on me. Let me know how your date goes, okay?"

"Wait, let me get out of this dress, I'll walk you out."

"No," she says. "That's alright."

You wrestle with the dress, finally falling out of it and onto the floor like a landed catfish. You quickly change into your jeans and sweatshirt and exit the stall. Miriam has already left.




The next day you walk with your father on the shore of Lake Erie, in East Harbor State Park, your feet traversing the hard-packed sand near the waves. Above, clouds cast their shadows, darkening the water. Your phone buzzes in your pocket with a text from Miriam, but out of respect for your father, reluctantly, you ignore it. Ring-billed gulls, their grayscale plumage providing minimal variation to the landscape, startle at your approach and erupt into flight. The roiling waves drown out their screeching complaints.

The two of you do not talk until you leave the water's side and climb the bank to an abandoned picnic table area, where the sand ends and dormant grass begins. Your father sits on the nearest bench. He massages the muscle near his kneecap between his thumb and forefinger. You remain standing. There is a picnic table near the bench, and you lean against the tabletop. You are careful to position your hands so that your fingers do not brush the bird droppings behind you.

"I'm leaving your mother," he says.

You lift a hand from the surface of the table to pick at a hanging thread on the front of your blouse. "You're not leaving her."

At thirty, you've grown tired of this routine. When you were a child, you could predict the walks on the beach with your father by the frequency of the fights he had with your mother. It took only two repetitions of this charade to know that the threat of divorce was a bluff. Your father's nickname for your mother is schatzi and treasures aren't carelessly discarded.

As an adult, your parents call you, beg you to set aside your lab work to mend their petty squabbles. Your sister and brother are too busy with their own lives to play peacekeepers. It falls to the eldest to maintain the dynamics of the family and you are a responsible daughter.

The events happen in the same order. The big fight—the tipping point, as you secretly refer to it—and then your mother calls your workplace the morning after, explaining her version of events. The lab assistant announces that you have a call waiting. You have to be careful to replace whatever vial of blood you're holding back into the test tube before you yield to the urge to throw it. Afterward, you don't wait for your dad to call you, you call him. Greetings are unnecessary. He tells you a time and a day and you drive the hour from Toledo to East Harbor. Why you continue to do this is unclear even to you.

Today's overcast sky does nothing to improve your growing irritation. Your father leans forward on the bench, his elbows balancing on his knees, his cheeks cupped in his palms. He reminds you of a pouting teenager. You quell the urge to reprimand him, and your mother, for their behavior. Despite your age, you are still the child in this situation, not the parent.

"I don't know how people get through their life without the aid of alcohol and drugs," your father says. He grins at you, drums his fingers against his cheekbones, pauses his counterargument. This man, who has been sober since the day of his birth, does not fool you. He wouldn't touch a beer bottle with the short edge of a yardstick.

You pull your jacket tighter around your chest when a northeast wind blows inland to chill you. "What did you fight about?"

"The neighbors," he says.

"Again?"

Your father suddenly looks exhausted. You have not seen this look since the toxic algae bloom contaminated Toledo's tap water in 2014 and he hauled gallons and gallons of store-bought spring water to your house. The green sludge layered on top of the lake back then reminded you of the slime Nickelodeon dumped on Figure It Out game show contestants.

"Your mother's always inviting people over to the house," he says. "I don't want to deal with more people when I get off work. I want peace and quiet."

"She's lonely all day, without you," you say.

Your answer sounds like all of the previous answers: repetitive, predictable, and transparent flattery. The words are stored, waiting, like an ache in your chest. Sometimes you wonder if your father needs affirmation that he is a good man. Sometimes you wonder if you'll receive that same affirmation from someone, someday. You place your hands back on the tabletop behind you and cringe when you feel crusted bird feces crumble under the pressure of your fingers.

"You live alone," my father suggests. "Is it so bad?"

No, you think, decisively.

Your thoughts wander automatically to Miriam's text.

"I think you're right though, as usual," your father says, disrupting your thoughts of Miriam. He stands, his joints popping and cracking like a tree growing upward at an accelerated rate. He crowns at six foot, three inches. You've always looked more like your mother, with your short stature and falcon eyes.

He says, "I suppose I can't just give up on the old girl now."

You're surprised how quickly your father is persuaded. Usually, this process lasts roughly two hours. You ask, "Are you feeling alright?"

Your father looks at you with an expression of alarm. "Of course. It's just your mother and I are getting too old for this."

The two of you are silent for a moment. The sun breaks through the clouds. He smiles at you and says he's going to leave now. When he's gone, you replace your father on the bench, fishing your cell phone from your pocket. The sun hides its face. You are disappointed when Miriam's text reminds you about your date tomorrow night.




At the local Red Robin, wearing a pants suit, you explain to your PlentyOfFish date that you often handle bad blood. Bradley, your date, folds and unfolds his paper napkin, glancing toward the kitchen. The frown has not left his sallow face since you greeted him at the door. You're guessing by his skin that he has jaundice, likely caused by alcoholism. You'd know for sure if you tested his blood.

You ordered thirty minutes ago but the cook is behind. Because Miriam asked you to, you're trying to be patient—with Bradley, not the cook. Still, you do not see the point in continuing the conversation about your job. Bradley guzzles the contents of his pint, providing further evidence for your alcoholism hypothesis. You glance past Bradley's balding head to the muscular waiter lifting a tub of ice up onto his shoulder. He catches you staring and winks. You offer him a smirk. You're too old to blush.

The waitress returns. Tendrils of brown hair have escaped the lime green barrettes pinning back her bangs. "I'm sorry for your wait. My boss told me to offer you some free cheese sticks."

"We don't want them," Bradley says, speaking for both of you. "I'll take a free beer, though."

You raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me," you say. You squirm free of the tight booth, causing the waitress to retreat a few steps. "I'm going to use the restroom."

"Um," the waitress says. "I'll ask about the beer."

The waitress leaves and you walk briskly toward the restroom. You notice there is a back door to the restaurant, leading out to the parking lot. This date is doomed anyway; the man is a drunk. You want to leave. You test the door, hoping it's not connected to an alarm. It yields, swinging outward, without giving away your intention to escape.

You're tempted to walk past the window, press your nose against the glass so that Bradley will know you're leaving. You want to punish him for speaking for you without asking your opinion. Miriam would say, "They're just cheese sticks, calm down!" The cheese sticks aren't the point.

You retrieve your cell phone from your back pocket. The screen lights up and your anger ebbs. You walk around the back of the restaurant where there are few windows. Miriam will be excited to hear about how awful Bradley is. You will tell her he has confirmed your suspicions about men: that they are disconnected, selfish, unable to meet a woman's needs. You will not tell her that you prefer to be alone.

The phone cheeps as you type a text message to Miriam.

My date was terrible. I've got strawberry ice cream at my place. Want to come over?

You wait fifteen minutes but there is no response. The air holds a bitter moisture. You retreat to your car, the sounds of the city muffled within. Another fifteen minutes pass and you catch a glimpse of Bradley getting into his truck on the far side of the parking lot. You watch him back out, cringing when he narrowly avoids a collision with another car. Despite disliking him, you hope he makes it home safe and doesn't kill anyone on the way. You think about reporting him. You check your phone. Miriam still hasn't texted you. Finally, you decide to leave.




The following morning, you park your car on Miriam's street. You don't get out. Raindrops plop onto the windshield, dribbling down the glass. You've thought of texting her, of asking her if she's dating anyone, but part of you doesn't trust her to tell you the truth.

The curtains are tied back from covering the windows, but you can still see very little of Miriam's third-floor apartment. You wonder if you should go up, pay her a surprise visit, catch the prick in his underwear. Instead, you turn on your windshield wipers.

Then there is movement behind the window and Miriam appears. Her eyes look puffy as if she's just woken up. You suddenly feel guilty for being here, for spying on her. Then she looks over her shoulder as if someone inside the apartment has called her name.

Another woman appears at her window on the second floor. She spots you immediately. Her expression becomes wary. You put the car in drive, not caring if this makes you seem suspicious and speed off.




Your mother is waiting for you outside of Pathos Laboratories a few days after your disastrous date. A few of your coworkers wave goodbye and shuffle off to their cars. The gray of the asphalt parking lot matches the sky; the horizon is gone and the world seems seamless.

"How was your day?" she asks. Her falcon-like eyes examine you. She wears a dress that makes her look like a rectangle.

"Monotonous," you say. "Is everything okay? Why are you here? You usually call."

"I thought maybe you'd like to eat dinner together?"

You agree. Your mother drives you to Freshwater Pearl, a fancy bistro overlooking Maumee Bay. You're wondering how both of you are going to afford this. A host seats you by the picture windows. Your waiter brings menus, offers ideas for wine pairings, and then leaves you both to decide. Outside, far off on the lake, a fishing boat sails toward the shore.

"How's Miriam doing?" your mother asks. She rearranges her silverware on the table, stares out at the fishing boat.

Compulsively you check your phone, but there is still no text message from Miriam. She hasn't contacted you since the walk by the shore with your father. "I haven't heard from her in a couple of days."

"Really?" your mother asks, shifting her focus to you. "You were inseparable there, for a while."

In the far corner of the restaurant, a rigid young man sits at a piano and begins to play a classical number you recognize but can't name.

"Do you remember when Miriam brought me tulips for Mother's Day? She's such a sweet girl."

You do remember. Miriam dragged you to a local flower shop because you'd forgotten it was Mother's Day. She wore a pale yellow dress that did not make her body look like a rectangle. Her tight brown curls grazed the soft mounds of her breasts. Even in the fluorescent lighting of the shop, she glowed with divine beauty.

You remember making the mistake of asking about her mother.

"I don't have one," she said. "Or at least, not one that wants me."

Later, a few hours after your mother told you how much she loved you, you sat alone in your apartment, in front of your laptop, searching for any trace of Miriam's past. Her last name, Smith, produced many search engine results to sort through. You checked photographic images, public records, and news stories. It took about an hour to find an article that caught your eye. By the date, you assumed it was Miriam's mother: a woman who had served about half of her jail sentence for child endangerment.

Your mother tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Your father's never bought me flowers."

The waiter takes your order and leaves again.

"How are you and dad doing?" you ask, checking your phone once more.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, dear."

You look up from your phone.

"Did you know I wanted to work on a fishing boat, like my father?" She presses her fingertips against the window. "Then I married your father and got pregnant."

"Mom," you say.

"I'm leaving him," she says.

It has never been your mother; she's never been the one to want to leave. You've always had to convince your father to stay. You are taken off guard.

"We're not happy and haven't been for some time," she says. "We haven't told your brother and sister anything yet. You're all adults now. We wanted to wait until you were settled into your own lives."

You are not relieved like you would have expected. She is too prepared for flight. There is an uneasiness settling in your chest, so sharp it restricts your lungs. Suddenly, you are a child again, taking your first walk by the shore with your father, ready to lose your faith in family, in love.

Your phone lights up. It's Miriam.

Come over, if you can?

"Mom, can you take me back to my car?"

Your mother fishes out some folded bills from her purse. She places it on the table and you hope it is enough to cover the price of the food.

"Let's go," she says.




The bruise and the shallow cuts around her eye are the first things you notice. You reach out your hand but Miriam swats it away and then apologizes.

"Where is he?"

"Gone," she says, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and shame. "I told him it's over."

She steps back and allows you to enter the apartment. Inside, the cases for Miriam's Blu-ray westerns spread out across the floor like a wave. Glass shards, lampshades, and tangled electrical wires are scattered in mussy clumps. The coffee table, flipped, lies like a raft amid the flotsam.

You head to her bedroom. "Did you call the police?"

"No," she says. "It's over with."

The bedroom, thankfully, appears to be normal. You retrieve the duffle bag from under her queen bed. You gather dresses and blouses from her closet, underclothes from her dresser drawers. You stuff them into the duffle bag.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"I'm taking you home." Little room remains for shoes or toiletries, so you remove the clothes from the duffle bag and roll each item like a scroll. "He could come back," you add.

"I have a suitcase."

You turn because she laughs. At first, you think she is making fun of you. But then you see her gingerly touching her face. She grimaces. "It hurts to cry."

"I'm sorry." This is not an adequate response. You try to think of something more appropriate to say, but her suffering is your suffering, and you can think of nothing.

Miriam retrieves a suitcase from the hallway closet and collects the additional things she needs. Side-by-side the two of you pack her things as if she is merely taking a vacation. When her hand brushes yours, and she apologizes, you have the urge to embrace her, but resist it.

You take her back to your apartment. Too late you remember the dishes you left unwashed in the sink and the carpet that needs a thorough sweep. You worry Miriam will be disgusted. She says nothing about it and you worry even more.

Tengo and Edamame forsake their hiding spots to observe your return. Their sleek black bodies slink toward Miriam's suitcase, their curiosity piqued. Miriam squats and offers them a hand. Both cats sniff her fingers before rubbing their foreheads against them.

You leave Miriam to the cats and take her suitcase to your bedroom. You will sleep on the couch. Quickly, you make your bed and throw your dirty clothes in the empty hamper. Fur and dust rise from the floor to form an alarming haze. With Miriam still distracted by the cats, you run into the hallway and retrieve the duster, broom, and dustpan from the closet. Back in the bedroom, your dresser is the first target, but it is cluttered with old mail, greeting cards from Miriam, and tiny glass fish figurines. You debate whether to sweep all of these things into the open top drawer and shut it or dust over everything as is. Miriam catches you mid-thought.

"Don't clean anything for me," she says. "It's enough, what you've done."

You hide the duster behind your back like a child. She grins at you and then winces. You're alarmed how it hurts her to smile. She places her suitcase beside the dresser. The broom leans against the hamper and the dustpan sits flat on the floor beside it. Miriam takes them and says, "Actually, let's both clean."

This sounds more like the Miriam you know and the gloom lifts. Together you clean the room. The stirred-up debris makes you sneeze, alarming the cats peeking around the doorframe, who dart off. It surprises you how fast the work is finished with two people.

"Thanks for your help," you say, sheepishly. "You can sleep in my bed. I'll buy an air mattress tomorrow."

Miriam pulls you into a hug. Conflicting feelings of panic and relaxation, glee and sadness, pool inside you. You stroke her hair, hoping it's not too much.

She whispers into your shoulder, "Thank you for letting me stay." She pauses, then says, "You're a good person."

You rest your chin on top of her head. "I don't mind if you stay forever."

When she pulls away from you then, clears her throat, you feel that familiar tightness in your chest. You wonder if this is how your mother felt with your father: always unsure, always wondering if the person you love was going to be there when you woke up.

"I'll be out of your hair soon, don't worry." She points to the bed. "I'm going to get some rest. Let's talk tomorrow."

She wants you to leave, you can tell, so you do. You linger a moment outside the closed bedroom door. You hear her soft footfalls inside the room, then the soft metallic click of the lock.

Later, as Miriam rests, you gaze out of your living room window toward Lake Erie. You try not to think of tomorrow, of the inevitable separation from Miriam, of your need to accept it. Outside, the warm glow of the city lights ends at the dark edge of the water. Inside your apartment, behind the glass, you swear you can hear the faint roar of the waves.


About L. N. Holmes

Contributor headshot, L. N. Holmes;

L. N. Holmes is the author of the micro-chapbook, Space, Collisions (Ghost City Press). Her fiction has appeared in or is forthcoming from F(r)iction, Newfound, Vestal Review, Crack the Spine, Rhythm & Bones, and other magazines and journals. Her story, "Pheonix Fire Fight," won the Apparition Lit April Flash Fiction Contest. You can learn more about her at lnholmeswriter.wordpress.com.

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