Alfie and Em care for one another, deeply. They are blind sharks in the Pacific trenches. Tradition buries them into wordless depths.
You’d say they are in love, probably. But you are them now. So, don’t say that.
First, you’re Alfie.
You’ll check your phone a lot today. You’re hoping for a text that will let you believe in tradition. A text that will let you say the L-word.
You want to say it to Em. Especially now, when she wears the blue jeans and blue bow and tan boots and tan jacket. But, instead, you drop a nest of black leaves into her hair.
Em gasps and says, “Fuck you.”
She then smiles and throws one of the leaves at your nose, wishing to throw an apple instead.
Apple picking. Your second trip to the orchard. Your first without family. Cold colors this time. Seaweed and seagrass. Greens and greens of darkness. You check your phone and tell Em the apple in her hand is, too, ripe.
“And how would you know that?” she asks, spinning the growing fruit around its stem. Her scratched nail polish ripens its image. You want to kiss her, and you want to say the L-word, even just to have it out in the air.
“I-,” you begin.
Em flinches at the first word of the possible trinity. A word forming one third of the powerful, traditional suggestion. Em flinches, just as your mother did.
Your family is at the orchard. Your first trip. Thanksgiving in Maine. You remember the colors of the trees. Orange, red, yellow, unlike the dullness of now. You remember your sister yelling, “Alfie, Alfie, hide and seek!”
Your mother flinches as your dad leans in to kiss her. She playfully squashes applesauce in his beard instead of being easy. She’s just teasing him. You smile and run to play with your sister.
Back at home your dad spills gravy on his wedding ring. He rushes to the sink and washes his hands, “Better leave this off,” he says warmly. Your mom blushes.
For dessert, your mom tosses a cinnamon apple to your dad. He bites it and tells her it tastes terrible. He’s just kidding. They were married in a church. They say they love each other.
“I- believe it’s supposed to be red,” you say pointing to the little label below the tree. It reads Red Delicious, or at least you think it does. The sun is going down fast.
Em relaxes.
“Well,” she says, “I think no.”
She finishes the apple in three bites despite your concern and the fresh nitrocellulose film.
“Mmmm,” she sighs, “your loss.”
You stare into her eyes and she stares back. You both laugh. It was very ripe. You kiss her. Her lips are warm. You force yourself not to say it.
Now, you’re Em.
Alfie just kissed you. You thought he was going to say the L-word. Thank goodness he didn’t.
The kiss was nice, though, and Alfie is smiling. Too much affection.
You roll your eyes and turn away to blush, noticing the dark sunset above the parking lot. The same parking lot where a familiar car now rests next to your own. A station wagon with a sticker family on the back windshield. Two tall stick figures with three little ones in between.
Alfie takes you past the orchard to the farm overlook. You look around for people but don’t see anyone else. An ocean of fog covers the horizon and there’s only a dark green color. Unusually dark. A kelp forest. Unlike all you’ve heard about autumn in Maine.
The two of you sid down on a bench and Alfie checks his phone again.
“Hey,” you lift his chin with your thumb, “turn it off, huh?”
Alfie slides the phone into his pocket, and you hold his hand for a second or two, watching the waving leaves.
Your father tells you that the forests look like pumpkin patches from above.
“Giant, orange pumpkins,” he says, “giant pumpkins that the mice carry to a castle far away.”
You climb down from the backyard playhouse in your blue dress.
“The mice turned into horses,” you say.
Your father hands you a yellow pansy and says, “I love you, Emmy.” He is crying.
“My name’s not Emmy,” you reply, rolling your eyes.
“My apologies, Cinderella.”
He walks away to the packed station wagon. There’s your family in sticker form on the back windshield. Two tall figures with a little one in between.
Alfie suggests that you walk down the hill to the farmhouse.
“There are flower gardens there,” he says, once again, checking his phone, “Do you have a favorite flower?”
You look into his eyes, “He’s moving out, Alfie.”
“Maybe he won’t,” Alfie says.
“They already settled,” you say.
Alfie looks down, “I wanted to tell you something.”
You stand up before he can continue. “I- I’ll meet you down at the farmhouse,” you say and walk away looking around for families of five.
Back to Alfie.
No text yet. Em walks away from you. No text yet, so you follow.
The hill is a sandbar under tide. You aren’t even sure Em went down this way. She could’ve run to her car and gone back to school. Now you can’t see. The fog stings your eyes. Now you stumble down the hill with the weight of a current on your back. You’ll be down at the gardens offering someone a flower regardless.
But no one is there. It seems that night has fallen. Then again, your eyes still sting. But no. The farmhouse lights are off. The gardens are still. You are alone and there’s no one to say the L-word to. There’s still no text. Just your chain of uninterrupted blue messages.
Your mom shoves applesauce into your dad’s beard. Your dad dumps gravy on his wedding ring. “Better leave this off,” he says sharply.
The string lights turn on. They shine through the flowers and radiate. You’re drawn to them. Caught like an angler’s prey and your phone buzzes. You hold it close to your blind eyes and read the words. And there’s Em. She’s behind your phone, in the background. She throws a green apple at your head.
For dessert your mom throws a cinnamon apple at your dad.
“Terrible,” he mocks. They were married in a church. They said they loved each other.
Back to Em.
“Shit. I thought you’d catch that.” You run over to Alfie who has fallen. He rubs his head.
“I was looking for you,” you say, “I’m sorry I left you up there.”
He doesn’t reply and instead hands you his phone. You read the text.
All packed up. Could use some help moving out.
You don’t know what to say to him. You could say the L-word, but it’s bullshit, right? You could tell him that you’d never kick him out. But you don’t even live together and would you ever? You just tell him you’re sorry.
Alfie is silent in the gardens. The two of you pass rows and rows of perfumed flowers. Tall and thin, tiny and squat. You prepare to reject whatever Alfie hands you.
But the flower never comes.
You and Alfie exit the gardens and reach the final hill leading up to the orchard and the parking lot. Maybe he is there waiting by the station wagon, waiting to apologize.
You hum “The Work Song” as you wash dishes, occasionally raising your pitch to sing the funny mouse parts.
“Emma, can you stop with the song?” your mom calls out.
“Why?” you ask.
“It’s just- just, please.”
“Daddy wants me to visit him in Maine.”
Your mom sighs and bends down to your level, straightening your posture. You know she doesn’t want you to go. She knows you know.
“Your dad has his new princess.” She shakes your slouch. “We’re Emma and Emma, right?” she says, “We don’t need a prince.”
You go back to the dishes in silence and think about your sticker family. The three of you. And this new Cinderella.
Later you throw out your blue dress. You’ve seen your father a few times. His back windshield is black and bare. Little paper skins outline an old family.
“I like pansies,” you say, from deep inside. Alfie looks around and uproots a skeletal weed. It is petrified and black.
“Thanks,” you say.
The parking lot is almost empty. A family is loading into the station wagon. The father is buckling one of his kids into her seat as the others laugh. Not your father, just a random family. You don’t even know if the car is the right color.
Alfie speaks, “I-”
You don’t walk away.
“I need to help him move out,” he says.
You nod.
At his car, Alfie tells you he’ll call you later. You nod and wait for him to finally say it.
But he shuts the door and drives away.
Tristan Steffe is a junior and Creative Writing major at Franklin & Marshall College. He has a passion for many forms and genres of writing, with a particular interest in fantasy-fiction and the personal essay. He has published work at his school magazine and journal. Tristan hopes to continue his studies into graduate school and beyond.
