Security Question
The answer you entered is incorrect. Please try again. You have four attempts remaining.
To accept or decline this transfer, you must correctly answer the security question below.
Attempt #1: You don’t wear sunscreen as much as you should, so I let you borrow mine. You say you like it—this brand that’s supposed to smell like oranges but has a faint mildew scent in place of fruit. I say you’re weird. We know, of the two of us, you’ll be the one to burn as we lie face up, sunglasses on, sorting clouds as cowboys or aliens. In breaks of blue expanse, you explain binary code in the form of grass rings pressed into my palm. This is something I can understand. Dandelions, weeds, the way your fingers work so effortlessly.
I learn you’re scared of dogs when a black retriever runs over, and you crawl backward off the blanket as I stretch my arms out to the horizon. The dog retreats across the park, and I start collecting your fears like grass in my back pocket.
The answer you entered is incorrect. Please try again. You have four attempts remaining.
Attempt #2: You’re the first person who isn’t family to step inside my childhood bedroom. To see how sunlight lines the unread books and dying plants, the corsage from Senior Ball sulking on my shelf. Everything I’ve gathered but can’t let go. We sit on the bed before cream curtains, undrawn for three years. You compliment the windowsill fairy lights that sputtered off last May and never turned back on again. I say we’re not supposed to be here, like this. Between these walls I painted rose the summer before my freshman year. On this bed, in this room. We are more than friends.
Wrong. [Redacted] only ever saw the outside of your house. The sender remembers you saying it would “emotionally ruin” you to have her in your room. She wasn’t the only one with fears.
Attempt #3: The first thing I notice about your house is the Shrek mask in the entryway. An April Fool’s Day joke or something your sister schemed, idyll green in an empty fruit bowl. She has a good sense of humor.
Your house reminds me of my house, stuffed to the ceiling with clutter, barely breathable, yet still empty. Nobody knows I am here. You cook a quesadilla while standing on a buckling floor, which reminds me of my kitchen floor, back turned to the broken dishwasher. I make chocolate pudding we don’t finish and turn the tortilla package into a cat toy. I never learned to tell your rescues apart. Tell me again on the living room couch how they used to fit in your palm, your head pressed against my knees. With our dirty dishes on the table, you fall asleep with your contacts in.
Wrong again. You’re not very good at this, are you? Her family has no idea who you are, so it’s absurd for you to be on her couch like this.
Attempt #4: There’s a silent disco happening in an hour, but we sit in this garden—fake and fleeting, designed to be discarded by the fall. We squeeze ourselves under the shade of an aluminum bench, the kind that steals summer sun to burn uncovered skin. You rest your left knee against my right, and I trace the hem of your shorts. I dance my finger across this one-lane denim road to weave my pinkie around yours.
We watch the garden, this patch of wilting plants and asphalt paths weaved through the heart of a county fair. The staff slowly evict visitors, whisking unoccupied benches away to make room for a hundred moon-lit bodies moving in silent asynchrony. Still, we stay put, clasping each other at arm’s length as fair-goers whirl like scattered ants in an afternoon glow. We fabricate stories about stragglers around us—couples, families, single newspaper readers, toddlers wailing from their strollers—whispering plot lines back and forth about everyone who is still here. Between designer cars and secret families, a tired mom glances over. You pull your hand from mine without a word and shift your weight away from me. I say nothing as we remake two bodies out of one, and I learn to hide in plain sight.
Incorrect. If you were clever enough, you’d know cars after sunset are the most secure place to hide.
Attempt #5: In the backseat of a car, seconds spool on the floor. We wane with the sun, taunting time in a golden frenzy. The aftermath of your hometown tour, which is my hometown, which is a Troye Sivan song for each street. A lyric for every contour, crumbling curb, unsettled dust in the fairground’s gravel lot. Maybe this is the invisibility we want. Locked hands, locked car, lost in an opaque cloud.
There’s an anti-theft light embedded in the dashboard. Crown jewel of the console, blood-colored cyclops stares into us. Its lens leering, eye open for this performance. I think that’s what scares you most. The blinking, red judgment.
You finally answered the security question correctly, but clearly, you think about this too much. You will not get your money. You will not get your shirt. You will not get back together. The sender will be notified via email and advised to block you. She probably won’t block you, but you never know. For further questions, call +1 (514) 874-8730 or consult the hair in the backseat of your car.
Jessica Bakar (she/her) is a young writer and undergraduate at McGill University where she serves as the Editor-in-Chief of Snaps. Her prose has been recognized by Ringling College, Columbia College Chicago, and the Bay Area Creative Foundation, among others. You can read her work in Nifty Lit, Eunoia Review, Talon Review, and more. When she isn't studying or writing, Jessica dedicates herself to pretending she isn't allergic to cats.
