Goonie the Girl

We broke up over a can of beans. A bodega had opened around the corner, high-end and New York-like, even though we lived in East County, San Diego. We entered. Me, excited; you, skeptical. Gentrification. Yuppie assholes.

“But look at this kale,” I said. “Like purple flower petals. It’s beautiful.” 

“Goonie,” you said, “kale is kale.”

I moved to the pantry goods, searching for something that would impress you. Sardines from Portugal, olives from Italy, tinned duck confit. Then, the can of beans. A special Spanish variety with clams still in their shells. When I showed it to you, you gave me eyes that spelled loathing. For a moment I feared them, then I wanted to spit in them. 

“I’m getting these,” I said.

“I dare you,” you said.

After checking out, you seethed and I carried my tote of groceries, trying to recall a time when we understood each other. You remember, we’d met at a party, three years prior. I’d been guilted by a friend who was intent on setting me up with someone she knew. Occupying the corner of the kitchen, I stood heavy with dread. At the time, I was sure love was a lie—humanity’s big fallacy to continue the species even though life is suffering, padded by a few bubbles of relief. But your bright orange sweater caught my eye; somehow, on you, the color was flattering. You walked right up and handed me a cup of warm white wine, warning me it was vile. When you asked my name, I told you I went by my childhood moniker. I waited for the commentary, the movie quotes, the quips. But you tilted your head and said, “Suits you.”

Back at our apartment, I heated the beans on the stove. It was what the bodega clerk said to do. As they warmed, I sliced thick chunks of fresh sourdough. 

“The meal’s less than twenty dollars,” I said. “Under budget.”

“It’s beans and bread,” you said. 

There was no use explaining the luxury and thrift of eating simply but sublimely. By then, we’d exhausted similar debates. You always concluded that I was a contradiction: smart but childish; philosophical but basic; simple but spoiled; fatalistic but hopeful. I’d ask why that was so bad. You’d say one person couldn’t be everything.

I finished slicing the bread and you stood across the counter, watching. As I brushed the crumbs into my palm, I suddenly felt the eternal nature of things. That reality was so much larger than we could ever know. 

“Maybe the grandeur of life is simply too terrifying for our miniscule minds,” I said.

“Says the girl who goes by a kids’ movie,” you said. 

I inhaled the crumbs into my mouth, then took the bread, poured the beans into a bowl, went into the living room, and loaded up the old DVD. Skipped to the part where the children are stuck in the basement, looking at each other, debating how to escape the villains. The camera zooms in and the lead points to the tunnel and says, “It’s the only way out,” his face cut between shadow and light. He looks to where they must descend to find the buried treasure, and his voice lowers to a whisper. “It all starts here,” he says with acceptance.

As the movie played, you packed your things. 

I ate and watched.

Tess Canfield is a writer with fiction and essays featured or forthcoming in Five Points, Santa Monica Review, Barnstorm Journal, Charge Magazine, WePresent, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Chapman University, where she was an English Graduate Fellow, and a BA from Emerson College. She’s also the co-founder and managing editor of a literary non-profit called 50 Free Books, which distributes free books by historically marginalized writers every month. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and a very good dog.