Fiction

Sophia’s Soft Pretzels

Originally published in Eunoia Review

“Get your pretzels! Get your hot, delicious soft pretzels!” My voice-cracking shouts are dampened in the wind. Seagulls squawk and flutter and swoop low as I chuck pretzel after pretzel onto the sand, into the foaming, stretching fingertips of Lake Michigan.

In hindsight, I realize this moment was my breaking point. This was when I truly lost it.

It being my shit.

#

“So,” my boyfriend says to me after an afternoon date of coffee and lunch and galivanting in the chilled water, our sandals kicked off and pants hiked up to our knees, “I’m just going to come right out and say it. I won’t beat around the bush because that’s unfair to you and to me for me to do that—”

“You do realize that you are, in fact, beating around the bush,” I interrupt, my tone carefully steady and plain, because I know in my gut what’s coming. All day something has felt off. Ominous. I could sense it—draining into the pores of my skin and thickening my bloodstream, weighing me down with a sluggish nervousness. And now, as we sit on a bench overlooking the unfaltering waves, as Theo transmits an eerie silence before turning to face me, I know why I’ve been anxious all day.

He grimaces. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Just spit it out,” I snap, my even tone breaking against the rocky anger that’s heating my cheeks and prickling at my scalp like little electric shocks.

“I think we should break up.”

“Why,” I ask without the inflected question mark. I stare at my exposed calves and feet, at the perfectly circular, quarter-sized blue dots that cover them and the rest of my skin, head to toe, the shade of blue almost an exact match with the lake most days. Again, a knowing feeling creeps over me.

He sighs and runs his hand through his shoulder-length curly hair, poofy and frizzy from being in a bun all day, yet it looks good. His hair is always both wild and tame all at once, no matter the state of its condition. “I’ve fallen out—”

“It’s the Blues, isn’t it.”

He holds eye contact for a fraction of a moment before moving his eyes to the water’s impeccable beauty.

“Just give me the truth. I can handle it,” I feign, knowing I can’t handle it. I am already not handling it. What truth I already know has been biting at my throat, my chest.

He gives me a face that says, don’t make me say it, and I give him a face that says, you have to say it.

“Fine,” he begins, his voice hilled like the dunes. The water entices him once more, demanding his attention as he confesses. “It’s just that…If I’m completely honest with you—which is what you want, right?—If I’m completely honest with you, it’s been hard for me ever since you developed the Blues.”

He pauses to take a breath. I’m reeling already. It’s been hard for him since I developed the Blue Dot Phenomenon a couple months ago.

“It’s been ha—”

“And if I’m still being honest—which, again, is what you want, right?—I’m afraid I’m settling. And I’m too young to settle. And it’s not fair to me to settle,” he says, gesturing unconsciously toward his heart as he stares at something distant in the water.

I have so much to say and nothing to say at all, so I just say, “Okay.”

Decidedly on an honesty kick, he continues. “And honestly, you already have a lot of things about you I’ve been trying to overlook these past few years, and I’ve been able to handle them okay, but now this? This is too much.” He steals a glance at the Blues that mottle my legs. His face scrunches into a scowl, and then he’s lured, his gaze on that distant thing in the water. “It’s just not…it’s not right for me to be with you.”

I know there’s more. I let the silence fill the growing distance between us.

“I believe you’ll find someone who is right for you.” His shaky voice has become deliberate and fringed with an underlying resentment. “I’ll find someone who’s right for me too.” I follow his eyes as they scrutinize my legs again. He turns and faces me straight on, holding eye contact with confidence.

I shift away from him and stare at the water. “Okay.”

“I hope you understand,” he says and leans over to kiss me on the forehead. I flinch, his cold lips on my skin both familiar and confusing. “Bye, Sophia.”

He gets up and heads toward the sidewalk that goes through the downtown shops and eateries, eventually leading to our apartment.

I remain there, numb and digesting everything he said, watching the reliable coming and going of the crashing waves against the rocks, the pier, the sand.

My grandma used to tell me that it was an honor to have the Blues. That Lake Michigan chose only her bravest, strongest friends to mark with blue dots. She’d had the phenomenon, as had her daughter—my mom. Though it’s not necessarily genetic, I’d figured it would come for me eventually. I just hadn’t known when, or how, or why, really, because no one knows anything about the Blues. Not the doctors, not the world-renowned scientists who have flocked to our tiny town to observe and study us. All anyone knows is that the phenomenon occurs only in Marsh Creek, randomly, without pattern or reason.

When I woke up one morning two months ago and found a single blue dot on my inner thigh, my stomach dropped. Though I’ve always thought people with the Blues looked so cool, so uniquely beautiful, I struggled to think that way about myself. I’d already been so insecure to begin with. My first thought was, Theo won’t like this.

After that morning, the dots’ manifestation only increased. I’d had one dot, and then I had five, fifteen, thirty. Then there were too many to bother counting. All this time, I’d been painstakingly careful to hide who I am. I’d hid my hair’s curls, my natural face, my curvy figure. But this—nothing was going to cover this. I’d seen others try. Face and body makeup, laser treatments. But there was something powerful and mysterious about the Blues that made them impossible to conceal.

The sun starts to set by the time I decide to unplaster my butt from the bench and my eyes from the lake and go home to my dear Timothy. Though only a seagull, he’s been my best friend, my constant companion, for the last five years. He saw me through my awkward high school years, the death of my grandma, and the abandonment of my father when one day he upped and fled to Australia when I was 15, leaving me and my mom to determine how to keep going. Through it all, Timothy’s unwavering presence and his squawks of wisdom were the anchor that kept me grounded.

When I get home, I lock the door behind me because I know Theo won’t be coming back. I can tell by the absence of things in the apartment that he’s already moved out. I first notice that the TV is gone. I sigh and lean against the door as I glance toward the kitchen, seeing that the countertop cooking utensils and the coffee maker are gone. I push myself off the door and slowly tour the apartment, looking for more absence, and finding an abundance of it. Theo’s clothes, his bathroom stuff, even my nightside table, which is arguably mine, and the bedroom TV, which is definitely mine.

I slump onto the edge of the bed, too exhausted to cry.

From the window above my dresser, I hear a peck, peck, peck. Timothy is home.

I smile as I cross the room and unlatch the window, lifting it with torturous creak I’m still not used to. He flitters onto the top of my dresser and opens his beak. A clatter resounds in the half-empty room as a Petoskey stone collides with the smooth wood.

“Aw, thank you, buddy.” I stroke the top of his small, soft head. He releases a squawk of pride. “I’ll add this to my Petoskey jar.”

Petoskey stones are my favorite. Whenever Timothy goes outside for the day, particularly in the summer, he searches for the stones and brings them home to me when he’s finished his outdoor adventures. This has been our routine for a long time. He sleeps at night on top of the dresser, using the master bathroom toilet as needed, and in the morning after I get up, I let him outside and he does his thing for as long as he likes. When he comes home, often in the early or late evening, he taps on the window to be let in. We did this when I lived with my mom, and when I moved into this apartment with Theo, he followed me here.

Squawk squaaaawk?

“Is it that obvious?” I reply.

He squints and nods, letting me know I can never fool him. Squawk squawk. He looks at the wall where the TV used to be and then back at me.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, a short but unfunny laugh liberating itself from my tight lungs and puncturing the air. “That missing TV probably gives it away too.”

SQUAWK. He flaps his wings and shuffles his twiggy feet.

“Alright, alright,” I relent. “I’ll spill the beans.” The tears finally come. “Yes, we broke up. Theo broke up with me,” I motion to my surroundings with a scoff, “and moved out. He took a lot of my stuff too.”

Squaaawk. Timothy frowns and flies onto my shoulder, hugging his head against mine. I shut my wet eyes and breathe out the relief of being in the presence of someone safe.

“He also chose to break up with me after an entire day of hanging out and having fun. I mean, who does that?” I hear myself sobbing—I’m not sure when I started crying so hard—but the date isn’t the real issue here. “Timothy,” I cough out. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t afford this place on my own. I’ve been so dependent on Theo these last couple years.”

Timothy jumps back onto the dresser and faces me. Even though he is bleary and almost undecipherable through my tears, I can clearly see he is in fixing mode.

Squawk squawk??

“I don’t make enough at the pretzel stand to stay here.”

Squawk?

“Well, yes. I have enough saved to support me for maybe a month. But that doesn’t leave me much time at all to figure things out.”

Squawk.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure something out. I have to. I have no other choice.” I chew on my fingernail as tears tickle my nose.

Squawk squawk squaaaawk?

I sigh. “Of course I miss him.” Timothy gives me a doubtful look. “I think I miss him.” Another look, even more doubtful this time. “I do love him…I don’t know. I think I’m too in shock right now to feel much. It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

Timothy narrows his eyes and shakes his head. Squawk squawk.

I smile weakly. “You’ve always thought that.”

Do I deserve better than Theo, though?

#

A week later, after a 12-hour stint at my pretzel stand, I come home and nestle into my bed, waiting for the predictable pecks of Timothy’s beak on the window. I lean against my headboard, my phone propped up precariously on my lap so that I can eat a leftover salted pretzel with both hands as I watch a show.

10 p.m. rolls around and Timothy still hasn’t knocked on the window. I begin to worry but distract myself by mentally figuring how much money I have in my account to last me for how much longer, and what I’m going to do to remedy this whole disaster. Gradually, a thought sneaks into the back of my mind that I try to push out, but it pushes and pushes against me until it consumes my mind and is louder than the quietness that surrounds me:

I’ll have to close my pretzel stand and get a higher-paying job to pay the bills.

No, surely there is something else I can do.

I could get a roommate. No, I don’t know anyone who needs a place.

I could find a stranger to live with me. No, definitely not that. Never that.

I could get a second job. No, I don’t know how I would find time to work somewhere else on top of my already long hours at the stand.

Or I could get a second job and cut back my hours at the pretzel stand, but what’s the point of doing the pretzel stand if it’s only once or twice a week? I could…

I could not. I have no other options.

I wipe my buttery fingers on a paper towel and turn off the show. I look at the dark window and then at the time. 10:30 p.m. Timothy should be home by now. I mean, he has no curfew, but usually he isn’t this late. He’s typically home by 9 p.m. at the latest.

I take in a sharp breath as I think about what I should do, worried but also sleepy. I get up and open the window a crack, just enough so Timothy can squeeze through. I grab my journal from the top drawer of my dresser, rip out a blank page, and scribble a note. Too sleepy to stay up. Wake me when you get in. Love you!

I crawl back into bed, and to muffle my apprehension, I turn the show back on and set my phone next to my pillow. Eyes closed, I sift through the various scenarios of what could be delaying Timothy, but before I can come to a conclusion, I fall asleep, my mind’s humming drowned out.

The next morning, I stir when I feel a cool breeze from the lake drift through the open window and brush my face, which just barely pokes out from under my covers. I startle fully awake as I remember. Timothy.

I throw off my blankets and sit up, letting my eyes adjust as I examine the dresser. A blurry lump attracts my attention. I blink a few times and the image crystalizes. Timothy lies there, motionless and serene, a new Petoskey stone next to him.

“Timothy?” My voice comes out horse and groggy. I clear my throat as I leap out of bed and step toward him. “When did you get home?”

I wait for the rustling of his feathers, the tilting of his head, the delight of his squawks. But there’s no movement, no sound.

“Timothy.”

My stomach twists as I get closer and there’s still nothing.

“Timothy, no,” I cry. I place two fingers on his chest. No heartbeat. I open his beak, hover my finger over it. No air.

Timothy is dead.

#

The next morning, before the sun expands into the sky in full glory and the tourists and locals alike float through the streets and waterfront, I hold a funeral for Timothy. He always told me that when he died, he didn’t want a big to do. He wanted a simple celebration.

He wanted the funeral to take place before sunrise and to end exactly five minutes before the sun starts to lift. He wanted me to arrive wearing colorful clothes—but mostly the primary colors—a “whacky” hairdo, and a Petoskey stone necklace. He also wanted me to recite a six-word poem—exactly six words—written by me about our friendship and to recite it at the edge of the pier, seven steps in front of the lighthouse, facing the great expanse of the water. Upon finishing the poem, he wanted me to pluck one of his feathers and place it in my pocket for safekeeping until the finale. Then, he wanted me to say my goodbyes and throw, using the underhand technique, his body into the water, his final resting place. He always told me he didn’t want to be buried in the dirt or the sand, but he wanted to decompose into the depths of Lake Michigan. It was the only place he ever found total peace as he’d buoy atop the water in the heat of the day, the afternoon rays penetrating the water and his soul. Only after that could I complete my last step—place the lone feather onto the edge of the lighthouse and let it travel wherever the wind (or a child) would take it.

The sun barely touches the horizon when I wrap up the celebration and decide to make an amendment to the funeral’s finale. I yank the Petoskey off my necklace, kiss it, and toss it into the water. As the water swallows it like a smooth-capsuled pill and I can’t see it anymore, I envision it plummeting lower, lower, lower.

I walk back up the pier and to my apartment. In the past, when I’ve thought about this moment and the inevitability of Timothy’s death, I imaged myself sobbing, hysterically distraught. In reality, I’m horribly aware of how stone-faced and dry I am as I walk the mile home.

#

Two weeks after Timothy’s death, I roll my mobile pretzel stand down to the waterfront for one last day of business. Tomorrow, I’ll begin my new position as a manager at Kirk’s Diner down the street.

Just after 6 a.m., sunlight creases the soft blue sky, its hue nearly matching that of the placid water whose consistent waves are small and gentle. The sky and water are a peaceful backdrop to the whirling chaos inside me as I push my pretzel cart down the sidewalk to my usual spot near the play area. My nervousness makes me feel as though my guts are a waterlogged, tangled up mush of spaghetti noodles.

By the end of the workday, I’ve sold many pretzels but still have several left over. Instead of packing up, I simply stand there, staring at the deep blues of the water, my body rendered inert by majesty. I force my eyes away from Lake Michigan’s grasp and lower them, inspecting my hands, my arms, my shins.

A group of seagulls caws above me. I crane my head upward and count seven of them, each circling independently and rushing downward at random to inspect something in the sand or water before rejoining the crew.

One seagull touches down on my stand and perches directly in front of me. It twitches its head to and fro and then stills, looking me dead in the eyes.

My mush of spaghetti guts trembles with the increase in my heart rate. This seagull appears almost identical to my dear Timothy: the distended beach trash belly, the black tailfeathers that are splattered with white dots in all the same spots, the piercing eyes that expose the contents of a person’s soul, the persistent look of annoyance on its face.

But as quickly as it perched, it springs off to its feathered friends.

Shaking, I examine the ground outlet to make sure I have indeed unplugged everything. I secure all my items, fumble to put my apron and hat back on, and shove the cart forward, in the direction of the waterfront.

#

“Get your pretzels! Get your hot, delicious soft pretzels!” My voice-cracking shouts are dampened in the wind. Seagulls squawk and flutter and swoop low as I chuck pretzel after pretzel onto the sand, into the foaming, stretching fingertips of Lake Michigan.

After about five minutes, I stop, parking my stand in the lumpy sand so that it sits on a slant close to the water. I yank off my hat and cast it to the ground, then my apron. I drop at the edge of the water.

Regret floods within me as I consider what I just did, my common sense, reason, and compassion knocking at my heart’s door, begging me to remember them.

I force my weary self to stand and pick up what’s left of the pretzels. I start with the visible remnants on the sand and then wade into the lake, kneeling to grab the pretzels I can see in the shallow water. I put the dirty, wet pretzels back into the warmer, out of the seagulls’ reach, and then sit down in the same spot, crying.

I dip my hands into the water and scrub at the Blues on my legs and arms. I desperately wish I could make them go away. That I could be good enough to win the love and adoration of Theo, of my father, of anyone, really. That I could bring Timothy back. That I could keep operating my pretzel stand and not work this new job.

Three seagulls flock to the water and land next to me. They study my face, cocking their heads in unison. I surprise myself with a laugh, and I cock my head in return. One hops closer and leans its head on my knee.

Tears sting my eyes as I rub the top of its head with my thumb. The other two join, planting their heads on my thigh.

I smile and wipe my runny nose with the back of my hand. “Thank you.” The words are a surrendered whisper.

I lengthen my legs and lie on my back, letting the water lap and woosh around my head. I close my eyes to the dusky blue of the soon-coming night sky.