Bear

Photo by Lukas Schroeder on Unsplash

It was a strange idea for a vacation. The strangeness attracted Sophie and worried Ben, though he was determined not to reveal his feelings to his fiancé, a word Ben liked to say as often as possible, like when he lost his virginity at twenty, and he immediately told all his roommates at GW to prove he was like them, normal. Sophie had seemed so enthused about the vacation too, packing early, raiment nicely folded, tiny toothpaste, long-forgotten heels. These days, meaning the months since her brother’s death, she’d lost all interest in traveling anywhere.

The couple waited for their luggage at the airport in Bozeman, Montana, near a bronze statue of a bear. They stood close, but they did not touch. Sophie’s red bun had flopped on the plane, and she had the same anodyne look she’d adopted for some time, which to Ben resembled the lonely woman in that Thomas Eakins painting, gazing out the window, waiting for her lover to return. However, that picture was not by Thomas Eakins. It was by Edward Hopper, and the model was a painter, his wife.

Sophie pointed to the rental car line. A nearby tourism sign said: Get Lost (in Montana).

I didn’t think Montana would be so crowded, she said.

It’s good that it’s popular, Ben said, squeezing her hand. I’m relieved.

He said there wouldn’t be any tourists, she persisted.

That’s what you get for listening to Jesús.

The other dimension was Jesús’s idea. Jesús and Kitty were photojournalists in DC who’d been close with Sophie’s older brother, Alexei. Since Alexei’s death last fall, the couple often invited Sophie and Ben over for dinner. Ben tried to get out of these dinners. They were late and boozy, in a part of the city he did not often visit. Unlike Ben and Sophie’s new condo, tastefully decorated with prints from Ben’s college European art class, the photojournalists’ apartment felt as intimate as being inside a mouth. The musky space was packed with strangers, Dadaist books, photos of war, erotic prints with actual nipples, vinyl, an overall sense of disturbance. Ben’s accounting job with DEA inevitably came up and was not-so-gently mocked.

It had been a warm spring night in the District. Before dinner, the group went to drink on the fire escape, the platform on the third level with grated steps teetering into the alley. Sophie and Jesús sat on the platform, sharing a bottle of raicilla. Ben balanced a few steps below them with a glass of water. Kitty was in the alley, smoking and heckling gentrifiers. She wore a black leotard, steep heels, and fishnets, her tattooed thighs illuminated by the streetlights.

Kitty, what about Bali? Sophie called down.