Too good to be true

   I’ve only seen my sweet darling father cry about soccer. Because he cheers for Atlanta United, he cries a lot. On Saturday, another artificial turf drama unfolds on our TV, and once again, Giakoumakis is on the ground two minutes into the game, rolling and howling and clutching his knee. Again, bleach-blond Saba kicks against the goal post. And now, they’re sending Etienne Jr in? We’ve already lost. 

   86 minutes in against Cincinnati, my father sheds tears into his beer, a glass full of Heineken he claims Americans water down. I, beside him on the couch, swipe left-right-left-left-left on the bee-themed dating app. Every man floating in and out my screen is a cook, comedian, or in film. They all just moved to Atlanta and need someone to show them the sights. Well, sure, I’ve got a ten-year headstart on them in this city. I’ll drive them to a bar they’ve never seen. Right now though, I don’t need barmates. I need a wedding plus-one. 

   The wedding’s in July. July is in a week. My plus-one is paid for, a seat and rosemary-basted chicken dinner reserved. All I need is to give the bride and groom a name. Like, soon. Or I’m a loser all alone.

   On the couch cushion, my glasses next to my father’s glass: without them, the TV screen blurs. I focus only on the little men in my phone. Inefficient method, like tossing a single fishing hook into the whole big gaping Atlantic ocean. 

   Final score: 1-0. We lost. My father slaps his knees. He rolls side to side. He gets up, paces, sits back down, right on my glasses. 

   “Papa!” I yell. Beneath his butt, crushed spectacles. 

***

   My father and I left home for America ten years ago. It took ten years to unpack all our stuff. Six suitcases of Soviet-printed books, mildewed clothes, hometown souvenirs -- if our things stayed wrapped in newspaper, zipped in bags, it was easier to return. Little chance of that now. 

   Now, organizing. Two closets in the apartment: I like to sort by plastic tubs, then Tetris those together and save space. 

   I fold old jerseys into tubs, and little bee notifications buzz in my jeans. Dating app matches are slow to respond, but not this guy -- Zach. Zach texts me about zinnias, his favorite flower. He’s obsessed. Did you know the petals are edible? Did you know zinnias symbolize endurance? The hottest thing a man can be is full of trivia. I invite him to dinner. 

***

   Before I leave for dinner, I unfold the final bits of our life into the closet. Crumpled at the bottom of the last suitcase, a white-blue-green polyester rectangle. 

   “Papa!” I call, holding sheer fabric against the closet’s yellow light. “What’s this?” 

   The beer glass sweats in his hand. “You don’t remember Krilya? Our soccer team? You weren’t that young then.” 

   One-handed, he push-pins the flag sideways into the closet’s back wall. 

   “Were they any good?” I ask.

   “No. They were terrible.” 

    Some complicated emotion brews behind his eyes. Something wet stings my eyes. 

***

      The restaurant is called CoCoDak. Neon signs and vinyl printouts of chicken wings and Korean corn dogs crowd the glass windows. Across the street, McDonald’s glows sick and pale against grey evening skies. Cars beep, all mad at whoever’s first in the left-turn lane. College kids and soccer moms crowd the parking lot, their silhouettes smeared by rain. 

   Only me sitting in one of four hard plastic booths. I squint at a laminated menu. What an impressive array of vegan chicken dishes.  

   Bell dings above the door. A man, in what I think is a rain jacket, floats in, sits across from me.

   “Hey. I’m Zach.” 

   My vision must be getting worse: across just a table, I can’t make out his face. Corners of it shake, tessellate, swap shapes, then shake again. 

   Nonetheless, I say: “You’re cute.”

   Him: “Aw, honey, you’re sweet. What’s good to eat here?” 

   The lone cashier brings our vegan chicken on paper trays. The glazed orange squares steam into my face. The cashier takes his lonely post behind the counter, and I hear the television on the back right wall flip through every channel.

  “So, have you lived in Atlanta long?” I ask. 

  His words hum: “I followed my queen here a year ago.” 

  “Ah man. Not over your ex, huh?” 

  “No, I --” 

   Sharp yell behind my head. The cashier leaps, arms a V above the head. 

   “What?” I ask. “What happened.” 

   “He’s just got the game on,” Zach points to the TV. “Atlanta United scored a goal.”

   “Are they winning?” 

    “Yeah, 1-0. Here, try this vegan chicken.” 

   He spears a square into my mouth. Orange glaze coats my mouth all syrupy. Delicioso. Being fed, a tender gesture not felt since babyhood. Some small knot releases in my ribcage.   

   “Do you dance much?” he asks. 

    “I used to, when I was a little girl. But not really anymore. I don’t really have, like, friends I could go with.”

    “What! No friends?” 

    “Well, I have one friend at work. We get along really well. But I just kinda keep to myself a lot. I don’t really socialize as much as I used to.”

   “Oh, honey, I can’t imagine! I live neck to neck with my friends. We all work and eat and clean together. And how we dance! Dance is the best way to talk. Dance says everything you need.” 

   Under pale restaurant fluorescence, Zach glows, sparks, buzzes like a cut wire. A vibration off his skin, a flutter from his fingers. I let myself be seduced by his strong opinions and long spiels. Bears? He hates them! Clover? Underrated! Smoking? Disgusting! I cross my ankles, plop my cheeks into both hands, and nod with wide eyes and flapping lashes, my best performance of girl. I imagine him at the wedding, making our dinner table-mates sick with laughter, me bashful and doting beside him. 

   Cashiers yelps, slaps the counter. 

    “Did they score again?” I ask.

    “Yeah. 2-0 now.” 

   And then, it’s quiet, only electronica leaking from the kitchen. Zach fidgets. Words sit stuck in my throat like unchewed bread, Willyoucometotheweddingwillyoucometothewedding, and I can’t spit them out.     

    “Do you mind if I step outside?” he asks. “I just need air for a sec. I’ll be right back.” 

    I don’t watch him from the window. That’s creepy. I can’t see that far anyway. I inspect my hands. Rain outside has cleared. An evening blush blooms warm. 

    Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Is he okay? I text with no response. The cashier slides two receipts, two fortune cookies onto the table. I crush my cookie. It’s better to be alone sometimes, it informs me. 

   Thirty minutes, and a deep sad rot has chewed up my belly. I pay the cashier for two portions of vegan chicken and step outside. 

    I stand by the crosswalk, wait for the light to change. An ache like something sprained behind my chest, but tears never come. 

    Rose bushes creep by the sidewalk, drooping from constant car exhaust, but with fat big blooms. Bees crawl through their petals. Many bees. Someone’s left a jacket atop the bush. I squint.That’s Zach’s rain jacket! Inside it, a pulsing black mass of bees.

***

   Lights off at home, save for the TV. My father hunches on the sofa, beer glass propped on one knee, blue light casting sad shadows on his face. 

    “Atlanta’s playing tonight, huh?” I ask, peeling off my shoes. “I saw they scored two goals pretty early on. Looks good.” 

  “I thought it would be.” He sighs, waves one dismissive hand. “I really thought they had a chance this time. I really, really, really did. I hoped very badly they would win.” 

   A sigh, a sip: “It’s 2-3. They lost. Too good to be true.” 

   This time, he does not cry. Even in the dark, I’m sure of it.