Girl Problems
By Adelina Sarkisyan
It was 3 o’clock in the morning when Cleo decided to make a man. She’d been dreaming, of course. The dream was a dream she’d dreamed many nights before. In fact, she’d been dreaming this particular dream for over a year.
This is the dream:
A garden, and in the garden, an anti-funeral, as in, what once wasn’t, was again. The dream moves in reverse, nighttime drenched in sun. As Cleo walks toward the plot of soil, her knees bend backward and she frowns a very wide smile. Even her hair, which normally grows down to her waist, rises straight up, as if some unknown hand is holding on, dangling her from the sky. She’s another animal entirely and she knows where he lies. She can smell his bones forming. It’s time, someone says. Time for what? The bones the bones. The hair the hair. The eyes the eyes. The teeth the teeth. Come. Come here. Say it. Say it and undress. She’s naked, lying next to the plot of soil, laughing. They surround her, the anti-mourners, dig their hands into the soil. Say it say it say. But she doesn’t know what to say. She’s forgotten it all. She frowns her very wide smile and cries.
When she woke up that morning, the decision slowly solidified, like eyes adjusting to the dark. Yes, Cleo thought. Yes, of course. The moon was yellow in the dark sky, unaware of her and her girl problems. That’s what her sister, Petra, called them—girl problems—even though she hadn’t been a girl for years. When the dream first began to plague her, over a year ago, she would call Petra in the morning, who would pick up only half the time, then only pretend to listen. Now her dreams were resigned to dream journals, hundreds of them piled on top of each other under the bed, like knives.
Women don’t dream about love spells, they go out into the world, grow up, and get married. That’s what her sister did and she’d been married for ten years. She’d never met her sister’s husband but she’d heard he was very nice. Every year on their anniversary, they camped up in the mountains, grilled fish, and watched the fog roll in and out. Her sister hated camping. Every year on their anniversary, she called Cleo to say goodbye, that they were leaving and she wouldn’t hear from her for a few days. But you hate camping, Cleo would say. That’s what women do. It is? It’s like you’re an animal, for god’s sake.
She’d imagine her sister in the forest, cold and unnerved and in love. She’d imagine the giant trees whose limbs had grown so long, they interlaced and formed one singular unit, one giant tree. She’d imagine her sister’s husband, hands bloodied, calling out a bit further. There would be a lake. Red flowers. A fire that took an hour to light because he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. Her sister sitting, wondering, unraveling. Doing what women do. When the sun peaked, they would undress each other and make love, then walk barefoot into the lake and disappear.
Cleo didn’t have a husband but she had other problems. They started a little over a year ago, right after the end of a one-year relationship with a man who couldn’t cry. I just can’t cry, he’d said one night, halfway through the closing credits of Casablanca. What’s the big deal anyway? Her face, tear-stained and sticky, stared up at him, wondering why he couldn’t feel what she was feeling, and what it meant. What kind of person doesn’t cry? she’d asked him as they lay in his bed that night, entangled in each other. He’d shrugged. The kind of person she would eventually love.
She, on the other hand, was always crying, partly because she was unhappy and partly because she felt she had to make up for his lack. He couldn’t feel, so she would have to feel everything. Nature demanded a balance, no matter how perverse. And she was afraid. For one year she was afraid, and for one year she wondered what it would take to make him cry. What if I poked you in the eye? You wouldn’t. What if I died? Everyone dies. What if you were kidnapped? I’d hope you’d pay the ransom. What if I tell you I don’t love you anymore? Hasta la vista, baby.
When they broke up, it was a very ordinary day. In the morning, they were together, and in the evening, they weren't. The gods didn’t recoil in anger. Nature went on, as always. The balance, unfettered. And she felt robbed.
He didn’t even take you camping, her sister said when she told her the news. What kind of boyfriend is that?
For a year the dream came and for a year Cleo cried. I think I’m crying his tears, she’d told Petra. They taste just like him. Petra had pretended to listen. Tsk, tsk, tsk, she’d said, and hung up the phone. Cleo knew the dream wouldn’t go away. It was a message: fantasy takes the form of dreams, she remembered reading once. What was it she wanted? For a year the dream came and for a year Cleo wondered.
When she woke up that particular morning, the moon was yellow in the dark sky, unaware of her and her girl problems. She’d been dreaming, of course, but she hadn’t forgotten it all. Yes, Cleo thought. Yes, of course. In the dark, all gods look the same, even the face of love.
So, at 3 o’clock in the morning on an ordinary day, Cleo decided to make a man. And kill him. She sat up in bed and stared into the black of night, the cool wind trickling in through the window and laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt joy. But she laughed. She laughed until her knees bent backward and she frowned a very wide smile.
THE END
Author Bio: Adelina Sarkisyan is an Armenian-American writer and editor based in Los Angeles. She is the Poetry Editor for Longleaf Review. In her past life, she was a therapist. Follow her ever-changing moods on Instagram @adelinasarkisyan and Twitter @etherealina. Read her work at adelinasarkisyan.com.