Her humming sets the beat of my heart. When her head lifts, her eyes meet mine across the tiny alley, and her mouth forms a frozen O of panic.
“Oh, no,” she gasps, but I can hear her plainly.
“My... My love?” I hazard, feeling giddy and shy all at once. I never called Patsy “my love.” I never called her anything. She would have laughed in my face. What ifshelaughs in my face? Why am I calling my random neighbor, whom I’ve only talked to on trash day, “my love”? This is clear proof that I’ve come unglued.
“Chloe?” I hazard. Her name is probably Chloe. Unless the original owner of the shop was Chloe, and she’s not Chloe. I put a hand over my heart and wish it would slow down. I’m not very athletic. I’m going to be all flushed and sweaty when I meet my bride.
Bride? Bride??
“Yes, my love. Bride. You heard my call, and you’ve come to claim me.”The little voice in my head lilts along, answering my question. That voice is not my own.
“Signs of psychosis. Schizophrenia? Auditory hallucination?”
“You’re okay?” The terrified-looking woman asks, a trembling hand pointing at me.
“I’m not sure,” I confess.
“You’re not in a coma.”
“No. I’m not.” I blink and look down at my body, my outstretched arms. “I didn’t consider that as an option,” I muse. I flex my fingers and wriggle my toes in their thick white socks. “Um. I am definitely not in a coma.”
“Oh, my God. You’re a sensitive,” Chloe claps both hands to her mouth and backs away from the window.
“I guess? I mean, I’ve always been bigger, even as a kid, so I got teased about my weight, and then when I got glasses in sixth grade, that sucked for a while, but I would say I’m over it. Mostly. So... A little sensitive aboutsomethings? Is that bad?” I’m so lost. Why is this woman making me spill my guts like a fisherman with a fresh catch? Does she like a sensitive man? Do they turn her off? Why is she telling me this?
“No, no, no. Not that kind. I... It’s all a misunderstanding. Just say no, and it’s over.”
“No to what?” I demand, wishing whoever drugged my popcorn or zapped my brain had left some kind of tutorial or owner’s manual, something like “Your Handy, Dandy Guide to Losing Your Marbles.” That would have been nice.
“Wh-what do you think I want?” Chloe demands, head cocked, eyes wide.
She’s so beautiful like that. What’s more, I can feel what she wants.
To be happy. Loved. Not alone. Content.
She wants her other half, and she doesn’t think she can find it.
Same here, my sweet green angel.
Hold on, green??
“Why are you green now?” I yelp. “Not like grassy green, but pale, soft buttermint green? Not like I mind! On you, it looks good. Beautiful. Gorgeous!”
Oh, God. Even when I’m dreaming—if I’m dreaming—I can’t flirt. Or date. Definitely can’t get married.
“But your heart is already mine, my love.”The little voice insists.
“Stay there. I’m coming over.”
Hazards of Being a Banshee:
Accidentally Engaged
I’m going to kill Alban. It’s a good thing he’s in Vermont, or he’d be sprouting beets out of his eyebrows or turnips out of his nose. He rented an apartment to a sensitive and didn't tell me!
Telling myself that Alban probably didn’t know doesn’t soothe my rage.
I let out a shaky breath as I close the window and wipe my potting soil-covered hands on my jean skirt. I could have killed my neighbor.
