Stories from The Moon / Cuentos de la Luna

This morning, a fluttering of wings woke me up at 6:12 am. Has a dragonfly or bumblebee ever flown right past your ear? It’s happened to me, and I instinctively cover my ears. If my ears are safe, the whole of me is safe, too. I tried to cover my ears this morning but found my hands tangled in my bedsheets. I reached for my phone, thinking I’d mistakenly set up the vibration feature for my alarm, but I hadn’t. Naturally, I couldn’t fall back asleep and stood wide awake, immobilized to not wake up Kai. This is when I noticed the scratchy fabric of my comforter is anything but comforting. Its texture reminded me of calloused feet and wet medical casts when they’re just about to harden. Imagine that on your cheek first thing in the morning. My alarm went off at 7:35am, and I nudged Kai to ask him if he was ready to start his day. He closes his eyes and stays in bed while I roll up the shutters and head to the bathroom. 

The apartment I live in now has a good shower, but there’s one thing I don’t like--and it’s not this shower’s fault--I don’t like the seconds I stand there in front of splashing cold water before the water turns warm and then hot. I feel scared. I feel like the cold water is going to suck me in. The cold water and the loud splashing transports me to a waterfall, and I’ve read that whirlpools tend to form under waterfalls. That thought scares me. The empty, pulling hole of water that might drawn me every morning. In my old apartment, I hung plants in the bathroom because seeing plants, which reminds me of soil, safety, and solidity, makes me think I will get out of this shower and soon be dry and safe. My new bathroom is smaller, and I couldn’t hang my plants, so I settled for a shower curtain with images of eucalyptus. I shampoo my hair, condition it, and squeeze shower gel on my loofah, making sure I never close my eyes. I don’t trust water. I hear Kai making a nest with my pajama pants on the bathroom floor.

I breathe a little slower now, relief. I’m not alone in this water container called a tub. I talk to him ask him if he slept well. I tell him about the dreams I had last night. Toweling off, I sing to him with no particular melody. Out of the shower, I step on my hedgehog-shaped bathmat. It’s soft, welcoming, and a neutral shade of brown, which reminds me of earth, soil, a forest, and safety. Kai wags his tail, and I pick him up. This is our ritual. A big, towel-clad hug after surviving a shower.

I make a mental note to bring my now-empty old shampoo bottle to the recycling. I’ve been making this mental note for over two weeks now. I keep forgetting. (Sitting here at my favorite café watching Kai sleep on the chair beside me, I’ve realized I’ve forgotten again.) Putting on clothes in the winter is better than in the summer because layering feels good. It feels like adding toppings to your favorite ice cream. (Not that I’m particularly fond of ice cream.) When I hold out my second pair of leggings, I see that this one has feet, and I’m about to put it down and get a feet-free pair when I think to myself, come on. You can do this. Leggings with feet make me feel compressed, tight, concealed--basically trapped. Have you watched Peter Pan? Remember that scene when Peter Pan’s shadow is getting loose from his feet, and he asks Wendy to sew it back to his feet? That’s how I feel, except the exact opposite. I don’t want my shadow attached to myself; I want feet-free leggings, but I’m an adult and should be able to do this. (Writing this makes me wiggle my toes inside my rubber boots, and I can tell I’m beginning to feel that tightness in my feet I don’t like, but I’ll keep writing, hoping that the feeling goes away. Rubber. Rubber. Rubber.) 

Once I’m dressed, I carry Kai down the four flights of stairs. We stop on every floor to look through the big square window. In my head, I trace the contour of the window with my right index finger four times.  I pause there for less than a minute, enough time to say hello to the trees across the street. On another floor, I notice the brave plants surviving winter on the other building’s balconies. When we reach the second to last floor, I can hear birds, and I walk carefully down the stairs, excited at the possibility of seeing a chubby bird on our morning walk. 

Lately, Kai doesn’t like to be on a leash, so I let him roam around the bushes in front of our building. He looks at me whenever he is about to move further away. I say okay, and he walks forward. If I say nope, he stops there. We are a good system. After less than ten minutes, I ask him if he’s finished. He looks at me and starts heading to the entrance door. He’s finished. Back at the apartment, I walk to the kitchen and say good morning to my plants. I ask them if they’re happy. Green is happy, so they’re right. I want to drink water but can’t find my glass. There’s something about drinking from that glass that makes it better. I can't find it, so I reach for one of the other glasses in my cupboard. The rim is too big. The glass is too thick. I wonder why I bought these glasses. The vertical lines surrounding the glass are smooth from the outside, but when I wash them with a sponge, you can feel the ridges, and they make a slurping sound. I’m still thirsty but don’t like the glass, so I leave the kitchen thirsty. I wonder why that fluttering sensation woke me up. There are no bugs in my bedroom. 

I’m meeting with a friend this morning at one of my favorite cafés. I check the bus schedule for the fourth or fifth time since I woke up to ensure I’m on time. I ask Kai to get in his bag, grab my keys, my phone, and I’m off. On the bus I sit all the way to the front. I like sitting on buses, trains, cars, cable cars. I feel protected. I like the windshields and the windows. I like that feeling of being inside while seeing everything happening outside of the bus, outside of myself. It’s like a tour of human life. With my headphones on and Kai beside me, I feel unstoppable. I could drive on this bus for the entire day and have a perfectly good day. Today it’s raining--my type of weather. I feel like rain puts all of us under the same umbrella. I feel cozy, and I feel like smiling. So I do.

I don’t know if you were there, but if you’d seen this smiling woman with beige chunky headphones and a dog in a blue bag--that would’ve been me listening to my positive morning affirmations, watching drops accumulate on the window next to us. What a good day. I thank the bus driver before getting off at our stop. Walking to the tram station, I repeat Stop A, number 8, Brunnen in my head. Stop A, number 8, Brunnen. But then I see this man holding a magazine in each hand in front of my favorite bakery, and he’s being loud. I can hear him through my noise-canceling headphones. He smiles at us and I duck, but then I catch myself mid-movement and don’t duck entirely but just hold my head down and walk past him as quickly as I can.

I don’t like looking at men I don’t know in the eye, I don’t like when men I don’t know smile at me, I don’t like when people are loud on the street. We’re waiting for the little green figure to signal that we can cross the road when three people cross on the yellow light. I hold Kai closer to me. How can they risk their lives like that? 

On the green, we cross, and I repeat the tram information to myself, except this time I think Stop A, or was it B? Number 1, Brunnen. But it doesn’t seem right. I don’t remember. So, I have to look it up again. Number 8. I don’t know why I thought of Number 1. It could be because I’m not a fan of number 8. It tastes like fake grapes. The type of flavor they add to “grape gummies” is always a bit too deep compared to its natural grape counterpart.

Number 8 also reminds me of a girl I once knew. Nora, from Mexico City. I met her in the second grade. I don’t know when I stopped knowing her. She lived in my neighborhood in a house with a big agave plant at the entrance door. I remember wanting to bite it. Even now, I feel like biting it. Her house was painted rich orange, and the walls were porous and glossy.  My mother told me it was a “Mexican-style” home. 

Once, she invited me to have lunch with her family. So I went. I remember sitting at a round table (I like round tables) with her mom, father, and younger brother. Their housekeeper poured carrot soup into our bowls, and then they all added a scoop of white rice to their soup. Nora smiled at me and said I should try it. So I did. It was so good. Warm with extra warmth. Like a tight hug in a white turtleneck sweater. So good. Sitting there, I wanted to reach for another spoonful of rice, but nobody did, so I guessed the etiquette of carrot-rice soup was no seconds. After that, whenever Flor made carrot soup, I’d ask if she could make rice to go with it. My mother refused to try it. 

On the tram, a woman smiles at us. I smile back and then look away and pretend to be looking at the window next to me even though I’m just thinking about whether she’s still there and whether I should turn around and keep smiling, but I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to do. I believe smiles are like high-fives; you do it once, and then it’s over. No seconds on smiles, either. 

At the café, my friend says, “They don’t have your favorite,” and makes a sad face. For a second, I think, oh well, I won’t eat anything and just have a coffee, but then I think, come on. There must be something else. So I read the menu and see that “vegan berry pancakes” are crossed out with a black marker. I order avocado toast. I’ve been very into avocados for the past month. 

This is my favorite café because plants are everywhere and they’re very well kept. I like knowing that they’re loved. I like the floor-to-ceiling windows. I like the mismatched wooden chairs and the loooong rectangular tables. I like the black walls contrasting with the multiple shades of green from the plants. I also like that they light candles on every table and that the lighting is more orange than white. One of the best parts is that they often replay the same two playlists, which makes me feel calm because I know what’s coming next and what to expect. I like recognizing the chef in the kitchen and the friendly waitress who speaks English to me and Kai. I also like their big, handleless coffee mugs because they’re perfect to hold between my two hands. The absolute best part about this café is that they play bird sounds in the bathroom. It’s genius. I feel like someone designed this just for me. The birds make me feel calm and happy even when Kai can’t come inside the bathroom with me. Forest. Forest. Forest.

When my food arrives, there is at least one whole tomato sliced on top of my toast. No. No. No. It’s all I dislike about tomatoes: thick slices, big, protruding, yellow seeds, the red-transparent wobbly chunks. I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to waste food. I hold my knife and fork and tell myself that it’s healthy. The coldness on my tongue strikes. The gooey aftertaste clings to my gums.  As I chew, I run my right hand on Kai’s fur. Soft, warm, good. I swallow and sigh; it’s okay, I tell myself and Kai. We’ve got this.