Page 44 of Angel of Thursdays

The purple notebook was in his backpack. May hadn’t opened it today, hadn’t needed to. The purple notebook was for purple things, which originally had just been his word for ‘other.’ The last entry, from the kitchen counter a few nights ago, wasn’t a list or a checkbox or even a joke he wanted to remember to tell Cassiel next time. Today was next time. The sentence was orphaned on a blank page and all it said was: I think this is the happiest I’ve been since.

He’d not drawn a checkbox or finished the thought. He’d dropped a period on the end of it and left it sitting there where it belonged. Purple things, purple thoughts, purple day.

* * *

Back in his apartment, alone with himself again. The new shirt was on the bed, folded, waiting for Christmas. May flopped back onto the bed next to it, holding the green notebook open, arms held high. His vision swam for a second, then focused on his handwriting.

You’re not going home for christmas and new years (both)

The ‘both’ was the thing. He’d written it the way he wrote everything when it came to his parents. Dad had called up a few weeks ago after May walked out on Thanksgiving, gentle and reasonable: “It’s probably best if you don’t come this year.” Meaning: Don’t antagonize your mother. It was Anthony Huang quietly managing a loud situation. It hadn’t been a blow-up or anything. In fact, it had been fine for most of the night. Then his mother had said something, and that had annoyed May, and May had said something that annoyed her more, and then May had thought about that skeleton meme about just walking out, and did.

The Lims didn’t know. Cassiel didn’t know. Why would they? Cassiel’s mom had said “when you come for Christmas” and the ‘when’ was the biggest thing anyone had said to him in months, bigger than the kiss, bigger than the payment notification, because ‘when’ assumed he existed in a future tense and the future tense was not something May’s brain offered as a standard feature. And that invitation, if you called it that, had come before May even knew he wasn’t going home for Christmas.

Or maybe some part of him had known even then.

He closed the notebook and tossed it in the vague direction of his nightstand. He fished out his phone from under his ass and tried to find something cute or funny to send to someone. His eyes landed on something else instead. He sat up, criss-cross-apple-sauce, and opened up his text thread with Cassiel.

May

Hey so what size shoes do 6 y/os wear? I have an IDEA

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

OPPA

Why?

May

Trust me!!

OPPA

?

May

OPPA~ please

OPPA

Don’t call me oppa.

Size 1.

May

Fav color?

OPPA

Red.

May smirked at the screen.

Outside, Balboa Street’s Christmas lights blinked through the blinds. Red, green, red.

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