Air Kissing on Mars

Visiting Janice

28 Visiting Janice Their pantry has it all: Sumatra ground, Droste Cacao, Red Zinger, cereal stale from salt air, crackers, nuts, sealed with fancy clips, nutmeg, cat food, no forgotten chips. Spooked by the wind, Percy, Hello Kitty, Coby tap to get in, charm us for treats, graze around on different couches, backs arched for petting. I love it here: guest room just so, ocean across the street pulling me out of bed, outside shower smelling of flowers and wood, my face wet against the cool Long Island air. In the evening their son, tall almost a man, hangs out with us in the kitchen Martin, her husband cooks, Janice plays her secret computer game. We talk to the son about basketball, books he should read. We talk to each other about The Who concert, how Roger Daltry looks so short, how Janice’s hair used to be just like his, how we hope tomorrow will be another perfect beach day. Janice and I, best friends since pajamas with feet; we played handball instead of class, foraged for pretzels and chocolate, greased each other’s backs. Janice on the Atlantic, me out in L.A., the screech of the subway we rode to school 29 embedded in our brains like metal pins. We are like two atoms shared in a crystal, our electrons forever sparking one to the other. We hold hands without ever touching. Hers is the face I see when I can’t feel my own. We are sisters without blood to spoil it. ...