Growing up in a family made up entirely of women, I learned quickly that the best thing a girl could do was find a boy. My mom, my grandma, and I could always agree on one thing: there were no good men left.
Every time my grandma wished me a happy birthday, she said, “I wish you luck finding a good one,” as if I didn’t need luck finding myself first, as if, only that one person could make me whole. As if even before my birth, before I ever opened my eyes and let out my first scream, I was divided in two. And someone who had half of me captured in his hands was holding it, hostage, until I found him and freed my other me, swinging my sword towards my captor, screaming, “Hey! Who the hell are you?!” After that, he would, of course, take his sword too, and we would fight until we were both bruised and bloody and on the floor. He would take my helmet off, stare into my eyes, and kiss me, and that would be the moment when I finally, deliciously, understand.
Every Sunday family dinner ended with me baking a pie and my grandma asking about “boys,” and me going to bed annoyed at the world, begging for some form of power that would bring you to me.
And then it did. The day that I met you, spring had just begun its wet and ugly drag on the last month of winter. And you melted into my thoughts to the point that even the bleach couldn’t get you out. I knew to move slowly, not to scare you off like a rabbit in my country house backyard. But I couldn’t contain myself for very long, I wanted to throw up flowers for you to find on the doorstep.
It felt like I had forgotten every desire, every want I ever had before. The constant anxious thought was you, you, you.
Your hands were graceful, and the gaps between your teeth reminded me of home. I told my grandma about you. I baked for you. Packed cookies into little IKEA containers, and tied a pink ribbon on the top. I bought 3-dollar spells on Etsy to make you “totally and completely obsessed in 3 days (or get your money back)!”
You laughed at my stupid joke one day, kicking your head back, and whipping the tears from your eyes. Then you tipsily held my hand on the way from one bar to another. I got you now, I thought.
You came to our house for dinner and were polite. I knew you would. After you finished your one and only glass of red, you thanked my family for “delicious food, and great company.” After the front door closed, my grandma turned to me and said that we should keep you. “This one is good,” she said, “A good one really is hard to find.” I nodded and wished her a good night.
The next morning, while the house was still asleep and the mist was dark blue between the pines, I stepped into the backyard to find the box.
Slowly moving the lid, I opened it to find your heart, still warm. I could swear it was pulsing under my fingertips. I closed my jaws around it, and it was sweeter than all the cherry pies I baked that winter.
THE END.