16_years kerry before bed on my first night in minneapolis iz prepared extremely strong coffee, two 8-cup coffee makers each set with timers—one for each of us. she left a note for me on the butcher block counter with the wifi password beside a little pot of sugar with a teaspoon. i got up around 9 and she and sadie slept until 11. she’s always been like that. i read on the couch and drank a whole pot of coffee, plus some of hers. it had been an especially long trip to minneapolis. i woke up slowly, surrounded by her mother’s abstract paintings, antique pillows, books, shelves holding strange objects and knickknacks. many of them are from me. when she got up we said softly, mornin, and i told her i drank some of your coffee i’ll make you more if you want. she said nah it’s fine, and i said cool, feel free to ignore me until you’re more awake. she grinned and went upstairs with her coffee. sadie was already sunning in the backyard, a floral bandana hung loosely around her neck. sadie is so soft, the color of cream with a pale brown nose and a few flecks of brown on her ears. she nuzzled and pressed herself against me when i arrived. iz said, aww, she only does that to some people, the good ones. i love all my friend’s pets. jackie calls me the dog whisperer. i stroked sadie’s velvet ears. at the park i wrestled the ball out of her mouth, not minding the little nips on my hands. i wrenched it free, or sometimes very lightly blew into her nose so she’d let go. i threw the ball and she took off. at home on the couch she opened her jaws wide like a crocodile and we wrestled and iz said she only lets matt play hard with her like that. one night the three of us went down the street where the neighbors had covered their entire yard in elaborate halloween decorations. in an attic window a silhouetted figure was hacking another to pieces, psycho-style. i wondered aloud where on earth all of this is stored the rest of the year. it reminded me that this is yet another year i haven’t gone to a haunted house. some neighbor children showed us the skeletons, witches, banshees, the rotting arms emerging from the grass. they explained to us how the creatures move and groan and hiss when you clap your hands. a boy wearing a bike helmet escorted me around announcing his favorites, how this works, what that is. this is not real scary. this is the scary one. you must be very brave, i said. some of the figures did honestly creep me out—the white, eyeless girl in a swing with her neck craned at an unnatural angle, a robot child in rags who clawed her way in desperation across the grass, a skeleton that must be 12 feet tall at least, with eyes and a ribcage that blazed orange. surrounded by pumpkins of all sizes, also scalding orange. that was my favorite. i took a picture and a 5 second video. the little boy puffed his chest out but didn’t respond at first. i’d guess he’s about four. then, an idea: look at this, and this. see? this is how you do it. the werewolf glowed red, rocking and howling. the neon blue spider jumped at the fence when the boy clapped. he was clapping his hands frantically. sadie loves children—i wish lou did—and they leaned forward, peering cautiously at her chest where one front leg is missing. i had the leash. i crouched down. this is sadie. she’s friendly. she’s very soft, i said. i stroked her spine. see? a girl stepped forward and ran her hand along sadie’s coat. two adults i assumed were parents stood by, half smiling. they asked the predictable question, the one iz hears constantly: what happened to her leg? iz said in her fading alabama drawl, i dunno, we adopted her. she came that way. she’s never known any different. one long-haired boy, the tallest, remarked, she seems to get along fine. yep, she’s got all the legs she needs, i said. that’s right, iz said brightly. she’s a tri-pawed. the adults laughed. sadie made her way patiently along the row of children, sniffing, pressing her wet brown nose into their palms. they shrieked and giggled but didn’t move, seeming to want more. she must smell the dairy queen on us, said the woman. her eyes were glittering in the dark. the children echoed, the dairy queen! she likes dairy queen! she likes lots of stuff, iz said. after touring the display we walked back to the house, laughing— that’s about enough i can take of little kids yep, that was plenty. a couple blocks later she turned to me and said hey—i said WE adopted her. just my impulse, since usually i’m with matt. and you had the leash. i betcha anything they think we’re together. there are plenty of pride flags around this area. we were cackling like witches. a couple of cranky old lesbians with their three legged dog— let’s go home sweetheart, she said, and we burst out laughing again. i have shared a room, a bed, with iz before. i have traveled with her in spain and france. i have rubbed her back while she puked violently into my toilet after too much fun. she was on the phone with my mother constantly when i was in the hospital with encephalitis. we have cried our eyes out in front of each other. so many novels and mixes and drawings mailed across countries and continents, thousands of emails, nearly identical nabokov collections. we both have them all. her favorite is Pnin. mine was Ada, but i should revisit. and i’ve never understood how you could prefer Pnin over Lolita, but that’s just me. during our class on Pale Fire in college we were in a constant state of bliss and euphoria. we were roommates at that point. that year on halloween we saw Pylon at the variety playhouse. i was a praying mantis and she was hunter s thompson. so many grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup, that particular salad with gorgonzola and candied pecans at carroll street cafe, picnics in the graveyard, BLTs at the counter at little’s grocery, a mutual passion for duke’s mayo. how did we become friends in college? we’ve wondered idly together. i had been a late transfer. you lived on the second floor and i was on the first. no, we were both on the second floor. are you sure? you’re probably right, my memory is shit. jo told me there was someone i should get to know. a bookworm writer like me. i just thought you seemed cool and i wanted to be your friend. many firsts. it is a different kind of love, and this is what makes the lesbian joke so funny—but probably only to us. on the last night she made mussels and frites, a meal we’ve eaten together i don’t know how many times. at carroll street cafe, at ziba’s, in paris when she was living in an annex so small she hung her dresses from nails on the wall and the shower was too narrow to bend down in. i asked if i can help. she said please don’t. i mean can i cut a thing or wash something— no, i know it sounds strange but i hate having help in the kitchen. what you can do is sit at the table and talk to me while i cook. so i did the dishes. 211020 what's it to you? who go blather from