Thirst 
by Chris Cooper

	The blinding light from the Frigidaire beams, a humming blaze fluorescing Lacey’s face as she stands, staring into the refrigerator glow with a vacant gaze. Clasping the cold chrome handle, she rubs her stomach, swaying in a trance; she forgets what she’s doing for a few moments, lost in illumination as her eyes droop.
	She’s hungry, no, she’s thirsty; she remembers now as she cocks her head, scanning the shelves for something to catch her attention, something appealing to satisfy her appetite. It’s got to be tasty too; she’s not settling, she tells herself as she hangs, pulling on the door with an outstretched arm. Her mouth, an arid landscape, her tongue, skidding against a parched palate, grinding in pursuit of moisture; she’s high, stoned actually. She doesn’t do drugs anymore, no, not since she got over depression and her paralegal job randomly tests for amphetamines and opiates.
	She can’t think of anything she really wants to drink, besides a fountain soda, a Sierra Mist from Taco Bell. But that’s going to require effort to attain, like finding her keys and putting on shoes, utilizing fine motor skills to drive. And it’s not driving while impaired that’s a turnoff, since it’s just down the road, no, it’s the fear of being judged by the drive-through worker; he’ll know for sure she’s high, handing her a soft drink with scolding eyes, and she’d rather die of thirst than be subjected to scrutiny. The last thing she needs is paranoia, an anxiety attack, especially while she’s baked. Besides, she knows she should just stay home and practice gratitude like her life coach advocates, appreciate what she does have instead of focusing on what she lacks.
	The drone of the appliance resounds as Lacey idles in her daze. Glimmers of a glistening Coca Cola can command her attention, like a polished fire truck pulling up to a dumpster fire, the only soda left in the organizer on the middle shelf. 
	She imagines sipping the fizzy, tasty liquid, the cooling sensation of crisp carbonation slipping down her esophagus and cozying up in her stomach like it used to do on pizza nights as a kid. And the caffeine is probably just what she needs to stay up until 2 A.M. to finish binge watching season 5 of The Handmaid’s Tale, but it’s the thought of artificial sweetness lingering around for too long that freaks her out, the saccharine syrup coating her cheeks and sticking to her teeth, eroding her enamel.
	Itchy eyes sting, drier than her phone, so she flutters them for temporary relief, hoping a flicker might release a tear or two, if she has any left; a cleanse is what she needs, something to wash away the pain, the inconvenience, the reminders of words left unsaid to her estranged mother and failed aspirations of becoming an actress. Raising heavy hands to her face, she digs her knuckles into her eyelids, burning orbs with hopes of lubrication, thinking self-inflicted pressure might work this time; but she’s really not much of a talker though, even when she’s not high, and she would have never made it in the heat out in Hollywood, she knows. 
	She’s in dire need of a beverage though, that’s obvious, but not the light beer on the bottom shelf, no, she doesn’t like booze as much, not since Josh shoved his penis into her mouth at college, a perpetual buzzkill. And she probably should have been less drunk and more vehement in her refusal while they were kissing as he kept pushing her head towards his crotch.
	It was her fault anyway, her roommate told her who had been friends with Josh since high school. She had been drinking and flirting all night, practically asking him to ravage her with her promiscuous dance moves, Jillian suggested. It was just a small act of humiliation to be able to attend the biggest ragers at Kappa Alpha, only a few uncomfortable minutes of oral intercourse to reap social benefits, she told her. Irrumation is the medical term for the act, her therapist later disclosed; but it doesn’t define her, not anymore. Now it’s just a repressed memory she’s reminded of every time someone touches the back of her neck and when she sees a Facebook post of Josh’s wife holding their child with a heartfelt smile.
	There’s eye level applesauce on the center shelf of the fridge, which makes her feel warm with its radiating yellow label, like embracing summer sunlight. But she’s not sold on its consistency, its globby texture, and she remembers over a decade ago when she found spiders in her applesauce while tripping on magic mushrooms. And she’s no arachnophobe, no, she’s against bigotry in all forms and once even shared a rainbow fist post with multiple social justice hashtags on Twitter to defeat discrimination.
	The dry mouth is getting worse as she licks her chapped lips, scratching her tongue against a cracked canvas, a desperate search for residual saliva. She’s going to need a drink, she’s pretty sure, and she’s thinking one of the colorful Capri Suns would be great; yeah, that might wet her whistle. Her roommate downs them before Peloton workouts, the new environmentally conscious ones with paper straws taped to the front; the gleaming pouches stand on the top shelf, saluting like soldiers with miniature rifles. But she’s thinking sweet juice concentrate will probably make her want to puke, and she hasn’t done that since she was a teenager, no, not since Krissy Telle called her “fat” in front of everyone in middle school, a permanent appetite suppressant. She’d drink a Capri Sun every day after that at the lunch table and devour a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, only to force fingers down her throat in the bathroom later that day; the projectile vomit coating the toilet bowl like an abstract painting of teenage angst; the tawny swirls swilling like a kaleidoscope of emotions after she flushed, wiping her mouth on her Hollister long sleeve. 
	“Blee, bleep. Blee, bleep.”	
	The faint chimes of the refrigerator’s open-door alarm disrupt her languorous daydream, inducing a slight panic, an urgency, like she really needs to decide. But she’s not ready, no, she can’t fathom making another bad choice. 
	The towering gallon of strawberry milk on the middle shelf draws her eye, like maybe it’s the safest option, since she used to drink it as a baby. Pursing her lips, she debates twisting off the cap, taking a big wholesome swig, liquid leaking from the corners of her mouth. But she knows it will taste too much like childhood, conjuring up memories of an emotionally unavailable mom and an absentee father. Well, he was present, but only through presents and magic tricks, compensating with gifts and gimmicks for quality time until finally disappearing to elope with his mistress, his final act.
	“Blee, bleep. Blee, bleep.”
	Uncomfortable cotton mouth and the cries of a neglected appliance pressure her like time is running out, but she’s not going to let anything force her to do something she doesn’t want to anymore.
	Her back pocket rumbles, rattling her rumination; it’s probably one of her morning alarms, she assumes, since she always forgets to change P.M. to A.M..
	It’s a private number calling, she notices, listening as she holds the device up to her ear; the screen still warm from when she was scrolling minutes ago, pressed against her upper cartilage piercing.
	“Hello, my name is Daniel. I’m calling to see if you’re ready to accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?” a milky voice asks.
	“Whaaaaat?” Lacey drawls, trying to clear the cobwebs of her mind.
	“Hi, I’m Daniel, and I’m calling to see if you have time to talk about Jesus?” 
	Minutes go by, seconds actually, carrying silence, and Lacey can’t remember who the last person was to speak in the conversation.
	“Hi, how are you?” Daniel inquires, his voice still echoing with eagerness.
	“Huh?” 
	She’s forgotten her lines, like she usually does, and she can’t tell if she’s breathing too loud or if she should hang up right away and call 911.
	A nervousness swarms, an uncomfortable heating in her chest; she’s feeling accused, seen as some sort of sinner, since she doesn’t have much of a relationship with God anymore. 
	“Hi, how are you?” 
	“How high are you?!” Lacey shouts before hanging up, shoving her phone into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. 
	She won’t notice the vibrations if he calls back, since she’s wearing an oversized pullover, but the damage is already done. Palpitations proceed, rattling her chest like echoes from the soul, ripples of the subconscious; the ground crumbles beneath her, pieces falling out with each staggered breath, an intensity of fear; she’s way too fucking high.
	“Blee, bleep. Blee, bleep.”
	The refrigerator pleads, so she focuses back, squinting her eyes as she resumes deliberation, an emergency distraction. 
	She knows she should just fill up a glass of water to calm her nerves, since hydration is important; she knows she should try to be healthier, she tells herself. Maybe she should eat the banana that’s hanging on the door’s shelf since it’s going to go bad soon; she needs nourishment, but its phallic shape is the last thing she wants in her mouth. The fortune cookie from the leftover Chinese food catches her eye, its wrinkled plastic package glinting in the refrigerator light. She’s thinking she should open it for the fortune, even if she’s not interested in eating, since she’s always looking for signs, in constant pursuit of meaning. 
	Darting eyes dance from one food item to the next, from perishables to condiments in no hierarchical order, climbing from section to section until she finds the whipped cream dispenser on the top shelf of the door. Locking eyes on the canister like she’s been looking for it all along, she snatches it, biting the plastic top off and spitting the red cap out. Holding the can with both hands, splatter froths the tips of her hair as she squirts creamy dots and a curved line onto the front of the crisper drawer; it’s grocery graffiti, a frosted happy face since she’s been told to smile her entire life, especially by unprovoked strangers.
	Kicking off her faux fur slipper, she sticks her left foot out, a precarious Hokey Pokey, holding up exposed, vulnerable feet, her pedicure already peeling. Dousing them in whipped cream, she pulls out her smartphone once again. Raising her device, she focuses on her gooey toes and takes a pic, content creation for her OnlyFans, guaranteed to satisfy fervent subscribers with foot fetishes. She goes by Torri, but it’s not her real name, obviously, because Torri figured out a way to capitalize on the hedonistic urges of men, turning carnal desires into compensation, enough to cover utilities and a monthly manicure.
	Dropping the can, she spots the lone stick of butter stuck inside the clear plastic box, a life sentence in confinement, and Lacey knows what it feels like to be put inside a box, people have been doing it to her for her entire life. She swipes the butter out from the compartment and pulls back its wax paper. Feeling pretty, she applies the dairy product like lipstick, maneuvering with her right hand, massaging into every aching crevice. She spreads the churn, circling the edges, just like her mom used to do when she made toast, a core memory she keeps closest to her heart, watching Turner Classic Movies as she munched.
	Lacey’s made a mess, but that’s all right, since she’s been cleaning up for as long as she can remember. It’s time to finally embrace the madness, she decides, the unseemly and arbitrary, since it’s impossible to control the uncontrollable, no matter how hard she tries. And there’s no expiration date on stored trauma, even if it’s shoved into the back of the fridge to forget about. It can only be hidden for so long, behind the other commodities, the distractions and void-fillers. Even if it’s concealed for years, tucked away in the substratum of the brain, it never really goes away; it still needs to be thrown out, discarded before it spoils and contaminates its surroundings, ruining any chances of creating meaningful relationships or genuine moments. So, Lacey drops the blob with its paper still peeled, since it’s not about the butter, it never was; it’s about letting go, whether it’s the past or things that no longer serve her, like remembrances and regrets, giving herself permission to finally heal, before it’s too late.
	Once again, her smartphone becomes her companion as she lets the refrigerator door close, consummated with a whooshing vacuum seal. Holding the device up and away, positioning herself in an optimal pose, she puckers her oozing lips, a beautiful disaster, dripping in absurdism. Tilting her head downward, she shifts her weight to her opposite leg to accentuate the glutes, her most appealing asset, an ex-boyfriend once told her. And one day her and Krissy Telle might even wish each other a “Happy Birthday” on Facebook, and she’ll hash things out with her parents, yeah, maybe even nail an audition instead of getting ghosted, only time will tell. 
	But for now, she gestures a peace sign and snaps a pic, emitting a blazing light, like the first ray of dappled sunshine after a storm. It’s a moment she feels seen, alive in the flash, no longer a supporting character but the protagonist of her own story; free from memories, she’s happy in this instance, basking in ephemeral bliss. Capturing a perfect filterless selfie, one that’s destined to get over 500 likes with fire and heart face emoji comments, she posts it to her Instagram for recognition. It’s a substitute for connection, a burst of dopamine and oxytocin; sustenance in the form of social validation, the only thing that can quench her thirst.



CHRIS COOPER's 2020 short story "Finn Almost Buys a Goldfish" won the 'Emerging Writer’s Award' at Spank the Carp Magazine, and his short story “The Swim” was recognized as the Best in Fiction for 2019 at Across the Margin. His work has also been featured in Hash Journal, Expat Press, Bookends Review, and elsewhere.



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