There’s a word for what we did last night.

There are hand-stitched scarlet letters

Scaffolds, stonings, state laws

There’s a word for it and we did it. Laws and we’re guilty. We kissed and he said oh my God, this can’t happen, this can’t be happening, and it did. And we turned off the lights anyways.

.....

I fell down a rabbithole. But that’s not what they say. Well, they do say I fell. First lovely spring day and I was supposed to be listening to my lessons in things I can’t remember, but I ran off instead, and I fell. They say I slipped off the bank, smashed somewhere at the bottom of the riverbed, but how can they make these things up when I was there, I know. That I fell and fell, on and on, surely it must have been some sort of rabbithole, and it was very dark, and sometimes I was upside down, and sometimes I was right side up, and there were other things falling with me—books, umbrellas, tea pots, rabbits—yes, surely it was a rabbithole. A rabbit with a pocket watch, he’s here too, in a room down the hall. I fell so long I can’t remember—perhaps they’re right and I fell asleep, knocked unconscious by the fall, I don’t know, all I know is that when I landed, woke up, whatever happened, the world was different.

They say I lost my mind.

That I see things that aren’t there.

But they come to my room and give me vials and pills and some make me grow larger and larger until my legs and arms are shooting out the windows and I’m calling out for help, and some make me very, very small so that I can escape through the gap beneath the door and into the wild world beyond. Only the paths are constantly changing and I can never find my way.

Where I live now, there are others like me, they say. Like the rabbit with the clock, always late for something and jumping up from the table with a glance at his pocket watch, making a dash for the door. The Mad Hatter and his assistant sing to my un-birthday every day of the week and make a business of fixing watches, cracking open the rabbit’s pocket watch and filling it full of butter and grape jam. They’ve been here a long time, they say. And in their voices I hear, and so will you.

There are other rooms. Rooms full of playing cards—arms and legs affixed to flabby bodies, aces and spades, diamonds and hearts. They shuffle and deal and sing terrible songs of losing their heads. Rooms lorded over by a Queen of Hearts—one day she has us painting the roses red, the next day, white, and some days we play croquet with flamingos as mallets, a rainbow of pathetic little hedgehogs as balls. When I stoop to pet the hedgehogs instead of taking my turn, when I paint the roses the wrong color and cry out in terror that the Queen will chop off my head, they take me away to another room. A room where I’m all alone, but for a grinning set of teeth that appear high up on the wall, at my feet, behind my head. Sometimes they talk to me, ask me confounding questions or accost me with riddles that leave me reeling. Sometimes they only laugh and laugh, a pink tongue appearing as the high pitched sound bounces off the walls, ridiculing my fears that the Queen reappear and command the Ace of Spades, off with her head. But sometimes I wish she’d just take it. Sometimes I feel she already has.

They say I lost my mind, that I see things that aren’t real.

“You’re not real!” I cry. And it’s true. Who ever heard of birds wearing spectacles, with scissors for beaks, or lampshades for heads?

“I want to go back to where everything is real. I haven’t lost my mind, I’ve only lost my way. I want to go home!”

“We know,” they say, “we know.”

But all the doors are strung with alarm bells, and no one ever points the way home.

“I think it’s invite only,” I text from the other side of the Clarendon Street playlot’s wrought iron fence.

Nonsense, he assures me, but he can’t see the thirty-odd children, digging trenches in the sand as they race in weaving patterns, up ladders, down slides, around plastic play equipment, and between their business attire-clad parents, who chat over red plastic party cups and paper plates.

Finally I give the gate a noncommittal pull, ready to sprint away as if I suddenly remembered my invite was for the other playlot if it doesn’t open.

It doesn’t open. Just as I prepare to back away, someone comes up behind me and unlocks the fence, swinging it ajar and holding it so I can wedge Charlie’s stroller through the opening. He shows me the latch at the top. “Just so you know for next time,” he says with a smile.

No one approaches us as we head toward the empty side of the playground – no one asks to see our invite or calls security or shouts, “INTRUDERS!” or puts down their drinks to glare at us. In fact, no one notices us at all.

I park the stroller by the nearest bench, and Charlie and I stand side by side, staring at the children swarming like classmates in a schoolyard at recess. Charlie’s playground in London had been built into an old cemetery – gravestones still lined the mossy, crumbling brick walls – and most days pigeons outnumbered children. I wonder if he’s remembering his British days as he stands there next to me, kicking shyly at the sand and pulling at his pant ties.

I give him a little push, “Go play.”

But he doesn’t move and I don’t try again.

Sometimes he looks up and gives me a shy smile and we both laugh at nothing.

This isn’t a playlot. This is a playground-themed cocktail party. This is G-rated after-work drinks. And we’re the awkward couple that can only talk to each other.

“Charlie, how was your day at school?”

“Yeah,” with a giggle. Silence. He points at a little girl on the playground. “Eh,” giggle.

Oh, yes, mm hmm, I agree.

“Eh, car.”

Yes, a lot of cars out today.

We’re killin’ it. The others refill their party cups, load their plates with carrot sticks and ranch dressing, dish out juice boxes.

“Cars!”

“Cars.”

“Yyeah!” He points at the little girl again and laughs, looking to me to laugh with him.

We’re that couple in the corner. The ones that talk about everyone else because they can’t bring themselves to talk to them.

Meanwhile two groups of boys meet on our side of the playlot.

“Wanna play spies with us? Our secret hideout is over there!”

“Now we know where your secret hideout is!”

The lead spy recognizes his mistake with a nervous chug of his juicebox. Now that they know where his secret hideout is they must play spies with him. He tells them they’ll be double agents. Three little girls in dresses sneak up the slide behind them. The playhouse has been toppled. A blue plastic phone hangs off the hook. The spies get to work, crawling on their bellies, ducking down behind transparent playground equipment.

And the Friday cocktail hour revelers chat on unaware.

He wasn’t invited to play spies, his networking skills are as sad and absent as mine, and he wants to go home. “Milk. Eat. Teddy. Home.”

We slip out of the Clarendon Street playlot unnoticed.

The girl in Section 22, Row 1, Seat 18 has never been to a Boston Celtics game. And it’s her birthday. And she’d really like them to win. So goes the paragraph of word-processed, hand-cut, glued on text coating both sides of her makeshift sign. Or, rather, the manila file folder coated in Google images that she holds by a taped-on comb from school picture day. The first three rows are speckled with grateful gift recipients. Across the court, a sign written in three-inch sparkly blue letter stickers rises from the third row every so often to proclaim, “BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT EVER! Thanks Mom and Dad! ARMY STRONG!” In the second row of Section 1, the next section over, a woman turns around to defend her husband from the cackling green-shirted beer drinkers in Row 3.

“It’s his birthday!”

“Ohh . . . HAPPY BIRTHDAY!,” they all shout in drunken unison.

“That’s why he’s got such a tall, fruity drink,” she adds, indicating the two-foot-high, weakling’s-dumbbell-shaped novelty glass of strawberry daquiri clutched in her husband’s hand.

“And my twin’s over there!” He points to a man standing at the other end of the row, “Over the Hill” birthday hat slightly cockeyed as he finishes off his plastic beer cup. The joke falls flat, but the point is clear: in the first three rows, it seems like it’s everyone’s birthday.

But the girl in Section 22, Row 1, Seat 18 – her sign says it’s her birthday four times. It’s really her birthday, and she wants the world to know. At least, she wants the man with the Jumbotron camera to know, and Celtics #41, Kelly Olynyk, if he happens to turn around and see his shoulder-length hair and headband featured five times on her file folder. Each time the buzzer sounds to announce the end of a play, she’s on her feet, desperately hoisting her sign in one hand and waving the other, first at each player who looks her way, then in all directions of the arena, green eyes flashing from the Jumbotron to the sections and rows of full seats, in search of the man with the camera.

Play after play, she reclaims her seat, posts an update to Facebook or checks for new likes and comments, maybe a couple last minute birthday posts, devours a spoonful or two from her melting pile of chocolate ice cream, glances at her phone again, checking for chocolate smudges in its reflective surface, and, finally, scoots to the edge of her seat to watch with mouth open the game taking place only four feet in front of her. In the last audience pan, the Jumbotron man skipped over her color-printed Google images for the girl in Section 13, Row 1, long, straight hair falling over her cell phone and black dress, ignoring both the game and the grubby little boys to either side of the fringes of her fur-lined coat. One boy took a bite from the remnants of a hot dog, the other stared at the floor – none of the three realized they’d been put on view as a dysfunctional Norman Rockwell for approximately 17,000 spectators.

In Section 22, Row 1, Seat 18, the dedication to green is uncanny. She’s lucky with the eyes, the tight, green Celtics T-shirt is a given, but in her green nails, beads, and braces, she’s a spectacular eyesore to the sparse gathering of Oklahoma City Thunder fans in the audience. And she’d be even more so if she could get on screen.

“Where’dya get your glasses, Scottie? Westbrook give ‘em to ya?” Row 3 directs this outburst at the suited man in Atticus Finch glasses at the end of the court. And maybe they’re right – Scott Brooks, Oklahoma City’s head coach of six years, joined the team the same year as point guard Russell Westbrook, who turned out to be something of a “fashion pioneer” when he garnered attention at a press conference with his thick-rimmed, lens-less red glasses and patterned polo, colorful fish-hook design suggesting an intention to capture every one, and two, of Dr. Seuss’s red fish and blue fish. When asked why he chose to wear glasses without lenses, Westbrook responded, “I see better without ‘em.” Today the glasses have their own Facebook page, Westbrook has the attention of high-profile designers, and even the Thunder’s head coach seems to be getting into the trend. Maybe the Jumbotron is looking for fashion statements, and in Section 22, Row 1, Seat 18, unless her braces lack wires because, “her teeth get straighter without ’em,” green just isn’t cutting it.

There are fifteen seconds left and the Celtics are clearly losing.

“Siddown, Scottie!” from Row 3, as Brooks jumps up to debate the results of another foul on the part of Olynyk. Meanwhile, down Row 1 from Seat 18, a man complains about his seats “in the penalty box.”

“What’s wrong?” simpers his wife, “I thought I got you guys good seats. Next time I guess I’ll take you to the Knicks.”

The Celtics lose 83-101 and the girl in Section 22, Row 1, Seat 18 lowers her manila folder for the final time. She shrouds her green in a black Northface and enters the aisle all of her birthday “twins” and the drunken spectators from Row 3. The mass exodus breaks apart onto the frigid streets of mid-January Boston and into the North Station trains beneath the arena. It was only her first Boston Celtics game. Maybe next time she’ll earn her 15 seconds of fame. And maybe next time they’ll win.

You would have done it too, I know, if you’d seen them together. They had the same eyes, for God’s sake, the same beady pig eyes. I never noticed she had such unsightly little things in her face until she brought him home. The two of them together—my God. See, Suzie and I were roommates. Still are, I guess, seeing as her name is still on the lease and all. Four years of college together, the best years of our lives and all that, and going on two years in the city. You know, she worked for one of those fake companies, peddling nail art online or something like that. I’m in grad school. Was in grad school. Let’s be real, I’m in the clinker. But, look, Suzie was always a real nice girl, we had years of margarita rounds together, a lot of fun nights making up names for the boys at the shuffleboard bar, sending our pucks flying at the glasses of boys we were sure to see around the kitchen the next day in their tighty-whities… And then came Richard.

See, she never told me what she was doing. I don’t know, I think she found him on the street. Like in a puppy box or something, except he sure as hell wasn’t any puppy. The wrinkles on that thing, Richard had to have been like a hundred in dog years. Or whatever. I don’t do the whole dog thing. Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here with my hands chained to the table writing this all on lined yellow paper. But anyways, Suzie and I, we always knew we could find each other at this coffee shop down the street, and it was nice to be sitting there and be joined by somebody you knew. You know, like in a TV show or something. Anyways, one day I’m sitting there sipping my latte and knocking off a couple Danielle Steele chapters and suddenly I hear this snorting at my feet and I look up, or down rather, and there’s this little pig on a leash with the skin coming off of it in bags, drool flowing out of the corners of its mouth, staring up at me through those beady, empty little eyes. Snorting. God, what is this thing, I think. Then Suzie comes out, squealing over her frilly little tea cup, meet Richard, this is Richard, oh isn’t he adorable?

And that’s when it started. The resemblance. Maybe Suzie always looked like a pug dog and I never noticed. But I swear, and I’m sure you’ll be looking at a lot of pictures and you’ll see, something started happening to Suzie. She started to look like that damn dog. She really did. Or maybe I was just going crazy. Slipping on drool puddles all over the parquet floor, looking up to find that thing staring me down on the toilet from the bathroom door at six in the morning, the constant snorting. And those eyes. Slimy black holes smack in the middle of a face like a rotting peach She brought Richard everywhere. And everywhere those eyes followed me. From the toilet to late night movies in the living room to the shuffleboard bar where—I swear to God—little Richard would find a way every damn time to shimmy his tiny little pastry extruded body up onto the windowsill. Ever tried sealing a date with a pair of beady black eyes boring into you? I admit it, I lost it.

But I could not kill a dog, note that, would you? Wouldn’t kill a rat in my own home—I’m not an animal killer, no, no. But when Suzie started looking at me with the same look as that dog… Or that’s how it felt. You know that whole dog-owner-resemblance sensation? Well, that’s the best I could describe it. Got so bad I couldn’t look Suzie in the eyes anymore. I said, Suzie, either the dog has to go or you do. And Suzie, she said there was no way she was parting with Richard, ever, and mustered the saddest look she could out of those scrunched little bead eyes she’d been growing. And well, see, the lease isn’t up for some eight months or so, so Suzie’s not going anywhere. Or wasn’t.

So I apologized and all and said, hey, how about you me and Richard go on a little picnic? To Central Park. We haven’t been to Manhattan together in ages. So we packed up that picnic basket and I said, Suzie, why don’t you carry it, while I have some quality bonding time with Richard. So there we were, me, Suzie, and Richard, a happy little trio toddling down the stairs to the L train at 2 pm on a Saturday. Now, you see, there’s a certain way you have to go about these things. First, you’ve gotta make sure you’re at the end the train is coming from, not where it’s going. You know, the fast end, where you can hardly stand straight or keep your skirt down when that thing barrels in. The second bit is trickier though, and that’s all in the timing. You go too soon, that driver’s gonna see what you’re up to, blow his damn horn, hit the emergency brake, cause a whole lot of havoc over your pug dog werewolf of a friend. Too late and you only give her a headache to moan about on the couch with Richard for the next six months. So it’s all about the timing. And as I think you know, I aced the whole timing thing. Feel that breeze, see the lights sliding up the walls, and just when the letter on the train comes into the light, give a little shove… And maybe it’s that her eyes had become too close together, but Suzie with that picnic basket had no balance at all and down she went. I guess I’m not a through and through murderer because I didn’t want to look and I covered Richard’s eyes too before we kinda backed away a bit and made to either head back up the stairs or book it to another part of the train (I guess I never really thought through the getaway), but I was bound to run into bad luck somewhere and some lady screamed and the police just happened to be wandering and grabbed a hold of me and little Richard before the thing could snort out its sorrows. And so there we were on the platform, subjected to the proddings of this lady’s gnarly old finger and the policeman’s interrogation when the train pulled away. I tried not to look down. But what I did see, just for a brief second: I saw the cherry pie and the chicken legs scattered all around in between the broken plates and forks and knives, and I gotta say, despite everything, I’m glad I thought to pack those things, because I can always say to myself in my head that’s all I saw. Cherry pie and chicken wings.

But I’m happy now, I really am. I guess I’ll probably be in prison for quite some time. But grad school wasn’t going so well anyways and most importantly, there’s no Richard in prison. I dropped his leash when they cuffed me and I don’t know where the filthy thing went and believe me I don’t want to know. I’m guilty as charged, but if for whatever reason you don’t book me, I’ll be in need of a new roommate. No dogs allowed.

I’m visiting her, staying with her, but it’s my only chance, my last chance with him. I wind around Manhattan with the other one, the one with the matching ring, heart beating into my throat, erratic to the point that my breath catches, that I’m nearly sick to my stomach with nerves. The hours tick down. The one with the ring drops me at her apartment with only an hour to spare, kisses me goodbye. I tell her I have to see him, and she sighs and says fine, be back by 11 and watches me step out in a tight dress and coral heels.

11 pm comes and goes in rounds of drinks. Don’t come back, she says, don’t stay with me again if you’re not staying with me. I wear his pajamas, crawl into his bed. And we sleep a foot apart. He reaches for me once in the night, but we never talk about it. I guess he figures I’m asleep, that I won’t notice one last touch. No one sleeps through electric shock. But we never talk about it because it doesn’t matter. I’m his history, he says as we step over the sleeping homeless in the dim pre-dawn. Him in his new suit, me in my tight dress and coral heels. History, the word echoes in my mind as we stare at each other between the uptown and downtown tracks, time clocks ticking. The first train comes and goes, I stand beside him to avoid those eyes. The eyes that tell me to kiss him even as his words assert the contrary. History. But it’s the perfect last kiss he wants. So we can end this. Closure. But a ring never closed it, and I won’t let a kiss. The clock flashes zero. We hug as the roaring train obliterates any words that could be said, should be said. Blocks rush between us, tears streak last night’s eyeliner, and the other passengers eye my coral heels, my slept-in makeup. And then the train platform is history too.

7 am, alone under the stars, ticking clock, alone in a whir of commuters, tourists, every person in the city with somewhere to go, somewhere to be, and no sense of history. Onward, the golden clock at the center of everything ticks only onward.

7 pm flight from JFK, she has my passport, my suitcase, locked away in an apartment from which I’ve been banned, and he didn’t kiss me goodbye. I stand at the center of it all, phone dying, my shallow apologies not going through, all the stars shining steadily overhead like real stars never do while Manhattan rushes around me in a blur, and I feel nothing at all.