One Look

CW: Violence, mention of alcoholism

 

“You’re not from around here.” The cashier said. He had flat eyes and a buzzed haircut, tattoos wound around his arms, piercings in both ears, an eyebrow slit— like he’d searched up the first image he found . He looked young; fresh out of college, maybe. A kid clumsily playing grown-ups. 

 

Mary took the cigarette out of her mouth. “I was, actually.”

 

He frowned, his eyebrow slit disappearing in a furrow. “I don’t— I’ve never seen you around.”

 

Not fresh out of college, then. A kid this slow would’ve never made it to college in the first goddamn place. Mary pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen, kid, I don’t want any trouble, alright? Just do your job and mind your own business.”

 

“Uh, I have to wait for my manager.”

 

Mary sighed. She had a good guess on who the manager might be, and she’d rather not see him until she had to. “Forget it.” She put her cigarette back in her mouth and turned to walk out of there. Then life decided to throw her a little surprise.

 

The man coming towards her didn’t hesitate. There was no time taken for the recognition to set in his face, because it was already there— he must’ve saw her bike outside, god, she hoped he’s the same hot-headed kid he’s always been and didn’t think to slash her tires before storming in— and he came at her swinging. 

 

She ducked. The air hissed above her head. She jabbed back in one smooth motion. He twisted out of her way and swung again, clumsy, but someone had taught him to put his weight behind his hits and he wasn’t as bad as he used to be. She wondered how many of his bar fights she’s missed. The blow glanced off her shoulder and she teetered for a moment, off-balance, surprised, almost impressed at the fact that it actually stung. Then she pivoted and kneed him in the gut.

 

He doubled over, and she punched him in the face. He yelped, his hands coming up to hold his nose, and didn’t try to hit her again.

 

She shook out her punching hand. “Nice to see you too, Brendan.”

 

Brendan held up his middle finger. 

 

“I’ll break it.” She said.

 

He put his hand down quickly. 

 

A quiet squeal behind her reminded Mary that there was still another person to deal with in this horrible gas station. She sighed. For a moment, she indulged in the fantasy of getting on her bike, turning around, and leaving this place behind. Again. 

 

Then she thought of a girl with a guitar, her lonely silhouette a smudge of dark, painfully frail against the rising sun, and she sighed. She picked up her cigarette that had dropped on the floor during the fight. It was still burning away, so she put it back in her mouth. Then she turned around to listen to whatever the kid had to say.

 

The cashier’s eyes were wide. “That’s Benny B.” He said, unnecessarily, like he was reading off a bad script. “No one messes with Benny B. I’m calling our boss.”

 

“Quaking in my boots.” Mary said, dryly. The bag of chips was still sitting quietly on the counter, so she swiped it and threw some cash in its place before turning to leave for the second time. As she walked past Brendan, still holding his nose, her footsteps slowed despite her best efforts.

 

“How’s…” She paused. His hands had tightened into fists as soon as she’d opened her mouth. An image of a little boy on the playground overlapped with the one in front of her now, his face angry and scrunched up. Stay away from my sister, he’d yelled. 

 

“Keep her name out of your mouth.” He spat, now. “And don’t show your face around her. I’m not the only one willing to smash your skull in for her peace of mind.”

 

“Noted.” Mary said. She walked out. Her bike was by the fuel pump furthest from the store, exactly where she’d left it, tires unslashed. Same kid he’s always been. She swung her leg over the seat and turned the key in the ignition. She could turn around now.

 

A girl, her guitar, her shoulders bare despite the chilly morning air, her eyes steady, her tone carefully level. Stay a little longer, she had said.

 

You’ve been asking me that since we were twelve years old, Mary had replied.

 

I can’t leave Brendan. She’d said. 

 

And I can’t stay for you. Not forever. There was nothing else to say after that.

 

Mary sighed, cigarette smoke tumbling into the cooling evening air in a stream, grey and curling. She kicked her bike into gear and cruised in the direction of town, the road a disconcerting mirror reflection of what she’d seen, leaving, ten years ago.

 

She parked her bike near the edge of town and walked the rest of the way in. It wasn’t long before she heard the wheels-on-gravel sound she’d been listening out for— different from what she’d once known, but familiar nonetheless. A car door opened, then slammed shut. She turned around.

 

“Oi, you there.” Mason drawled. He looked the same, in a white t-shirt and jeans, a cowboy hat jauntily tilted on his head. The car behind him is black, shiny, and expensive-looking. He’d always liked his entrance fancy. “Hands up.”

 

Mary snorted and eyed his empty waist. “You don’t even have a gun.” 

 

“I don’t need one.” Mason said, amiably, and punched her in the stomach, hard. His jab was not anything like Brendan’s, and she wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. The blow was brutal and precise. It took the air out of her lungs. She doubled over, wheezing, a vicious elbow jab already on its way up and around. She was aiming for his nose, but he turned his head just in time for it to hit his jaw instead. He winced, his hat teetering, his neck making an audible pop.

 

They took mirroring steps backward, allowing space to breathe into existence between their fists and bodies. He shook out his hand at the same time she massaged her elbow.

 

“Lovely greeting from an old friend.” Mary said, once she’d caught her breath.

 

“Well, I was pleased to see you.” Mason replied. “Plus, Brendan called and asked me to bash your skull in.”

 

“I thought it might be you.” Mary said. “Nice car. Should’ve ran me over with it.”

 

Mason scoffed. “Nice try. I care about the car, not you.”

 

“Mace,” Mary began.

 

He held up a hand. “I’ll stop you there. That first one was for Evie, but if you want to get personal, I’m happy to punch you again. It’ll just be like the good old days, eh?”

 

Mary sighed. “Listen, I’m not here to fight.”

 

“Oh really? That’s funny, because you’ve been doing a ton of it.”

 

“Mace, listen to me.”

 

“No.” Mason said, his smile tight, his eyes blazing. “You listen to me. You don’t get to disappear for ten whole years and just come waltzing back like everything should magically fall into place for you. Do you know how many bottles Evie went through the first week you were gone? Fine, you left me, whatever. You were supposed to take her with you.”

 

“This place would’ve eaten me alive if I’d stayed any longer.” Mary said. 

 

“And you think it didn’t eat her alive?”

 

Low blow. It hit where it hurt. Mary reached for her pack of cigarettes with shaking hands and took one out. She lit it. Offered it to Mason.

 

“I quit.” He said.

 

She knew the answer to her next question, but she braved asking it anyway. “Since when?”

 

“The morning you left.” He said. He wiped his face with one hand and dropped his chin so that the brim of his hat was low enough to cover his face. Ten years ago she would’ve reached for him, ruffled his hair, made fun of him, threatened to take his car for a joy ride because he had a bad habit of leaving his engine running— but his car is locked down, now, no longer the beat-up truck she’d once known, and her hands could not cross the chasm between them, its silence wide and gaping.

 

Mary put the cigarette into her mouth and took a deep, deep drag.

 

“I’m not sorry.” She said, “I had to go. But I’m not sorry I came back either, and if us punching each other every day is what makes you feel better, then that’s what we’ll do for as long as you want it. I’m here to stay, Mace.”

 

He’s silent for a long time. Then he said, roughly, “sorry about your tires.”

 

Mary’s heart dropped. “You slashed them.”

 

He tilted his hat back and grinned, all signs of emotion wiped clear off his face. “I mean, what was I supposed to do, let you get away scot free? I’m not Benny. You parked your bike in the exact same place you’ve always parked it, so really, it’s your fault. And, hey, I’ll give you a free ride as an apology. Take it as a sign of good faith.”

 

“I’m going to crash your goddamn car.”

 

She didn’t crash his car, even if she really wanted to, because he’d offered to drop her off at Evie’s house. She did, however, slam the car door extra hard on her way out, vindictively satisfied at his curses (hopefully the window cracked). The crackle of his wheels on gravel echoed behind her as she walked along the neat pebblestone path that she’d helped to lay down, took the three steps up the stoop, and stood at the front door. 

 

She could still turn back, now. 

 

(A girl, her hair wild down her back, her eyes dark and expressive, her smile bright and sharp. Mary had never seen her cry. She’d only ever heard it.)

 

Mary sighed and tried the front door. It was unlocked. She walked the eight steps to the back porch, which looked exactly the same as the day she left it. Old, flaking, consisted almost entirely of wood that looked dark now, but would be golden in the sun. She hesitated in the doorway. A girl was singing there, her voice low, crooning. 

 

Eu-ry-dice,

You foolish tragedy,

Eu-ry-dice,

Why did he turn to see?

 

She was sitting on the railing with her back to the door, shoulders bare despite the evening chill. A sliver of light by the setting sun lit up her skin and made it look like something straight out of an oil painting, all soft colours and fading gold. Her voice was beautiful. It always had been. 

 

Eu-ry-dice,

Though foolish you may be,

Eu-ry-dice,

Still better off than me.

 

Mary thought of her humming in the early morning, legs bare, guitar cradled in careful arms, hair loose and wild. She realised, haltingly, that her hair was shorter than she’d ever seen it before, that it had grown and changed irrevocably in the time they’d been apart, that the hair she’d once ran her fingers through was gone, swept up somewhere, deteriorating, a pile of dust. It was such a ridiculous yet horrible thing to realise that it lodged in Mary’s throat like a pill. Hard to swallow.

 

Eu-ry-dice,

For in my memories,

Eu-ry-dice,

She never looked at me.

 

Her voice faded out into nothing. Her back was to the doorway, still. Mary opened her mouth and closed it immediately after, afraid of what would come out.

 

“You never looked back.” Evie said, quietly. “That’s all I could remember. You turned around and you didn’t look back. I watched the back of your head until you were on  your bike, I called your name, I asked you to wait, I cried, for god’s sake, I can count the number of times I’ve cried in all my life on one hand, and still you didn’t look back.” She laughed, brittle. “One look, that was all I wanted. One look and I might’ve just left with you.”

 

The air came rushing out of Mary’s lungs. This was a brutal hit, impossible to avoid, and it crashed into her like a tsunami of could’ve beens. But she had her own hard truth to give, and she couldn’t afford to crumble until it’s been received. 

 

“I thought to myself,” she said, quietly, “if I look back now, I wouldn’t have it in me to go.” A brittle laugh, not dissimilar to the one Evie had given just moments ago. “Isn’t that funny? One look and I just might have stayed.”

 

Evie’s back is rigid. They both held taut in that silence, muscles contracted, fists clenched, waiting for one of them to give first. The silence was so unbearable that Mary took a step back after just seconds of it, the old floorboards creaking under her weight, giving her away.

 

“Stay.” Evie said, suddenly.

 

Mary answered with a long pause. “Will you look at me?” She asked, finally.

 

Another fragile silence. 

 

“Are you going to leave?” Evie asked.

 

“Not until you’re ready to go.”

 

Evie took a deep breath, deep enough that Mary could see it in her back, her torso rising, expanding, lifting, then falling, contracting, settling. She turned around.

 

Writer – Amy Zuo
Editor – Jessie Lin
Artist – Linh Nguyen Dao Gia

–July 2026–