she wakes up, remembers mark's texts from last night.
her computer phone vibrates once and then twice. moiji sighs and turns her head, stares at her iPhone. downstairs byron watches TV and says what moiji hears to be the n-word over and over again, as if under his breath, loud in the hush not of a whisper, not of a mutter. she looks at her iPhone, the time and date and pixelated wallpaper flashing her a signal, intercepting thoughts of who byron could be calling a nigger.
it is trayvon martin; it is tiger woods in the british open.
it is almost noon, the jackhammers pound the untilled ground in downtown berkeley, christening new ground for the university. it is past 11:30, byron sits in front of the television after his four-mile walk down pioneer road to the harbor to the high school.
moiji texts crystal back, not mark. she responds that Yes, she got her fourth strike at work. Yes, she forgot to give back a customer their change for the third time. Yes, smoke that herb, meditate that ocean, feng-shui that room. Yes, leave and do nothing for many days at a time in your mother’s house and feel underworked and feel underwhelmed and feel afraid of what a man who mutters the n-word to himself and the television is capable of not doing after all.
byron's custom made frame of a georgia o’keeffe print hangs on the wall of her mother's guest room. This room is yours, she tells moiji every night as if to tuck her in like she maybe always wanted to.
she gets no peace; she forgets she gets no peace.
moiji wonders if happiness is having peace of mind, a piece of mind. she knows these are not mutually exclusive, and imagines a venn diagram.
it is cold outside the blankets and duvet; it is not a pillow filled with plucked feathers.
moiji gets up at noon, hears byron mutter the n-word once and then twice.
two life-sized red and velvet pillows sit at the foot of the queen-sized bed, a foot away from the closet, and three feet diagonal to the door, ajar; the voice of president barack obama.
she texts mark an emoji sticking its tongue out. two side tables balance the bed, a stereo as the base of her books, a lamp magnifying habits that years make.
mark replies with an emoji whistling a red heart, reminding her to take a shower. the shower smell reminds her of a new car, like a bleached hotel bathtub, drained of filth and fatigue, a baby fresh smell light and awash with ammonia.
it is the middle of july, warm enough to leave her collarbone bare.
