In the Quiet

Abstract

In the Quiet Jona Fine (bio) June 6th 2020 Protect ripening strawberries from birds. –Farmer's Almanac 2020 S sits in their usual morning spot sunning themselves by the glass balcony doors in the kitchen. They were holding another book, its spine a soft denim blue. J could just make out the top of S's chest peeking out from behind the pages. The smooth skin, the empty landscape with the exception of two fading scars. When it came down to it, S had wanted everything gone, even their nipples. J knows the flatness has a messy history, was a long time coming, but ever since S's top surgery, S never wants to wear shirts anymore. S spends the weekend lounging around bare-chested. Parading themselves around the small one-bedroom apartment. Doing yoga on the patio that overlooks the street where people walk by with their big mountain dogs. J wants to be happy for them. J still rubs vitamin E oil on S's scars. When they were both stretched out in bed on a Sunday morning, J would caress each crescent, running their fingers along the raised and tender skin. But maybe they just wanted to know what it would feel like. In the quiet, like in the shower, or when they struggled to pull their own binder off, J almost felt safe enough to be jealous. Those moments when they wanted to dig their own breasts out. J puts down the two bowls of oatmeal on the table and S gets up to join them for breakfast. One with raisins and brown sugar because that is how S likes it, the other with sunflower seeds and maple syrup. "Do you always have to sit there bare-chested?" J wants to say, but they know it has taken S a long time to get to this place. They know S's parents aren't supportive. They didn't even come to Foothills Hospital which was just two miles up 55th Street from where they live in a two-story house with a finished basement below where S's childhood bedroom is, the walls still painted prison pink. A border of lavender flowers runs along the edges of the room. Then they didn't come by after to check in on their only child, let alone drop off a card or a casserole. J had been the one to empty S's drains and tuck them in at night surrounded by a fortress of pillows. So instead of asking J just stirs their oatmeal lazily with a spoon. Taking their first bite, they notice the way the porridge has already started to congeal. "What are you reading?" J asks. "Another book of poetry?" [End Page 28] S laughs. "What's wrong with poetry?" They put the book down and pick up their spoon. They have been reading Night Sky with Exit Wounds for weeks. The slender spine crinkled and cracked. One slow page at a time. S says they are savoring the rawness of it all. They never want a book to end. "It's just don't you want to read a novel, like find something you can really invest in, get lost in?" J says. "Poetry never has a sense of place." "But I am getting lost," S says. "I don't know—lost in the details." S traces their scars back and forth with all the fingers in their right hand, even their pinky and then their thumb, while using the other to scoop bites of oatmeal from their bowl to their mouth. It reminds J of someone strumming guitar strings. S talks with their mouth full. "I am invested," they say. "It's like I can taste the words? Is that weird?" S laughs again between chews of oatmeal. They both finish their bowls in silence. After breakfast, S stretches out across the four kitchen table chairs and J moves to the couch so they can wrap themselves in blankets. All the blankets in the world wouldn't feel heavy enough today. ________ Hours later, J wakes up on the couch. The afternoon sun streams through the window and they are sweating...