Lotus: Sublime

You approach the man leaning outside the door of the women’s restroom because he seems like your best friend’s type. This is the only stop for ages down I-29, and it’d be a thirty minute drive to the closest department store. His red hair is tire-tracked back, his body scrawny like a newborn doe, his floral shirt reeking of the dumpster. Violet would’ve loved the gauntness of his cheeks, the perpetual grimace, the way he looked away when you made eye contact. She liked skinny men with some bite to them.

“It’s late for a lady like you,” he says, spitting on the floor. The headlights nearby shine fluorescent against his hair. In the distance, neon signs light archways and skyscrapers like casinos. 

“My name is Siyu.”

He shakes his head and smiles to himself. “Si-yu,” he says, chewing the syllables. “That’s a beautiful name. Like a lotus flower.”

This is a meaningless statement. Men are always saying things like this, because they believe themselves to be wise in a way girls can’t understand. But you let him feel clever, because you know you are every man’s wet dream. Thin enough to look snappable, bangs slightly covering your eyes, your cheekbones sharp. Your button-up tucked into your slacks, oversized enough to make you feel business in a casual way. Enigmatic, but not inscrutable. Roguish without being rough. Vulnerable, yet never too self-depreciating. Beautiful enough to a conquest, but never too ethereal. You should be grateful, really, to look like this, to entice men like him. A million women would kill to be like you.

—

Four years ago, you were sixteen, and Violet encouraged you to place the emancipation papers in front of your father, so you did. Your father had read the document and signed it without a second glance, before he returned to the screen. You had returned to your best friend in the park near your bus stop, your freedom in your hands, and she said, “I’m so proud of you, Siyu.” She smiled serenely.

Violet claimed she was going to become a nun when she got older. She said she was going to give up all earthly desires, so she ate stale bread for a month before her mom caught wind of it. She had a collection of dresses that all looked identical, and she spent an hour before church picking out the perfect one. She meditated for an hour every Wednesday, and she’d proudly recounted the time she sat on the street throughout a winter night, observing everyone and everything, and she said she hadn’t even felt the cold. 

“But you still eat cake,” you pointed out after she told this story. “You still had a boyfriend.” 

She looked at you, disappointed, like you hadn’t understood the message. This annoyed you, but it was difficult to be mad at her. Violet acted like she was forever peaceful, placid. The teachers loved her, your parents loved her—it was so easy to fall in love with a girl who didn’t act contrary. When you were in class, you liked watching the neat, confident strokes of her handwriting, her slicked-back ponytail, the straightening of her skirt whenever she got up. 

“That,” your father said, “is how a girl should act.” 

You did not tell Violet this, but she was part of why you wanted to free yourself from your parents. You would never be as good of a daughter as she was, never be able to gain the same gravitational pull, and some part of you whispered it was related to the shape of your eyes, the slightly tanner skin, the jade necklace you wear. It was unfair to think, because there were plenty of Chinese girls who were able to command the attention of a crowd, but they were always so loud and brash. Violet could do the same thing with a monotone word. Maybe some Chinese girls were meant to be the ones who could do something, and you were meant to be the type to blame everyone around you instead of changing. 

—

When the red-haired man touches you, you remember your last sleepover with Violet. She asked you to help put on her necklace, and your hand brushed against her neck. She played truth or dare with you, her collarbones halfway exposed by the cut of her pajamas, and you wanted to kiss her. Did she feel this way when she was around her boyfriend? It seemed impossible, that she could feel an emotion so intense toward a boy, that she could want so deeply. 

His hands do not feel like hers, but you relish the feeling of his calluses anyway. This is what Violet would’ve liked. You couldn’t imagine her expressing pleasure, in the same way you can’t imagine her expressing hate. There might be a soft gasp, a delicate smile. You replicate her tranquility. 

Afterward, he sits next to you on the bench. “You’re sublime,” he says. “Sublime.” 

“Thank you,” you say politely. Your limbs feel stiff, and you fold your hands in front of you. When he says sublime, you know he means exotic, but you are too tired to be righteous. You refuse to whine about your life, because you’re sure you have a far richer life than he does, even though he is thinking he’s successfully used you for your body. But you still knew about the stink of his breath, cataloged the ugly scars on his back, noted the bacterial nest in his facial hair. You still held the power to walk away right then, could’ve pulled out a knife whilst he was most vulnerable, should’ve sliced off his hands. He wouldn’t have expected it from a lotus flower. 

Is there anything more dangerous than a Chinese woman? You should start a revolution. No one would even see you until you’ve struck.

—

On the last day of high school, Violet said, “I’m moving upstate for college. I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want to see you upset.” 

You had told her that you bought an RV with all the money you could get for yourself; you wanted to explore the world with her. You explained she could eschew all of her material possessions, all of her desires, and they could just drive. She didn’t get excited like you thought she would.

Violet smiled sadly. “You didn’t know, Siyu? I can’t actually be a nun. I want to build a family. A future.” 

She looked past you, her gaze fixed on the window. You couldn’t see yourself in the reflection of her eyes—just the red car headlights beyond the both of you, but the lights had never seemed dimmer.