Don’t Mention It
Nicole Rivas
The bicyclist is accustomed to getting yelled at by men in moving vehicles. Hackneyed phrases like “Hey, baby,” and “Juicy ass,” and “How much for an hour?” Tonight, a blur of a man in a blue compact car whizzes by her in the opposite direction. “Give me that pussy!” Faceless. The bicyclist pedals onward. One mile elapses. When she steers into the gravel alleyway behind her apartment, she doesn’t notice the sound of car tires crunching towards her. Instead, she is thinking about the jarred okra sitting in the refrigerator upstairs. Her mouth waters at the thought of fat seeds dripping brine, a private feast standing over the kitchen sink, sweat soaking through the back of her T-shirt.
She dismounts her bicycle and removes her helmet. “Hey, baby!” The bicyclist turns around and sees the familiar blue compact car, the man hunched over the steering wheel within it. He has followed her home. A cigarette dangles from his hand, which she only knows because the smoke catches in the alleyway’s one lamp. Without thinking, she picks up her bicycle and hoists it above her head, as if the man were a mountain lion who might be deterred by her superficial size. But even then, she is too scared to say anything. Her helmet topples onto the ground. The man smirks at her display, presses the cigarette to his lips, and drives away.
The bicyclist hauls her bicycle into her apartment, occasionally looking over her shoulder. The alleyway is empty and the gravel glitters in the moonlight. Once inside the apartment, she locks the door, closes the curtains. She lifts her bicycle onto its rack, pauses. She returns to the door, draws open the curtains to peer outside. The alleyway hasn’t changed. She makes sure the door is locked again and briefly wishes for a padlock. She takes the bicycle off its rack and leans it in front of the door. Barriers. Alarm systems. She goes to take a shower. Takes the kitchen knife with her. Undresses in the tub. The ribbons of stripped clothing give her the feeling of being slowly and irrevocably whittled away.
Once in bed, she gets as comfortable as possible before getting out of bed to make sure her bedroom door is locked again. A hammer rests beneath her pillow. It was her father’s. She calls her mother in Florida but it’s late and her mother doesn’t answer. The bicyclist leaves a cheery message but doesn’t say anything about the man who followed her home. Too embarrassed or something. She thinks about the summer she turned 14 and the neighbor, Mr. Barry, invited her over for popsicles. The whole thing became a weekly ritual. Suck a popsicle, suck my finger. Suck a popsicle, suck my dick. Suck a popsicle while I take a photo of you looking coy but really just imitating coyness to hide the overflowing shame. Suck a popsicle and don’t tell anyone about this or they’ll think you’re a slut. A slut who loves to suck.
It was a mistake to tell them, the bicyclist thinks. Her parents. She touches the hammer’s head and is shocked by its coldness. Mom and dad didn’t really want to hear about the neighbor. That’s why nobody mentioned it again. They didn’t want another fault. And then dad died. So, really. Don’t mention it.
As the bicyclist falls asleep, she forgets about the pickled okra which she had nearly dreamt about an hour or so ago. Where did that desire go? That growing promise? The hunger is gone, suspended somewhere out of the bicyclist’s reach. No dinner tonight, just a feast of outdoor sounds that make her chest ache. The sounds will turn into nightmares. But nightmares end, at least sometimes.
Nicole Rivas is the author of “A Bright and Pleading Dagger” (Rose Metal Press) and teaches writing in Savannah, GA.