by June Martin

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When Valerie stepped off the bus, a crying eye twice the size of the sun met her gaze. Its iris shimmered with every color simultaneously, and in the pupil she saw her mother, her grandmother, her best friend, the girl at work who she hated that always wore gross perfume, and people she didn’t even recognize but for whom she felt a sudden pang of love. The eye, and the face attached to it, drifted toward the ground. Long black hair fluttered above, the early afternoon sky suddenly midnight. Except so many more stars and galaxies were visible that together they outshone the sun. Fire scorched the sky and clouds as it poured from canyon-deep gashes on the enormous face, the body whose innumerable arms wrapped around everything in the world, whose embrace around Valerie slipped; an embrace which she had never noticed, an embrace which promised such love and safety that every inch of her skin uncovered by its grasp felt like it was pressed against a bed of nails. Valerie didn’t know how she knew it was God who had the face of an aged old man, a beautiful woman, a scared fox, a blank sphere, a rushing river, the absence of a face. But she knew. A man walking past her grimaced at God falling toward the ocean, and said to her, “You hate to see it happen, huh? You busy? Come grab lunch with me.”

Valerie turned to him, mouth gaping and tears pouring down her face. She managed to squeak out a sentence. “No… I have a date.”

“Your loss.” He whistled as he left. As God descended, color drained out of everything. The stars above blinked away. Valerie braced herself for the rumble of God’s impact with Earth, but the divine body faded to nothing. All light vanished. Had the world fallen? Was there only darkness now that God had left? High above her head, the darkness frothed until a pinprick of light shone through. Then more. Starting with a beam shining on the sidewalk. And more, and more, and more. The darkness peeled and burnt as sunlight overcame it. Within a minute, the sky was blue again. Everything had regained its color, and there was no sign of the immense body which had just dominated the horizon. 

Valerie sat on the sidewalk, back against a light pole. Other pedestrians walked around her, with a few shooting her dirty looks for being an obstruction. They were mad about taking two extra steps to the side when God was dead. One passer-by mimed, to his laughing friends, the languid pose of God’s falling body. Valerie’s phone buzzed.

“I’m here! 🙂”

Valerie’s hands were shaking so much when she typed that not even autocorrect could make sense of her first three attempts at a reply, but eventually she got it. “Be there in 5!” 

Once she managed to stand, the crowd picked her up in its wake and she floated along the current until she reached the cafe. Valerie always chose this spot for a first date because the art on the walls was provocative, strange, or, at worst, pretty. If the conversation flagged at any point, she could point in any direction and ask what her date thought about what they saw. But she couldn’t imagine an answer that would mean anything to her now.

When she walked in the door, Camille leaped out of her chair. She smiled wide with two dimples on her cheeks. The two of them had matched on an app a couple of weeks ago, and it took until yesterday for Valerie to work up the courage to ask if she wanted to meet in real life. Every single picture on Camille’s profile was the cutest thing Valerie had ever seen. Camille and a porcupine with a little knit hat. Camille on the branch of a tree she had climbed in a sundress. Camille at the beach in a bikini that– Valerie halted that thought. At no point in her life had she ever worried about sin, but it felt disrespectful to be horny so soon after God’s death. But still, she expected to feel electricity when the two of them hugged. Instead, a gap yawned between their adjacent bodies. They sat, squeaking chairs audible even in the busy cafe. 

“Sorry I’m late, I was out there…” 

“Wild, right? Too bad it didn’t make a big splash. Could’ve cooled things down.” Camille fanned herself. Everyone in the cafe was a little sweaty, even though the air felt frigid to Valerie. “You know, they interrupted the music in here when He fell. Right in the middle of the chorus. I’ve never seen it happen.”

“Right. Totally. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean. How are you?” As Camille’s hands curled around her iced coffee, Valerie said, “Wait, don’t answer that yet. I’m gonna go order some coffee. Be right back.” For a minute, she felt Camille’s eyes on her back, but assumed she’d quickly lose that attention to a phone. Maybe more videos of God’s fall to earth. As she waited, she fidgeted with the raven’s skull ring on her right hand. She’d worn it to seem cool and edgy, but memento mori was like representing a beach with a single grain of sand. Everyone else in line was on their phone, watching videos of the fall, or edited videos of the fall where over God’s face the word “ME” was superimposed, and the bay was labelled with “THE PUSSY.” Every time Valerie caught a glimpse, she looked away. Would the moment when boundless life faded from God’s eye be captured over a phone camera? Would its lack make seeing the video feel better or worse?

When Valerie returned to the table. Camille’s smile felt like a duplicate of the one she’d given when Valerie came in, as if the rest of her face shifted around a grin which couldn’t change. But then Camille spoke, and it vanished. “So what do you like to do? Other than walking by the bay at inopportune times.”

“Oh, you know. Lots of skateboarding. Lots of falling down, too.” Valerie rolled up the short sleeve around her right bicep to show off a bruise, blue-purple like one of the galaxies she’d seen in God’s hair. 

Camille flinched and turned away, fingers over her eyes and mouth curled in disgust. “Oh, that’s awful.”

“Sorry.” Valerie tugged the sleeve back down. “It’s gone now. I’ve got a couple more on my legs. Just warning you.”

“I’m sorry, I just… don’t like looking at pain.” She recovered her smile fast enough, though not with all of its previous luminosity. “Um. So, what do you like about skateboarding?”

“Falling and getting bruised.” Valerie waited for Camille to laugh, then had to intrude on the pause when she didn’t. “No. Not really. I mean, kind of. Every time you try to do something hard there’s this adrenaline, you know? Like, this time.”

“Oh, I’d hate that! When I mess up a stitch while knitting I have to set it down for hours.” “Right, you knit. The porcupine and the little hat.”

“Sure do! I just love it. I made this little sack this morning.” Camille pulled out a little knit bag from her purse, two-toned blue and pink. “I’m not very good, but it’s something I can talk about with my mom.”

“What’s the porcupine’s name? If he has one.”

“He had one, Robert, but he’s gone now. My mom always tells me that people and animals lose their names when they die.”

Valerie, unsure how to respond and unwilling to follow Camille’s leadership down the path of a conversation about moms, said, “One thing I really like about skateboarding is how you can take over a space. People get so upset that you’re doing it that they get up and leave.”

“Why can’t you just share the space?”

“They don’t want to. Sometimes they call the cops.”

“Oh, I’d just go somewhere else then.”

“It’s public space.” Valerie imagined Camille knitting on a bench in the park, angrily bundling her yarn into an angry pile as soon as she heard the crack of skateboards on concrete. She might complain about it online. She might yell at them – no, it was difficult to imagine Camille yelling. But it was less difficult to imagine her calling the cops. Valerie thought she remembered seeing “ACAB” or something to that effect on Camille’s profile, but couldn’t find a moment to check.

“Right. I just… don’t like it when people fight if they don’t have to, you know?” Camille looked out the window. The sunlight fell gently on her face. She was delicate; Valerie should have spent that moment appreciating her beauty. But even beauty was empty. After her reverie, Camille returned her attention to Valerie, who found that she wanted it. Or something similar to it. Like craving chocolate and, upon having a piece, discovering that while most of the flavor she wanted was there, there were little details missing. Missed. 

“I don’t know. I kind of like fighting.” When Camille winced a little, Valerie clarified. “Not fists or anything. No way. I’ve got enough damage.” She gestured to the spot on her arm that housed her now-concealed bruise. “But sometimes it’s fun to have some conflict. You want something, they want something and it’s time to find out. Right now. The immediacy of it.”

“Patience is better. Everything works out for the best eventually.”

“Is that faith?” Valerie nodded her head toward the window. Toward the bay.

“Maybe. It’s just how things happen, I think. Even that will be fine, I’m sure.”

They lapsed into silence again, and before the thread of conversation slipped from Valerie’s fingers entirely, she stood up.

Camille said, “Are you going?”

“We are! We’re going on a walk.” Valerie’s imagination had her grasp Camille by the hand and march out of the cafe, but instead, Camille walked a couple feet behind, breath heavy as she struggled to keep up with Valerie’s stride.

They reached the pier looking out on the bay. Sunlight decorated the peaks waves. “This is where it happened.”

“Oh. Why did you want to come here?” Camille lit up and clapped her hands. “There’s a really nice botanical garden a few blocks that way. We should go look at some flowers.”

“No!” Valerie smacked her hand against the railing. The impact resonated through the hollow metal and sounded like the chime of a grandfather clock. “I’m sorry. No. This is where it happened.”

“I know. I saw the video. Everyone did.” 

“Well, then look.”

Instead, Camille stared at Valerie. Her eyes caught the light, which brought to life the swirling amber beneath the brown, a whole swirl of shades and tones dancing within the circle of her iris; her eyes looked like nothing more than well-polished marbles.

“Please. Just look.”

Camille forced a smile as she looked over the water, squinting from the glare. “The waves are pretty.”

“They are, aren’t they? Everything out there is beautiful. Why?” The color, the motion, everything about it appeared exactly the same as before, and yet looking at it felt like seeing a dead body. At least, to Valerie. Camille seemed unperturbed, and Valerie couldn’t find a word for why their blue tranquility curdled in her stomach.

“What about the Peruvian chicken place down the street?” Camille said, a little impatience sharpening her melodic voice. “If you bring your own bottle of wine and pretend you don’t know better, it’s BYOB.”

The two of them could have a perfectly nice rest of the afternoon. Warm feelings could bloom over the wine, conversation could ease, and then they might find satisfaction in the experience of each other. Maybe a spark which could lead to off-white linen bed sheets and sunlight illuminating the dust swirling in the air above their heads. But, just like the waves, something would be wrong with the light, the dust, the sheets, as plagued the waves. 

“Maybe. But first. Do you see the thing that’s wrong? Do you feel it?”

“It’s just the bay. I know a whole thing happened here earlier, but it’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Camille grasped Valerie’s arm to reassure her, right on the bruise. Valerie flinched, but didn’t say anything. Neither the comfort nor the pain soothed her.

“I think this date’s over.” A little surprise flickered in Camille’s eyes, but not enough to be any real dismay. “You’re very nice. This was fun, but… I don’t think you and I are right for each other.” Valerie checked her phone. 4:17. “I’m gonna go grab a bus home. Have a good evening. Really. I hope you do.”

“Uh, okay. Sure.” 

Whether Camille’s unsteady smile said anything about her, or about Valerie, wasn’t really Valerie’s problem once she turned away and power-walked to the stop, arriving simultaneously to the bus and a little damp with sweat. She found a cool vinyl seat and the bus lurched forward with a shudder and barely-odorous burning. The bay grew more and more distant, but the quality which hung in her mind infused everything else around her. When she squeezed the rim of her seat, it was solid, but also felt like it should have crumbled in her hands, undermined by a hollow carved out of the center.

She banged her hands on the back of the seat in front of her, and felt the impact reverberate down the infinite cavern inside, but instead of the expected sound, the ringing of a bell as vast as the world, the only sound her assault on the chair elicited was a little thump, cotton fabric rubbing together as people shifted in their seats, the muffled sobs bubbling out of her chest. Other passengers on the bus were staring, as if people didn’t cry on the bus all the time. Valerie wanted to shove their heads out the window and force them to look at the bay as they drove past it until they admitted that they saw the same emptiness she did. She wanted to grab them by the collar, or the plunging neckline, or the neck itself, and shake them until they paid attention. But if she touched another person, and they were as hollow as the seat, the bus, the waves, she felt like she would die. And then, she looked at her own forearm.

What would it feel like, to touch her own arm? Trembling hand raised, she paused. Her reflection in the bus window didn’t feel full of life, but like a photograph of a person who didn’t exist. She couldn’t tell if that was her own meaninglessness, or the window’s, and couldn’t tell if she’d always believed in a soul, or if she just started right then, or if she even believed in one then, or if she was just afraid, so afraid to touch her arm or leg or face and find out that there used to be a wind that blew beneath the surface that God’s embrace kept contained within her body, a contained cyclone that spun out into a few wild scraps of wind and still air. Knowing would be the worst thing in the world. But not knowing was even worse, unless it wasn’t. And finding herself full would be to find herself full of self-pity, the same as after any bad date. To be lonely after the death of God felt like an anachronism. Loneliness contained desire contained hope and she couldn’t even work up enough hope to touch herself on the arm. 

The bus hit a pothole and for a moment she hovered in the air, and then fell. She hoped, instead of colliding with the seat, she might fade into nothing the same way God did. But her small butt hit the hard seat and hurt, and that was enough to loosen her grip on her tears, and her muffled sobs turned into loud ones, and everyone on the bus was staring at her and whispering about her, and she shouted, “What? You think it’s weird to cry? Didn’t you see what happened out there? Didn’t any of you fucking see it?”

Some people laughed, most quietly looked away rather than confront what they had seen, and the trembling in her hand stopped because Valerie was too furious with them and their cowardice to be like them for another second: she grabbed her arm, and found muscle, warmth, the pulse of blood beneath the surface, and the fullness of life that had always been there. Most of the people on the bus were too afraid of getting yelled at to openly look at her when she started crying again, so none of them could have noticed that the character of her tears had changed.

With the back of her hand, she wiped her face, and stared out the window. The bay was far off in the distance, a little speckle of blue that would soon be invisible to her. The people around her weren’t looking at it or holding onto it, didn’t see in it what she saw, same as Camille. If the date had been better, she might have touched Camille, and found out if something was hidden beneath the surface. But Camille was a porcelain egg, and Valerie needed one with a more fragile shell, one that should be coaxed into hatching instead of guarded against shattering.

She curled up in the corner and opened the dating app on her phone. This was her little hand reaching out into the world, asking to be grasped so that warmth might meet warmth and together kindle a fire. Her profile read:

5’6” skater chick

fuck cops 

in the hot girl business

She erased all of that, and replaced it with new words, created in the absence of the creator, the last line between a couple skull emojis.

if the world is empty, but you are full

if an empty space dares you to expand

if you are not afraid to begin within the ending

come stare at the waves with me  

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June Martin is a writer and comic artist living in Oakland, CA. Her short fiction has appeared in X-R-A-Y, BULL, New Session, and other lit mags. Her debut novel, LOVE/AGGRESSION, released with tRaum Books in May 2024.

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