Normally, Ava wouldn't mind Solange blasting on the speakers, but tonight, it is just reminding her of her overwhelming singleness. If she wasn't tipsy and warm she would probably cry. It's just her, a drink, and a toad that won't quit staring.
It was Friday. Ava spent the week going straight to class, straight home, and straight to sleep. When her old roommate, Vivian, invited her to a house party, she reluctantly agreed.
And now here she was: bored and lonely on the porch outside of the party, a toad glued to the patch of grass in front of her, and Solange singing softly into the trees. Vivian was still inside the house—flirting with some guy. All Ava remembered about him was his red shirt.
She hadn't talked to Vivian in more than a year. At least not really. They occasionally smile as they pass each other on the way to classes, but nothing more. There had been no falling out—no subtweeting each other on social media. They just grew apart, Ava guessed. So when she got a message from Viv out of the blue about some house party, she obliged. She wasn't sure if going out was the best choice considering her schoolwork load, but what would it have said about her if she declined?
Vivian came walking outside, as if Ava could conjure people from mere thought. She was laughing with a couple friends before she walked toward Ava with a loose smile.
“What happened to red-shirt guy?” Ava asked.
“He said he goes to community college.” She scoffs, “I just changed the subject. That's kinda worse than not going to college at all.”
Ava's eyes are still bound to the gray spotted toad playing freeze on the street. “That's a little mean,” she says.
“Well it's also true.” Vivian quipped as she sat down and lit a cigarette.
Ava sits silent. Perhaps this is why she eventually stopped talking to Vivian. Although she was kind and inviting to her, Viv was never the nicest to those she saw as beneath her. Apparently that hasn't changed.
It dawns on her that she feels a bit stuck. As if everyone got on the Metro to the next stage of their life, and she never made it out of the station.
Maybe Ava hasn't changed much either. She still has the same three close friends she sees every day. She has the same commitments and routine. It dawns on her that she feels a bit stuck. As if everyone got on the Metro to the next stage of their life, and she never made it out of the station.
She didn't care enough to continue the conversation with Vivian—just mumbled into her solo cup about getting more to drink.
She walked up the wooden stairs into the too-small house, and found herself at the too-small table. It was a sticky mess. Cups spilling leftover vodka-mixed drinks—the liquid bleeding into the glitter-covered tablecloth. She refilled her own cup anyway.
Despite her blurry vision, she noticed a familiar girl walking up.
“How's it going?” the voice said. It was Jamie. Her old…something. Talking stage? Situationship? She was tired of these dystopian labels put onto dating these days. It's just so sinister, she always finds herself telling her friends.
They started talking about a year ago, and it ended four months later. The reason was kind of fuzzy—something along the lines of you deserve someone better, someone who is ready to commit.
Ava was always ashamed to admit that she didn't want better; she wanted Jamie.
Ava was always ashamed to admit that she didn't want better; she wanted Jamie. But those thoughts were pushed to the back of her mind for the sake of sanity. Although seeing her here, doing well, brought everything back to the surface.
“Everything's good!” Ava awkwardly blurted, silently cursing herself for sounding so meek. She isn't exactly giving ‘nonchalant-cool-girl,’ like she intended. Why couldn't she be like Vivian? Always assertive and effortless and confident…
Jamie started walking out the door, and Ava mindlessly followed like a lost puppy. They sat down on the side of the porch where the music was slightly less loud. Ava was nervous. She wanted to bite her nails, so she looked over at that damn toad instead. Still there, she thought, in the same place.
She wasn't sure what else to say. Every possible string of words dried up on the tip of her tongue before they could come out. So Ava did what anyone with sense does when silence ensues: change the subject.
“Do you ever wonder why toads are so still all the time? They're tiny. Anyone could hurt them.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already know,” she said, looking over at Ava with a smile.
Ava looked back at her, half amused and half annoyed. Jamie had this thing where whatever she said was automatically matter-of-fact. It turned Ava on, but it is unclear if this says more about her or Jamie. She was too buzzed on vodka and fruit punch to overanalyze this time around.
“And?” Ava said, a hint of confidence in her tone, something only Jamie could bring out in her.
Jamie laughed. “It’s a defense mechanism.”
Ava scrunched her face, unimpressed and unconvinced. “So doing nothing is a defense now?
“It isn’t doing nothing. It knows when to leap—it just hasn't yet."
“Hm, right.” Ava nodded and looked away, though she quickly glanced back as she felt the space between them shift. The weight of last year settling into something familiar. Something urgent and patient at the same time.
Something was telling her to be grateful for the beginnings that don't ask for anything, only the next breath.
Jamie extended her hand, and Ava joined. They stayed on the other’s wrist, fingertips tracing a hesitant rhythm. The air cooled around them, the music seemingly muffled. They kissed, and Ava felt the weight of the quiet, the slight press of a hand still resting on hers.
Something in her was glowing. Something was telling her to be grateful for the beginnings that don't ask for anything, only the next breath.
