Ottmar Elliger’s Still Life (1667)

Buying Sour Candy

The wax on my face scared me because I thought I'd have to spend hours scraping it off. At night I blew out candles placed in specific areas to provide a warm, seductive light in my apartment. I was alone. An authoritative candelabra stood like steel, reminiscent of different times, a gift. Something lit when sad. 

The candle's flames were dying in pools of gold dust inside each arm of the holder that was shaped like a delicate rose. It felt like there wasn't enough air inside of me to extinguish the last two flames. It had registered that I would have to blow hard. I wrapped my fist around the base of the candelabra and turned it, so the flames were closer to me, then blew. The wax sprayed on my face. I was left there embarrassed, wishing I had someone to laugh about it with. 

I stood there picking it off then went to the fridge, pouring the rest of a bottle of dry white wine into a large mason jar, giving myself permission to take it to bed with me. I walked through the front room of the house. My phone was open on the coffee table. I sat down, engaging in a gentle scroll while I sipped the wine. Some time passed and my stomach felt warm. I scrolled past a woman I knew of. We'd spoken only a few times, quite deeply, about something that had affected both of us. 

I reached out to tell her she was beautiful by commenting on her Instagram story, a photo of her face with the stem of a red rose in her mouth. There was a man who was a bit of a dick, but nice, sometimes. We had both been sleeping with him at the same time. I had known. She didn't so much. Clemence replied with an exaggerated, comparative compliment on my own beauty. 

The next night I read short literature about a man with charm. My eyes had started to fill up. A therapist who was helping me with anger once told me that I should always note where emotion coincides with pain in my body. I tried to think of a part of my body that had absorbed the impact of the story. Only the hot, glittering candle wax came to mind. I didn't believe in therapy anymore. That night I slept and dreamt about flying and controlling how high. 

When we met up for drinks, I could see Clemence's hands shaking. Her eyes flickered as if she was checking who else was in the restaurant. We both took turns glancing around, commenting on the ceramic cats, porcelain dolls, vintage teacups, and other decorations of the bar we chose because the people were hot. 

I wasn't as edgy because I had a couple of vodka sodas at home. Clemence spent a few minutes commenting on who was wearing good shoes before she made meaningful eye contact. Our eyes were the same shape. I asked if anyone had ever told her that she looked like a cat.  

I wondered what it would be like to kiss Clemence and what that would mean psychologically—probably nothing. We'd both been hurt by the same person. We will be hurt by others. I wanted her to push me down on a bed with a white metal frame. The pushing less sexual but more like something I thought I deserved for some reason. Maybe not deserved but craved. To be pushed but physically and emotionally. 

The bed I was imagining would have blended well with the aesthetic of the restaurant. 

Clemence could come to like me as a person. Think I was clever. She put her phone down on the table pointedly then sucked her cheeks in a way that indicated she might be biting them. Something I would warn her about later. Bad for you. Clemence pointed across the room, implying she was going to pee, or smoke, possibly visit the bar to order us both a shot. 

When she returned, she was holding a tube of lipstick in her hand. She slid it into her tote bag that was hanging on the side of her chair while she sat down. 

"I'm getting fries." I made a show of closing the menu then gliding it along the table so half of it stuck out from the side. It was a little velvet thing, red, with a tiny pamphlet inside that told us how much we'd be paying for my fries (or frites), and whatever drink I'd decided to order, which I'd already forgotten. 

"I'm going to have a chickpea salad," Clemence stated with certainty, and I was surprised that was even on the menu. 

The food that arrived was disappointing. The fries were so greasy it was difficult to tell if they had potato in them. Clemence couldn't finish her chickpea salad because she said it tasted like vinegar. 

I was contemplating how honest I should get with her. We spoke about jobs that we took to support ourselves while figuring out our passion in life, both knowing well that we had decided on a pastime long ago. We were both avid readers. Losers trying to write shit in different forms.  

The server came over once our drinks were half empty and I respected that. It was a trick I'd learned when I was a waitress, one that can help you make more money in the end. You're supposed to time your interactions with the table according to the amount of food and drinks they have left, then rack up a larger bill that requires a bigger tip. Most of the time it works. 

I ordered us two shots of tequila and two glasses of pinot grigio. There was a silence that made me think about describing my trip to the gym earlier that day, but then the drinks arrived. We clinked our shots together before we swallowed them. Clemence sucked on a lime after hers. I didn't. 

"I was blindfolded so I didn't see what he was doing." I felt cheap and slightly aware that I might have trouble with boundaries as I led with this story of my sexual activity, one quite different than the account I was about to share of the gym, with the hopes that it would lead to a deeper bond between me and Clemence. Or at least serve as a litmus test.

"This guy you're seeing?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds fun, I mean, up until the bad surprise." 

"Sorry if that's too much."

"Not at all."

"Do you want to read this story I read?"

"What's it called?"

"I forget," I said, knowing full well the title of the story. "I'll send it to you."

Clemence and I hung out a few more times after that. I sent her the story I'd read about the charming man. We agreed that the author had achieved something profound—she had caught on to the ambiguous feeling we felt towards the man we'd been involved with but could not express to each other. We'd go to parties and urge everyone to read it. The story became a litmus test for us. If someone cared to read, then talked about the text in the right way, they would be seen by her and I as a person who "gets it." 

Clemence was known for eating sour candies all the time. She told me that she ordered packages of them in bulk to her house. That way, she didn't have to leave the house without them. 

We both adored the author of the story for different reasons. We were also afraid of her. Not that we'd meet. She seemed like someone we would have to be on guard with. Clemence's admiration was pinned down to "a certain fearlessness," and mine was a combination of awe and jealousy. I didn't think her work fearless. Just words on a page that seemed like the truth. 

About six months later, Clemence asked me if I'd be mad if she made the same mistake again—she sent this question to me through a text. As ambiguous as her message was, I knew what she meant. I quoted something: "There is a feeling you are looking for, one you haven't understood yet." A message I didn't remember that could have come from a former therapist or a horoscope read to me by someone who was bored. 

One night, we were sitting on my bed, having gone to a show where Clemence had pretended to be writing poetry on her phone while everyone else was dancing. I knew she was sending messages to this old guy. Just an old, charming guy. He might have been hotter when he was younger.

"I'm pathetic," she said, popping a green sour candy in her mouth. 

What I'd told her earlier was bullshit, but it felt worth repeating to Clemence in that moment. I was aiming to give her a message of hope and perseverance, mostly so she would come to me for advice. Everyone knew I had a crush on Clemence, except Clemence. 

I'd started to buy sour candy. I didn't buy in bulk like Clemence did. I was just trying them out. I never took it out in front of her because I didn't want her to know that I had copied her idea. 

"No good will come of this!" I was hopelessly trying to offer her some candy as she lay on my bed in the fetal position.

"I know," she said, "better than anyone."

Over the next few weeks, Clemence's mood changed from neutral to erratic. She wouldn't stop looking at her phone. If the shrill ding went off, she would smile like she was unhinged.

Sometimes he called her in the evenings to ask her about her job applications, the progress of her artistic work, her period cramps, and what colour tinted lip gloss she was wearing. The shade was always the same, a light pink that contrasted well with her black hair. Clemence would tell me to be quiet so she could talk to him. He never asked about me.

Sometimes I'd watch her while she explained that her lip gloss was running out, as well as her money.

A long time ago, when the man we both dated and I broke up, he sent me an email explaining why I was a manipulative bitch. It's true. I am. I once wrote a poem for the sole purpose of asking him to look at it so he would feel useful and, in turn, love me. The poem was about his cock. I thought that I was helping masculinity in its final form. I wrote about how it was nice and that I missed it. He gave me a bunch of edits for the poem, but I didn't take them. If I had pills and psychedelics, I could probably write great poetry on the regular, but I don't, so I search the internet for varieties of sour candy. Something to add a little joy to my new closest friend's life. I felt like writing a poem for Clemence, but it would have to be really good. Beyond my abilities good. 

Clemence and I would talk about orgasms and how we never had them. I didn't know why she didn't orgasm. Probably wasn't my business. I felt it was for a very particular reason that she wasn't ready to share with me yet. I never had any because my antidepressants made it impossible, but it could be more than that. I wasn't able to think about it. 

One night, Clemence was over at my house, and I told her that I sometimes look at pictures of the man we both knew on the internet at night. She wasn't judgmental. Just nodded. I opened a photo of him in a cafe with my black, fake fur coat hung on his chair. 

"I took that photo." I thrusted the phone into Clemence's face and she said, "Oh."

"No, I fucking took it."

"I get it."

"Do you?"

"Sort of."

"He asked me to take a photo of him. I did it because I wanted to feel useful."

I was sleeping at her house most nights. I'd watch Clemence post beautiful pictures of herself in lingerie because she wanted the man she was sleeping with to see them and change his mind about dumping her. They were always breaking up because he'd say she's too young. Clemence was four years younger than me. I was 32.

Sometimes she'd ask me to take the photos, looking gorgeous. I thought about gargoyles, because that was what I felt I looked like compared to her. I was not worthy. I wanted to tell her I was tired and used, but I needed someone to be with for a while. I have never truly been alone. Don't think I could stand it for a second because my inner mind palace is not one of calm and grace. Clemence looked charming in her see-through bodysuit.

Sophie McCreesh is a writer living in Toronto. Her first novel Once More, With Feeling was published in 2021.