Page 77 of Angel of Thursdays

Cassiel knew he was frowning. He stared at her, poised for an answer. It was for May. It was for the sake of writing something worthwhile in a notebook that was gifted to him. It was for saying—I listen to you, I have been listening to you. It was for doing something instead of the nothing that May wanted.

His thumb went to his ring and only felt flesh. It wasn’t there. Cassiel reached into his pockets. Not there either.

“I thought it might help. I thought he’d like it,” he said, knowing it didn’t sound like the truth.

“Uh, sure.” She looked back at him while hovering between the same two sitcoms she always defaulted to for background noise. “He’d also like… a novelty pen? Oh, or like, one of those moss ball things. He sent me a pic of that.”

Cassiel had received the same picture. The term was marimo—algae in a jar. And May would like it. He looked down at the notebook, at the laptop, at the television and then at Alexander, now biting the upholstery of an ottoman. He felt around the couch cushion, teeth gritted at the sensation of the faux-velvet against his skin. No ring.

“I want to do something.” He wanted not to be empty-handed when he showed up at May’s door. He wanted a reason to text him and the reason could not be lunch or the word howdy and it couldn’t be sorry either.

“Do it then.” Lauren shrugged. “Make a fucking mixtape or get him a moss ball.”

There was another ‘or.’

“What are you looking for?” Lauren asked.

“My ring.”

She helped him check the cushions, the floor around the couch, the hallway. It wasn’t in the apartment. He tried to retrace—when had he last touched it? On the walk down Masonic, he’d had his headphones on, his hands shoved in his pockets. Amoeba, his hands had been in the bins. Had he felt it catching on the divider cards? He couldn’t place it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been aware of it on his finger, which was more aggravating than having lost it.

But Cassiel was not going to have a meltdown over a children’s toy that cost less than a dollar to replace. It was most likely in a bin at the store, knocked loose while he was flipping through pressings. He would go back and look tomorrow.

The modern family or whoever it was on the screen bantered on, and the skylight above had changed. Or rather, the position of the sun had changed. The colored wedges were gone and the light was flat through the room. Lauren reached out one long skinny leg to hit the pedal of a standing lamp with her heel, casting low light through the dimming room. The cat had wandered away.

The notebook was still open on his lap. Lauren hummed and looked back at the television while Cassiel picked up his pen and toyed with the cap.

CINDY — Must Be Lucky

Sade — No Ordinary Love

Sharon Van Etten — Every Time the Sun Comes Up

Lyrics about broken glasses and trying. He couldn’t tell if leaving it on the mixtape would be romantic or a confession of inadequacy.

And that was it—inadequacy, too close to helplessness for comfort.

Cassiel let the pen roll into the center of the open notebook, which stayed open on his lap for the rest of the evening.

19

MAY

Sunny’s Dry Cleaning (and Laundry) occupied a strip of Fremont Boulevard between a nail salon and a place that sold hair extension, apparently singular. He’d walked past the station exit twice before he figured it out. Cassiel had told him once that Sunday was the day his father worked the shop alone—closed to customers, but the lights were on.

Sunny’s business card was still in his back pocket. He’d found it after shaking the purple notebook that morning, and after pacing around the kitchen for a pathetic amount of time, typed the address for the shop into Maps. He didn’t need it now, standing in front of the actual door, but having it on him felt right.

May carried sliced duck from Good Luck Dim Sum on Clement, boxed. He’d taken the day off and Good Luck was better for takeout anyway. He also did not want to be the guy who walked out on Seollal and kept bringing food from his workplace. This was meant to be a first step and it had to mean something that he’d picked the second hardest thing to do.

He approached the shop. The hours in the window said MON-SAT 7AM-6PM. Through the glass he could see the racks of garments in plastic sheaths, packed tight. Below the hours sat an amazing clipart sun mascot someone had layered separate clipart sunglasses onto, speech bubble proclaiming it was HAPPY TO SEE YOU. Another day, he would have taken a picture.

Minju was standing behind the counter, already looking right at him with an intensity that made her look remarkably like her brother. If May were a coward he might have dropped the bag and run, but instead he smiled and waved by the door. She walked over and hit the override button so he could step through.

“Hi,” May said.

The chemical smell went straight up his nostrils and tickled his frontal lobe. There was an enormous revolving fan going in the corner closest to the door, probably to mitigate the heat he could feel from the machines going somewhere else in the room.

“Does he know you’re here?” Minju asked, moving back behind the counter. May had been preparing his apology and the question pulled it out from under him.