The Void

(Short Story)

We arrive early to the party and bump into a man with skulls on his scalp. Holly smiles to his face, but when we walk to the corner of the living room for drinks, she whispers, “I don’t trust him.”

She tells me she fought brain cancer and lost some of her eyesight. She holds her drink in one hand and waves the other back and forth as she discusses God, pain, and friends. She has too many expectations. She easily cries. She has a fear of being sick. “Things that almost kill you don’t make you stronger. They make you more scared every time you start to feel an ounce of that terrible feeling again,” she says.

I listen as she talks nonstop. My mind wanders. I forget if I turned off the stove before I left home. The man with head tattoos is a breath away from the woman he’s backed against the wall. She seems uncomfortable. There aren’t enough lights here. The alcohol’s strong but not strong enough.

“And that’s why I don’t talk to him anymore,” Holly says. “How many times should I keep chasing a guy who doesn’t give me anything in return? He won’t ever find someone like me though.”

“Yes, it’s not good,” I reply.

She stares at me. I worry she knows I’m paying half attention, but it doesn’t take long for her to start back up again.

“I’m glad I met you at the open mic. Most of the people there are difficult to get along with,” she says.

I don’t ask why. Neither do I admit one of them told me the same about her.

The night grows darker and more people arrive. I don’t know them. They’re similar in that they laugh louder than they need to and become enamored with whoever’s selling false promises.

“So what do you like to do?” Holly asks.

“Cook and watch movies.”

“I don’t really watch movies because I don’t have the patience. Cooking is a little annoying too.”

“I get that.”

“Does your boyfriend ever cook for you?”

“I don’t have one,” I reply.

“I thought you were seeing that short guy that always comes with you to the open mic.”

“He’s just my friend. We’ve known each other since high school.”

“What’s his name?”

“David.”

“I knew a David.” She begins to reminisce. She was only nineteen when she met him at church. He led her to the front pew, brought her some hot tea, and spoke about his love for Jesus and his recent celibacy. Soon they found themselves making love in an empty church closet. Mirrors fascinated him. He liked to watch how he glided inside her, opening her to every part of him that he’d hid from women for years. He was compassionate and made her feel safe. But David was eighteen years older. There was no future. Just endless lovemaking, praying, and living in the moment.

She asks me about my David. I tell her he’s funny and sarcastic. She wants me to say more. I tell her he has a good heart. This isn’t enough for her. She needs me to share his dreams, faults, and secrets so that she can be amused, say all men are the same, and still try to persuade me to date him.

I don’t fall into her trap.

Toward the end of the night, people drift out the door the same way they came in. Empty bottles and plastic cups decorate the table and overfill the trash can. Whoever’s left fears going home alone. This scene is familiar.

Holly and I walk to her car. She lights a cigarette and mentions she’s an occasional smoker.

“I love and hate the smell,” she says.

She offers me one. I hold it to remember the texture and hand it back.

“Which eye can you not see out of?” I ask.

She points to her right eye. “I wish it had been my left.”

“Why?”

“My right eye’s the better eye. Well, it used to be,” she says. “Do you always wear glasses?”

“I don’t like contacts.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Sticking something in your eye and pulling it back out.”

I nod.

She finishes her smoke. “We should hang out again sometime.”

“Yes,” I respond and head to my car.

At home, my roommate’s watching her usual crime documentaries. This one’s about a man who killed and buried ten young girls, two of whom were the daughters of his neighbor. No one could believe it because he didn’t look the part. He was well mannered and wore suits.

“Don’t you get tired of watching this stuff?” I ask Hannah as I sit next to her on the couch.

“Nope. Each one gets better and better,” she says and lowers the volume. “How was the party? ”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“How’s the girl you met?”

“She’s a talker.”

Hannah laughs. “So the opposite of you. It’s perfect.”

“I don’t think I want to hang out with her again.”

“You never want to hang out with anyone twice.”

“I hang out with you a lot.”

“That’s because we live together. We kind of have to.”

“A lot of roommates don’t spend time together.”

She scoots closer and pulls her knees up. “Do you think you’ve fully grieved?”

“I don’t know,” I respond.

My roommate holds me.

They say it only takes a few seconds to know if you’ll get along with someone. Olivia and I met in second grade. We always sat next to each other and shared snacks. She’d hand me a white and blue cheese that resembled rolled bubblegum, and I’d give her my carrots because she loved them. We had a teacher who appeared too friendly in front of parents and screamed at students for blowing their noses in class. Whenever she yelled, Olivia would hold my hand under the desk.

We had the same classes till high school and then became college roommates sharing makeup, clothes, heartache, and answers to tests. If there was something deep within me that I couldn’t express to my mother, I knew I could to her. She was my twin with darker hair and paler skin. A higher pitched voice, a smaller nose. A more approachable, smarter, and warmer version of me.

It was five days before my birthday when I received the call.

When you’re told someone’s died, you freeze. A part of you can’t understand what’s happened. The other part pushes you to process and accept this truth, this reality you’ll carry during every gathering, celebration, and moment of isolation. Someone you loved for two decades is permanently missing. Someone you became too attached to has disconnected from you. The broken wires are visible. You hold them in your hands and introduce yourself to others with them.

It’s me. I’m sad. Nice to meet you. It’s me. I keep to myself. Would you like to chat some time? It’s me. I can’t find anyone to replace my best friend. Do you want to try? It’s me again. I change my mind. I want to be alone.

In the morning, I receive a text from Holly. She wants to meet up for coffee. I search for more stores to see if they have the same cheese Olivia used to give me. I call one. They ask if I’m talking about blue cheese. I try to explain it’s not, that it just has a white and blue color. They tell me they don’t have it and again mention it’s probably some kind of blue cheese. I call another. They’ve never heard of such a thing. I try five more food markets. Nothing.

I cross out store names and retrace lines till the paper rips. I cry.

Holly messages again. I don’t want to speak to anyone, and I don’t want to sit with myself. I text her I’ll meet her. I play out how the conversation will begin and end. She’ll talk more than I’ll listen. We’ll part ways knowing less about each other than we first did. Yet somehow, I’ll still seek meaning in the void.