Messages for Amy
The cigarette’s ashes burned for a moment, and the sparks flickered before fading into the wet sidewalk. Gene had never smoked before, and often wondered how others could so flippantly flick their leftover smokestacks to the ground. Was it the littering—or perhaps the small reminder of death taken so unseriously?
She didn’t care, nor did she want to care. Gene had enough to worry about as she flounced past strangers in her poorly constructed tabi-lookalikes and felt the hard ground against her sensitive feet.
The urge to avoid eye contact and hide from people was at an all-time high today. Thankfully, the dark sunglasses she’d procured from her landlord’s giveaway pile in the hallway covered her eyes. Somehow, the trendy '90s small-framed glasses made her delicate features look more like a cartoon than the edgy Gabriette-inspired look she usually went for.
The eyebrow piercing that hung on to three strands of eyebrow hair was a constant reminder that feeling cool sometimes meant looking ridiculous. Gene didn’t care. In fact, she was emboldened by the idea of looking different—aside from wearing eyeglasses that made her look like the food critic from Ratatouille. No one could afford that look except for the man himself.
“You have chlamydia.”
The sweat from the humid air was replaced by a cold chill running down Gene’s distorted spine. Her scoliosis and ten years of dance had not helped her small frame—just left her with aching pain and a spine people gawked at whenever she wore a swimsuit. Another reminder to look up turtleneck swimwear for surfers. And now, Gene.
“I know, I know, this is the last thing you want to hear, but I just... I had to tell you. It’s been six months, and I still think about you…” The voice on the other end trailed off.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” Gene asked carefully.
“Amy, it’s Henry. I know I should’ve called sooner, but then my doctor told me and I just spiraled—had to call everyone I’ve ever, you know… talked to. Or, well… slept with. But with you it was diff—”
“I’m not Amy,” she interrupted, hesitating. A mix of confusion and relief washed over her. This wasn’t her diagnosis. She silently thanked the Universe for the small mercy.
“Wait—oh my god. That explains everything. I was surprised you even answered! Wow, okay. Sorry. I was going to text her, but… thank you. Thank you. Bye.”
The relief in his voice was unmistakable. Gene swore to herself that she needed to stop answering unknown numbers. First, it was Amy’s ornery aunt asking why she never called anymore—and now this. A false STD claim.
She was on her way to another slam poetry night hosted at the café down the block from her apartment. Her down-the-hall neighbor was performing another half-baked idea. Gene was friendly with everyone in the building, and since her family lived far away, she quietly accepted most invites.
First, it was summer potlucks. Then it was winter soup days. Their landlord even occasionally hosted campfire support groups for single parents in the neighborhood. It was an eclectic crowd, but somehow Gene got looped into planning, bringing her crafty mocktails and teas to share.
A large figure blocked her path. Gene immediately sensed Ellen’s presence and braced for a good squeeze.
“How are you, my Genie?” Ellen said in a thick German accent. She’d moved to the city ten years ago, after living in Italy to follow an Olympic athlete lover. After his passing, she couldn’t bear staying there and couldn’t imagine moving back to her parents’ farm. So the forty-something, plus-sized woman with no kids and a heavy smoking habit moved to the city. She was now one of the longest-standing tenants in the building.
“Oh, I’m good.” Gene slowly extracted herself from Ellen’s embrace. She loved Ellen’s hugs—but aside from that, she wasn’t one for physical touch. “You wouldn’t believe the phone call I just got.”
“What happened?” Ellen’s eyes went wide. She loved a good story almost as much as she loved her two corgis.
“I got this call for someone named Amy. Again. But this time, the guy said he had chlamydia. He ghosted her six months ago and only now decided to call.”
“No!”
“Yes,” Gene said, “and get this—it wasn’t Leo. It was another guy. Harold or something.”
“I told you to change your number after that first stalker called! Nothing good comes from those corner store phone companies,” Ellen huffed.
A few months back, Gene had bought a new phone and number from the neighborhood tech shop. She’d gotten a deal—it was time to get off her parents’ plan. But T-Mobile deals weren’t in the cards, so she resorted to buying a discarded phone and an old number. Something about the previous owner “escaping her past,” the clerk had said. Gene didn’t care. She took the deal. And now she was paying the price in unsolicited calls.
“What was this girl doing anyway?” Ellen asked as they walked toward the café with its familiar booths and fraying posters.
“Who knows… but I’m glad it’s not me.”
“Cheers to that!”
Sometimes, Gene liked to splurge on Fridays after her shift at the dog grooming place. She’d straighten out the few bills she earned from grateful pet owners and count them, hoping she had at least $13. That way, she could buy the lemongrass tofu bánh mì and a Sprite from the Vietnamese spot near her apartment.
She felt the weight of her body as she rifled through her bag for ibuprofen and Tiger Balm. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, and everyone wanted their pets groomed to the gods.
The man at the register nodded at her in recognition and disappeared into the back. Despite being petite and quiet, Gene made it a point to connect with the people she saw often, especially since this restaurant had a cat.
After readjusting the sweaty bandana holding back her sharp, jet-black hair, she grabbed a Sprite and chased her meds with it. She’d apply the Tiger Balm after petting Mister Jingles, the restaurant cat.
“Hi, sweetie,” she whispered to the purring friend on the windowsill.
Something about the way Mister Jingles basked in the sunlight, his brown and white fur gleaming, made Gene envy him. She hadn’t felt that kind of rest in her body in years.
“One lemongrass tofu,” the voice called from the counter.
“Oh, and one Sprite!” Gene added, though she already held the exact amount in her hand—three clean quarters included.
“$12.75.” She slid the bills and coins across the counter with a small smile. They rarely spoke, but the exchange always felt meaningful. They saw each other.
“Thank you. Have a nice day.”
“Bye now! See you next week.” The door jingled as she exited.
She couldn’t wait to dig into the toasted soft bread and enjoy her late lunch in peace. She sat at the park across the street, close to a trash can. Gently, she picked the sprigs of cilantro off her sandwich—too soap-like for her taste. She never had the heart to ask the restaurant to leave them out. It felt wrong.
Her back tingled, her fingers reeked of peppermint rub, and the sunlight warmed her aching shoulders. A brief moment of peace.
She didn’t let herself linger long—she had somewhere to be.
“What do you mean you’re out of quarters AGAIN?” William croaked at Ellen. There was no way around the weekly spat between the two second-floor neighbors about whether the basement laundry should be free. Gene stayed out of it.
“Hi, you two.”
“Hi, Gene,” they replied in unison, before the grumpy yet sweet sixty-year-old retired professor launched into another tirade. He mostly did it out of affection. It was hard to stay mad at jovial Ellen.
Minutes later, William emerged and dropped ten gleaming quarters into Ellen’s waiting hands.
“William, thank you,” she cooed. Gene caught a smirk on his face.
“Ellen, I’ll be down in ten!” Gene called down the stairwell. She lived on the third floor and always did her laundry on Fridays—it was the quietest time, and the day Ellen was free from her neighborhood art nonprofit and could help carry things.