Bex and Berry

I wake up to Bex's phone speaker blaring, her mother chastising her about running up the AMEX. It's 7 AM; she's been up for at least an hour. The apartment stinks of incense and cigarettes, with a touch of Bex's signature cheap cherry perfume. I won't miss the assault on my olfactory every morning, that's for sure.

Bex is dancing, hands in the air, hips swaying, head nodding along as her mom persists, "$150 at Blue Bottle, really, Rebecca? And what about this, $500 at Bloom's? I just don't get it…"

I make my way to the kitchen, lighting up the teapot, remembering when Bex berated me when we first became roommates about warming up my water in the microwave.

Bex places her phone on mute and makes her way, twirling, towards my spot in the kitchen. Her mom continues recounting the dollar amounts, trailing in the background.

"…and $345 for what…What is that, Henry? Look — Joe's Gym? No, the one below it…ah, $345 for HAIR, Rebecca?"

"Today's the day," Bex says over the muffled sound of the phone, her smile stretching her cheeks but not meeting her eyes.

I'm going to miss her. Of course. But I know I've become reliant on her. She's held my hand through everything since I moved to the city. She speaks up for me. She speaks for me, sometimes. She makes my decisions. I've become an extension of Bex as if her body wasn't enough to hold just one of her; she needed me as a vessel to live the rest of herself through. There's so much of her; it's like she's bursting at the seams to get out. She was consuming my entire being.

I always knew this but never addressed it because I had grown comfortable with how I was living. Since I met her, things have been working out for me. Now I had friends, now I had a job, now I had a home.

Except, it wasn't anything I actually wanted. As I sat in my office at the firm one late night and shut my laptop, I realized I didn't recognize myself in the darkening reflection of the window. I didn't want any of this. The guy I was dating, Bex pushed me into dating. The job I took was my last choice, but she convinced me it was everything she'd ever dreamed of and I'd be a fool to let it go. The way I dressed--I just didn't recognize myself. It's as if I didn't know who I was after college, and she came right along to pick up my pieces--tell me who to be.

I was living Bex's life, or at least the life she saw for me; the extension of herself.

As indecisive as I am, I am also impulsive. If I don't decide something fast enough, Bex will decide. If she doesn't, then I will make a rash decision. Sometimes they're not always the best decisions, either, and sometimes they make no sense. But, every time I make my impulsive decisions, I feel a strong sense of accomplishment.

I decided this, I said to myself once, as I dyed my hair lavender. Me.

—

Bex is a tried and true hedonist. Her mom would say: "Twenty-five years old, and real life hasn't hit her yet." Maybe it never will. Does it have to? She basks in all forms of pleasure and doesn't make any apologies for it, either. "If I'm not enjoying myself for even a minute, in whatever it is I'm doing, then I'm leaving. Done."

I recall one instance where we got dressed up to go to a party uptown. We had been hyping ourselves up for it the entire week and even went shopping for brand new outfits. Dressed in our matching lime green dresses — which I now admit was a severe fashion faux pax — and rhinestone platform heels, we headed out to Ruth's penthouse, a guy we met at an art exhibit in the middle of winter.

We split as soon as we entered, as we do, and I made my way near the drinks, where I accepted an apple martini from a boy in a South Park T-shirt and checkered pants.

As I stood in my corner, I caught Bex standing in the middle of the room. She didn't care to ever be a fly on the wall like I preferred. She slowly scanned the room. Ruth switched the song, a girl lightly bumped into Bex, and a lightbulb directly above her flickered. She looked up at the light, then slowly back down until her eyes found mine.

Time to leave.

—

"Can't believe you're leaving 10,000 miles to find yourself," Bex says, using air quotes to emphasize 'find.' I told her my plan to leave three months ago, during a trip of ours, after I had quit my job, broke up with the guy I was seeing, and threw out all of my clothes. Bex watched in silence as I did all of this. She knew she couldn't change my mind. "Is that where you are? Is that where you live? 10,000 miles away?"

I know she's kidding — half kidding — but there's truth to it. I know it seems ridiculous, and I know this is not the best way of dealing with things. But I want to do it. I want to experience doing what I want, even if it's just this once.

"Maybe, yeah," I say. We're on the subway, going to grab breakfast at my favorite cafe, her treat. It's my last day. She doesn't say anything and instead grabs my hand.

We weave through the subway and exit on Maine, a street we don't often venture to unless we're trying to get into some trouble. Fully expecting to go to a random underground party at 9 AM, Bex instead surprises me, and we end up at a bus station.

"Where are we going?" I ask. She pretends not to hear me as she approaches the ticket booth. I stand back, apprehensive, thinking about the flight I have to catch in the evening.

"Two for Willington," she says, sliding her mom's AMEX on the counter. I grin to myself. We had once taken the bus to see my sister, about two hours south in the countryside, but accidentally got off on the wrong stop and found ourselves in a rural part of the state, a small town called Willington. We met a lady, Beverly, at the local diner at 11 PM while we waited for the next 8 AM bus, who told us we could camp out in the back of her barn house until sunrise. That's where we met Berry.

Beverly's barn house was empty, except for haystacks and farm kittens. She threw a couple of quilts on the ground and told us she'd be seein' us in the morn'. We never did see her again.

We didn't get any sleep that night. The barn was freezing, and the blankets were itchy and thin. Fists of hay kept protruding through the blankets, stabbing us in our backs. The cats kept scratch-attacking Bex — I reasoned it was because they hated her perfume. So, we stayed up, clutching the blankets around us, and I told her old stories my mom used to recite to me to put me to bed as a child.

When I felt I had her calm and relaxed enough, I whispered to her, "I'm leaving. To New Zealand in three months. I'm going to grad school there."

Bex didn't say anything. I couldn't even feel her breathing. We sat in silence for the next hour. I continued to tell her more stories from my mom, hoping to distract her, hoping to keep everything normal while it could still be normal.

Bex interrupted one of my stories, "What symbolizes right now?"

We have this habit of picking one element from each significant moment and using it as a symbolic relic--we'd either paint pictures on canvas and hang them in our living room or draw a symbol on our arms and not wash it for a month. Once while we were in Spain for a summer, after I choked on a piece of shrimp from a paella we were sharing with some locals we had met--we subsequently bought a painting from a street vendor of a shrimp. Another time, Bex and I babysat a rich lady's child in the Hampton's, threw a party, got kicked out and made bracelets out of the shells we found on the beach in front of the house.

Bex was saying this was a significant moment. I agreed.

As I sat in thought about what signified this moment (hay? a cat? a bus?), we heard some rustling in the barn. We looked around the dim wood-beamed room.

"Heeeeeee!" Bex breathed in, her shock rattling through her body under the itchy blankets. I followed her gaze to meet two glowing eyes up above the rafters. An owl stood, perched perfectly above, staring down at us, equally inquisitive.

"I've actually never seen an owl before, only ever heard them," I realize. It's bigger than I thought it'd be, and its eyes were mesmerizing, a faint glow amongst the dim backdrop of the barn, its round white face resembling the full moon. "He's pretty."

"Our signifier," Bex pointed at him. "What should we name him?"

We had a habit of naming animals and plants and things. She'd say, don't forget to water Penelope, or, I saw Sammy the Squirrel at the park today!

After hours debating what our new barn owl signifier friend should be called, we settled on Berry and got a standing ovation from the barn cats — now referred to as Billy, Willy, and Fifi — for coming to a conclusion.

Around 2 AM, Bex decided she had enough of the barn floor and my stories. She began pacing around the hay-ridden room, Berry's eyes following her as she did. I became nervous--is she going to have a breakdown over my news? Is it finally happening?

"No way!" Bex yelled from the back of three giant haystacks. I sat up, curious. "There's like a mini wine cellar over here."

We popped open one bottle, another bottle, then another, and another…next thing we knew, we were dancing with moon-faced Berry, Billy, Willy, and Fifi.

"We should get a tattoo. Something to remember me by," Bex's words slurred as we took turns hopping over a haystack. I smiled to myself. She wasn't mad.

By this point, she was blurry and smelled of red wine and cheap cherry perfume, and I needed to leave the barn or the assault on my olfactory was going to make me upchuck. I packed up the bottles while Berry watched.

We said goodbye to Berry, Billy, Willy, and Fifi, walked down the road to the small downtown, which was as quiet and dead as it had been when we first arrived. A tattoo shop in the distance had its lights illuminated, flickering red 'Gordon Tattoo & Piercings.' A fading closed sign hung by a string on the front door. Bex walked up to the window and pressed her entire face to it, smudging her nose and lips.

"Oh my god, there's someone in there!"

The door swung open, and Bex stumbled forward. A seemingly college-aged kid stood, unamused, staring at us. "You ladies do know it's almost 3 AM, yeah?"

"We want a tattoo. We'll pay double," Bex said without a beat. I nudged her — double? Why? She shrugged me off and looked me in the eye, "Our signifier. It's now or never, Pip."

—

Five hours until my flight. We're lying outside Beverly's barn in Willington, gazing up at the cloud-sprinkled sky. The leaves of the trees crowd half the view, squirrels meandering around the branches like they have somewhere important to be. Aimless, but with intent.

"You're such a squirrel," Bex says.

We continue staring at the sky together, our hair weaving through the grass and our backs moist with the morning dew. She lifts our entangled hands towards the sky, and our matching silhouette tattoos of Berry, the owl, sits situated on the inside of our index fingers.

"Owl always love you," I whisper towards the sky, though it's toward her.

It's silent for a few moments.

"I hated that, Pip," Bex says, deadpan.

"Me, too."