How to Keep a Girl

That night, before our very first date, my mother sat me down in front of our CRT TV. She slapped its belly to force-start it and we draped ourselves over the smelly leather sofa; someone had spilled beer, and it was now a part of the couch’s DNA. We gorged on the fake kind of potato chips as she explained the physics of relationships, how straining it was to keep the flame of affection alight. She vomited her dating techniques, finger counting them until she passed ten. The TV died halfway through our show. I took notes of everything: I had just caught you; losing you was unthinkable. My parents divorced later that year.

*

The frills of your favorite dress stick out of the closet. Today is our anniversary. I don’t have to think about what I’ll wear–you’ve already chosen for me. You always do. I slip my bony limbs into the structured fabric and it’s a Halloween costume on me and very much not the haute couture look it had when you wore it last year.

*

We went to the movies that night, shared buttered popcorn, spilled diluted Sprite on our seats. The whole summer we embraced the scorching weather and soaked our skin under the sun in the water park, the beach, the municipal pool. You loved to drown yourself under the waves to scare me. We had lumpy tagliatelle in that family restaurant and you almost choked on a strand as you made fun of the chef. 

*

I take out the container of marinated meat from the fridge. It swims in a shallow pond of my secret barbecue sauce: gochujang, apple puree, dark soy sauce, sugar. Sweetness overtakes the spiciness, just how you like it. 

*

We grew into each other, unveiled the beautiful and the ugly. We had roles in our home: the cook, the cleaner, the movie chooser, the coffee maker. I took most of them but it was fine because I was more responsible anyway. Watching you cat-stretch on the couch after a heavy meal–it was all worth it.

*

The rice cooker brings to life a cup of basmati. I hear it humming over there. It will scream out in a dozen minutes so I have to be quick. It’s time to cook the meat. The grill pan is our friend. I fish it out of the cabinet, blast the fire on, whisper the lyrics to our song as I cook.

*

I ticked every case off the list I inherited from my mother: took you to new beaches, baked you focaccia on Friday nights, listened to you gossip about your new manager. I did everything to bring back the stains of smiling on your face. To have your waist inside my embrace. To wake up to your tickles at five AM because you loved the colors of dawn. 

*

I dust off the stainless steel cups you stole from the flea market last autumn. Salted caramel ice cream for dessert. I drown them in tap water. They’ve grown rust on their skin; no matter how hard I scrub, nothing comes off. But it’s okay: Rust is natural. It won’t hurt us tonight.

*

Thinking back, even with my hands around your neck, holding on to your every last breath, you didn’t look at me in return. Your eyes hid behind a wall of skin, cowardly as ever. My mother couldn’t help me, couldn’t save us, but she was right: keeping someone was harder than finding them.

*

Dinner is ready. I just need to have you. I fill myself up to the sound of an empty home. Now that you’re inside me, you will never leave.

Oumaima H. is a Moroccan writer and computer-science engineer based in France (and on the internet). Her writing has been nominated for Best Microfiction and can be found on The Razor, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere.

A Song for Oumaima