Gretta Trafficante: MORAINE • Cleaver Magazine

Flash by Gretta Trafficante
MORAINE

We first formally meet playing hooky from the gay kickball league. Our refuge is the back nook of the only thrift shop in town to house an almost-adequate selection of 2XL vintage. I’m mulling over some cow print sweats, she’s toying with a bedazzled beret. We both seek the dressing room mirror’s counsel, and find the other’s disapproval glaring back.

“You’re not having a serious allergic reaction,” she says.

“You’re not out searching for your lost cat,” I reply.

We clutch our prospective purchases, the racks of musty polyester shrouding our accusations from potential onlookers.

“You play third base,” I say.

“You play right center,” she replies.

“You’re millennial.”

“You’re cusp at best.”

“You’re a blog writer, in this economy.”

“You’re a grad student in this economy.”

“You always post about your stamp collection.”

“You always like my posts.”

I learn a lot skipping kickball games.

Her name is Moraine; being what’s left after glaciers, she’s naturally more nervous of warm climates than most. She is happiest when the weather grows bitter and the days grow desperate to sleep.

“In my wildest fantasies,” she tells me the second time we meet, back at my place, “I move to Greenland, and I finally buy an Ice-Covered Bear Stamp.”

“You mean Iceland, right?” I ask, “Where there’s people, and not just ice sheets?”

“No, I mean Greenland,” she says, and smiles, “Few people, much ice sheet.”

She prefers aesthetics over sentimentality. She eyes the walls of my apartment with the same scrutiny she applies to thrifted headwear, inspecting the picture frames and ignoring their contents. She must approve of my choice in exteriority because she stays long enough to invite me over to hers for a next time.

Over many next times, I learn Moraine takes great pride in being full enough for her cats to comfortably lounge on, and that her cats take great pride in being able to outrun strangers. Eventually, I become less of a stranger, and they become less committed to their outmaneuvering.

We learn to lie to our kickball team together. On weeks we are lazy, a cat or two goes missing again; on weeks where inspiration strikes, we’re stuck in traffic behind some indie director’s guerilla film shoot on Route 696. You’d think the group chat would stop entertaining our pathology at some point, but just the other day someone replied to ask if the director was famous.

The season eventually ends, and we realize it three days later when the coach uploads tournament photos to the group chat.

“Huh,” I say, scrolling through images of somewhat-familiar, sweaty people holding a plastic trophy, “I guess we came in third.”

“We can’t count ourselves in that victory,” Moraine replies. “They came in third. We don’t even qualify for the participation trophy.” Moraine is very reasonable this way.

When I’m next thrift shopping, I find myself picking out clothes in the color of Moraine’s palms, desperate for some semblance of her touch when she’s not around. That night in bed I tell her this, my face warm—a symptom of vulnerability that’s been all too chronic since we first caught each other.

“In my wildest fantasies,” she says after a moment, “we move to Greenland, and I finally buy that Ice-Covered Bear Stamp, and then we get another cat.”

“I still think the cats would hate the ice sheets,” I say, and kiss her own flushed cheek.

We compromise and move to Iceland. Moraine loves the winds that cut when you stand too close to the bay. I myself prefer the hot springs. Temperature never was something we could agree on, but we keep trying. For our fifth anniversary, I get her a stamp of the Blue Lagoon, and she gifts me a trip to the Swedish Ice Hotel.

After much self-reflection, we opt to not sign up for another gay kickball league. This is mainly because the sport seems less popular amongst Nordic gays, but also because we are growing older and more prone to guilty consciences. It takes time to adjust—the cats to the fresh air, Moraine and I to the newfound honesty of our lives—but soon, we all find ourselves home.

Gretta Trafficante’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Pinch, Lunch Ticket, Dribble Drabble Review, Maudlin House and Talk Vomit, among others. Gretta is a recipient of the 56th New Millenium Flash Fiction Prize and Columbia University’s Brownstein Writing Award.