O'Leary

Princess Cut 

I swivel my head back and forth, meeting eyes of all those around me. I look like a deer in headlights, I’m sure. I search faces for clues, for empathy, despair, understanding, but I just see joy. Anticipation. Life fills the faces surrounding me, soft smiles cross scattered faces as I continue my search.  

My coat moves with me, thick red fabric rubbing against the jeans on my legs, the sweater around my chest, and the scarf enveloping my neck. I wanted to be prepared for the cold, for the brutal assault of the snow outside. Now I am burning up, unable to cool myself and escape from the layers of clothing holding me in place, the eyes keeping my feet from shifting, and the question that keeps my lips from moving.  

I open my mouth, searching for a response as my head continues to turn this way and that. I finally force myself to focus, to look at what is in front of me. Aiden sits before me, a wide smile showing off his beautiful teeth. I fell in love with that smile, once upon a time. His own legs protected by his jeans, creating a cushion between his knee and the marble floor beneath.  

“I-I…” I stutter, searching his bright green eyes for an answer other than the one I already find in my soul.  

I turn my head once more, taking in the vaulted ceilings, the marble pillars surrounding the open space, the rows and rows of brown wooden benches, the signs hanging in various places, pointing in various directions for different destination. My ears filled with the sound of an oncoming train, muffling the shuffling feet of the people surrounding me. 

My eyes catch on a flash of red up the staircase to my left. 

EXIT 

I bolt without even thinking. My sneakers squeak and protest my quick escape, but carry me up, and up, and up the stairs, marbles slapping beneath my feet, and running under my hands as I race to the top, following that path of red. 

Pain fills my chest, regret sharp and excruciating as I force myself not to look behind me. Avoiding the image of Aiden sitting there long after my fleeing, his own jacket sitting on the bench closest to him, velvet box open and golden ring shining within. I recognized it immediately, having seen it on his grandmother’s left hand a hundred times.  

I have to get out of here.  

I stop only for a moment to absorb my surroundings, to orient myself once I reach the landing at the top of the stairs. Marble greets me on all sides, closing me in and trapping me in the station, in the scene, in the loss of this moment. Did I really just run? 

I don’t let myself linger on the question as I turn around, and I’m greeting with the sweet sight of glass. Relief floods my system and I race towards the glass, towards to buildings, cars, people that aren’t Aiden on the other side. My hands find purchase along the handle and I push with the small bit of breath left in me, and I’m greeted with bitter cold that seeps into my empty lungs, burning the inside of my chest in a sensation different to the crushing weight already sitting on my ribs. I ran.  

I stand outside of the station, staring into the busy night, watching as people pass by me on the sidewalk, adjusting their paths to move around me as if I’m just a minor inconvenience. I stare at the lights moving in front of me, muffle the cries in my head with the sounds of cars flying by, honking at each other as people scream at each other on the sidewalk as well.  

I turn my head left and right, trying to decide my next move. I only have my purse with me. All of my luggage is currently sitting with Aiden’s coat on the ground floor of the station. I wonder what he will do with it. Will he bring it home with him tonight? Leave it there, the way I left him?  

Oh, God. I need a drink.  

Blue light flashes to my left, catching my attention. I read “Bar” across the sign, and my feet carry me to my new destination. There isn’t a line outside, as it’s a Wednesday at 7pm, so I walk right in the heavy metal door, music blasting with each inch the door is opened. Intense warmth surrounds me as I enter the bar, letting the metal door slam shut behind me. No one notices. Tables scatter the area, chairs surrounding each of them, but they are mostly empty. Televisions line the molding of the ceiling, showing various programs and sports for the 20 odd guests within the tavern.  

A large bar takes up the center of the space, making the whole thing a kind of circle built around the bartenders and their various concoctions. I decide a seat at the bar is the best option. I move towards the small wooden stools, already imagining the back pain that will come with sitting in a seat with no back.  

I am sure to choose a seat that isn’t next to anyone else. I need to think, not be hit on by random strangers. I flag down a bartender and order two shots of tequila. He asks if I am waiting for someone and I simply respond, “No.” 

I remove my thick red coat and lay it across the stool next to my own and lay my scarf along the top. A red coat, and a red scarf. I don’t even like red. Never have. 

I pull my phone from my back pocket, ignoring the dozens of texts that already flood my lock screen before shutting my phone off, offering myself the silence I need for the next however-many hours.  

The bartender returns with my shots and two slices of limes, all set up really pretty on a wooden tray, as if he’s making me an offering. I nod my thanks and take my first shot, focusing on the burn of the alcohol as it moves from my mouth to my throat, ignoring the other weights on my chest. I bite down on the lime in quick succession, replacing the burn with a bitter sour. Fitting.  

I slam the glass down with a satisfying thunk along the wooden bar, and place my hands flat on the bar, staring at the rows and rows of bottles in front of me, blocking my view of the mirrors built in the center of the bar, reflecting the mischief committed in the bar back into the eyes of the offenders.  

My eyes glaze over, unfocusing and refocusing on the various bottle of liquor. I grab my second shot and second slice of lime and repeat the same process. The burn feels good, the hurt satisfying and resounding.  

My cheeks begin to warm with heat from the alcohol, warming the cold blood that runs through my veins.  

“Holy fuck,” I whisper. The words escape with little notice or encouragement.  

“Bad night?” I hear from my right, startling me slightly. I hadn’t notice someone sit near me. I turn my head to find a woman next to me. She seems to be around my age, and her cheeks are red and puffy, her eyes swollen in an unnatural way, and I don’t have to ask to know that she’s been crying. 

“You could say that,” I respond. “You?”  

“The worst,” she responds, voice quivering and breaking, threatening the break her composure.  

I am unsure of what to say next, so I flag down the bartender and order another shot. I Turn to my right and ask, “You want one?” to the girl not sitting next to me.  

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” she says unconvincingly. Her lips quiver as her eyes return to the wooden bar. “I have to be home soon or my boyfriend will be worried.” 

I consider her for a moment before turning back to the bartender and saying, “Make that two.” I turn back to the woman next to me and study her for a moment. Her black hair is tied away from her face in a clump at the base of her neck. Her own coat lays on the stool next to her, much like my own, besides it being green. Her clothes match my own as well, jeans and a thick sweater in preparation for the cold weather. However, she wears a ring on her left finger, a gorgeous square diamond sitting prominently in the middle, drawing all attention to her hand.  

“Boyfriend” she had said, but the ring says differently. I glance at my own left hand, at the empty slot on my ring finger, and imagine the ring that would be sitting there right now. If I hadn’t run. I imagine the golden princess cut stone adorning my finger, the scratches that marred the stone and metal that would never be buffed out, that told the history of the ring. It was such a gorgeous ring.  

I snap out of my daydream and find the woman staring at me staring at her finger.  

“Sorry,” I quickly say, averting me eyes. “That’s a gorgeous ring.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” she says under her breath, as if she’s talking to herself. She stretches her hand out slightly in front of her, giving herself a better angle to admire it. “It’s new.” 

“Engaged?” I ask. 

“Uh, it’s complicated,” she quickly responds, her cheeks flushing with color as she jerks her head back to stare at the wood beneath her arms. 

“How complicated?” I ask, intrigued. 

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” she says after a moment, as if talking to herself. It’s hard to hear her over the music blaring over the speakers, and the general commotion of the patrons around us, but I manage as best I can. “What about you?” 

I laugh a breathless laugh and say, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.” 

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she offers. “Seems like we could both use some venting right now, and who better to vent to than a perfect stranger?” I lock eyes with her as she gives me a soft smile, showing her openness. 

I study her for a moment, trying to decide if she’s crazy. She seems totally normal, and I’ll probably never see her again in a city this big. I sigh, letting my shoulders drop slightly and say, “My boyfriend proposed 15 minutes ago.” 

The woman hides her reaction as the bartender approaches with our shots set up on the same wooden platter as before. He sets it in front of the stool separating us that my coat and scarf are occupying. She grabs one of the shot glasses and lime slices and offers it to me before surprising me by saying, “I’m Georgia.” 

 “Elaine,” I say with a smile and take the objects from her. She reaches for her own pair, and we raise our glasses to each other before tapping them on the bar and taking our tequila shots in synchrony.  

Georgia giggles slightly after swallowing before biting down on her lime. “I haven’t had tequila in years,” she says, coughing slightly over her words. She shakes her head and shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the chill of the shot before looking at the stool between us, as if distracted by the pop of color. “I love your coat.” 

“I hate it,” I say without missing a beat, leaning into the brutal honesty the situation offers. “My boyfriend got it for me for Christmas 3 years ago. It’s Dior.” Disgust laces me words as they escape.  

“Jesus, it must have cost a fortune. Why do you hate it?” She genuinely looks confused, and I get why. It’s a beautiful expensive coat. There was just one issue. 

“I hate red. It’s my least favorite color. I literally have never worn red around Aiden. And he got me this fucking coat.” I say the words harsher than I mean to, especially considering the mundane topic of a coat. “I even pointed this out to him after he gave it to me. He said something like, ‘Who cares about the color? It’s a great coat!’ He hadn’t responded to my texts and calls for a week before, and he showed up with this fucking coat.” 

Georgia glances at the stool, at the coat and scarf atop it. “Well, maybe he got the idea because your scarf is red,” she says, a question in her voice as she says it. 

I laugh slightly at her observation. “Birthday present. From Aiden. Right after he gave me the coat.” My words are simple, but they build a fire of anger in my chest. I flag down the bartender, signaling for her to keep the shots coming without asking Georgia. The three shots I have already had are taking their effect on the candor of my words, but I know we are going to need more before the night is over.  

“So, he proposed,” she says, “but I don’t see a ring.” Her eyes fall to my left hand resting on the bar, but they quickly snap up to my eyes.  

I rest my head in my hand, bracing my arm on the bar and lolling my head to the side before saying, “I ran. Bolted. As soon as I got the chance.” Surprise fills her face with my words. “He proposed next door, at the train station. Hell, he’s probably still there. He brought his whole family. I was coming back from D.C. and there they all were. His siblings, parents, grandparents, even his fucking cousins were there. Waiting.” Anger continues to build with my recollection of the events of the evening. “We’ve talked about marriage for a while. And I’ve always made it clear, I never wanted a spectacle. I just wanted him.” Tears fill my eyes as I picture Aiden on one knee in front of me, offering everything I ever wanted, in every wrong way possible.  

Georgia doesn’t respond, giving me the space to continue if I need. When it’s clear I’m not going to she says, “If he doesn’t know the simple facts that you hate red and that you wanted a small proposal, he doesn’t know you.” She says it simply, but the words are crushing, as they confirm the fears I had as I stood in the train station, searching for answers around me.  

I take a deep breath, centering myself and focusing on the bottles in front of me once again. I know she’s right. I know it because I came to the same conclusion in that train station; before that if I was truly being honest with myself. I try to block out the pain and take the advice instead, focusing on the second opinion I have just been given. “I honestly can’t believe I stayed with him this long. That it took a proposal for me to truly decide. I can’t believe I did that to him,” I say, loosing the words that have been caught in my throat. “I ran away from him in the middle of a train station, with all of his friends and family surrounding us.” Tears well in my eyes and the reality of what I have done truly sinks in, as I finally confess, in a way. A gasp catching in my throat, and I steady my breathing before the tears turn into full on sobs.  

Georgia is there in a second, wrapping her arms around me lightly. “Is this ok,” she asks in a small voice behind my right ear. I nod, reaching us to hold her arms as she squeezes me tighter. I relish in the comfort of the hug and soak in the warmth she offers. She loosens her grip, and moves back to her seat, one away from me. 

The bartender approaches with another round of shots, now placed in a perfect circle around a small ramekin filled with small pretzels, the kind you would find in a bag from an airplane. I offer her a smile, thanking her for the snacks. Georgia and I reach for our shots together, and taking them without hesitation, tapping in synchrony once again. I cringe as the lime juice fills my mouth, and ask though my sour lips, “What happened with your night?” 

She takes a deep breathe, examining the ring on her finger as she does. It seems to be a habit for her. “We’ve been engaged for three weeks, together for almost 2 years. He’s the most amazing guy, he’s so kind, so generous, he treats me so well.” Her eyes begin to well with tears as she speaks, her lips quivering slightly before she composes herself. “I just… I just don’t love him like he loves me.” She pauses, seeming stunned by her own words. “He deserves better, someone who truly cherishes him, and I just don’t think I’m that girl.” 

I pause, taking in her words and trying to come up with the words she needs to hear. Her relationship is so different from mine, and yet the words come easily. “I think the best thing you can do is talk to him. He deserves to know how you are feeling, and he deserves a say in how you guys continue forward with the relationship, whether that be to try something different, or to end it.” I reach across the space between up and grab her hand, squeezing it slightly so she looks at me. “He deserves to know.” She nods, shaking more tears lose from her eyes. 

The bartender chooses this moment to return with another round of shots, apparently watching our conversation from a distance.  

Georgia takes her shot quickly, tears streaming down her face, but she wipes them away furiously as she turns her bright eyes on mine. “I can’t believe I met you tonight,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes, a combination of the tequila and the tears. “We both know what we have to do. You need a fresh start, and I suppose so do I. So, we move forward. You, move out of that damn apartment, or wherever you guys live. Cut ties, but first you need to talk to Aiden, give him an explanation, honesty,” she says with a mischievous smile. 

I inhale sharply, trying to match her level of focus and determination in this moment. “I’ll talk to Aiden, you talk to- wait, what is your fiancée’s name? I never asked.” 

“Malcolm,” she says, a smile sprouting spontaneously on her lips. I wonder if she knows it’s there. 

“Well, I have a feeling you and Malcolm can work things out, but you need to give him the chance.” I say the last part a little sharply, to drive in my point of communication.  

I finally reach for my shot, still sitting on the little wooden tray with a lime slice as its partner. I cringe as the tequila builds and settles in my stomach, knowing that should be my last shot if I want to make it home. Where am I even going to go? I suppose it doesn’t matter right now. I could wander the city all night and find my way tomorrow. I extend my hand to Georgia and she pushes it away before pulling me into a light hug over the stool separating us.  

“Thank you,” I say into her ear, gratitude seeping through me words. I linger in the hug, and she must sense my need because she tightens her hold around me, squeezing me in the way my mother used to.  

I pull away and her hold switches to my shoulder, holding me at arm’s length as she holds my eyes. “Make him work for it.” 

I nod, pushing back against the tears in my eyes, knowing there’s nothing he can work for. I lose the battle to my tears and Georgia reaches up to swipe them off my cheeks in a delicate manner. I nod slightly, and stand, testing my balance and sobriety. Georgia stands with me, and I assume she is planning on leaving as well. I flag down the bartender and hand him my card to pay the tab. Georgia turns to me, holding her coat in one hand, and mine in the other. She holds them both out to me, a question in her eyes.  

The bartender returns my card to me, and I turn to Georgia. I take a moment to consider, before reaching for the green coat outstretched to me. A wide smile spreads across Georgia’s face as she wraps the red coat around herself, the scarf around her neck. I shove my arms through the green sleeves, and button up the coat. It fits me perfectly. I give Georgia one final hug, saying goodbye to my temporary confidant, and she holds me for a moment longer.  

We separate, and nod to each other, before I turn and walk towards to metal door leading me out into the streets of New York once again. 

 

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Flood 

I remember the feeling of the water along my skin, a curve where it meets and a tension not broken, but for movement. I remember the sounds of the water, the lapping of the waves across the surface, the push and pull of tails and weeds far below in the dark depths of the water, looking into the abyss as I fall off the cliff, still floating on the surface of the lake. I travel into the murky waters, shapes outlined in the shadows, branches of long-forgotten and submerged trees reach out, loop around my ankles, and pull me under. The pliable bark skims along my shins, the wood creaking and cracking as water forces its grasps, slimy along my smooth supple skin, pale again the darkness of the lake. The sun casts its wide net, send arrows shooting into the trench, flailing and failing to break the hold of the dirt floating around me, the years of dead skin and dead fish, leaves disintegrated and integrated back into the brown sludge that envelops me as I drop down, down, down with the branches wrapping around me, following the curves of my muscles as it slides towards my torso, arms arching and fingernails breaking against the monster, fingers not slim enough to separate the wood from the flesh, not able to give and reprieve as my shoulders give in, as my hair is tangled in the spreading branches, the floating frills along the weeds as they drag me below, as the darkness becomes natural, and the sun is no longer visible. I remember the feeling of the water as it entered my mouth, prying my lips apart and covering my molars and flowing down my throat, burning like fire as the darkness moved inside me. 

 

Lucy O'Leary

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About the Author

Lucy O’Leary is an English major on the Literature and Writing tracks at Rockhurst University. She draws inspiration from media in her life such as music and movies, and writes mostly fiction short stories and short-form non-fiction. She also draws inspiration from her favorite authors such as V.E. Schwab and R.F Huang.