You Are Here

by Aaron Burch

Creeping, ducking, peeking—Maria's birthmark had seemed to always be in motion: coming up out of shirts, under chin and ear, across her face. Seth loved that mark, loved watching it dance across Maria until, overwhelmed, he began fearing it was all he loved. Later, Seth could never fully recall why he'd left her. He spilled a bottle of Merlot on his leg to recreate, to commemorate, and it dried the color of salmon, freshly grilled. He'd always thought the mark was the color of wine. He tried again, a bottle of Cabernet, more expensive, but found the same result: salmon, possibly grilled over mesquite.

Maria had a twin, Maya, technically more beautiful. Maya's skin, her entire body Seth had assumed, was shiny clear, birthmarkless. Sometimes, Seth felt sad for her, to have missed out on such a beautiful gift, to be taunted by it every time she looked at her twin.

Seth moved to Wisconsin, the state he thought most resembled the mark on Maria's neck. Nights, he drove to bars, asked if they'd ever seen a girl, beautiful, with a birthmark on her face the shade of wine in a glass. Unsuccessful, he stayed, drank, widened his search. A mark on her arm the color of pencil lead? he asked. On her back, the shade of either New England brick or freshly mixed mortar? He poured liquids on himself, took bets what color it would dry. Cola dried the color of coffee. Coffee: cola-colored. Whiskey: the color of fresh cut maple, or fine sand from a virgin beach.

Winter came, the snow covering everything, wiping the city clean. Seth had never seen so much snow, so much white. He spent most nights lying in the grass, the snow, trying to catch snowflakes in his mouth. It reminded him of going to the mountains with Maria, or maybe Maya, curling up in sleeping bags and watching the meteor showers. He could no longer remember which twin he'd dated, what her name was, Maria or Maya. The one with the birthmark.

Seth couldn't remember why he was in Wisconsin, so moved to Wyoming, thinking maybe that was where he'd meant to be all along. He decided he wanted to grow a mountain beard so shaved to start anew, then didn't touch a razor again. Nothing grew. In bars, drinking men asked why his arms were stained, why they looked like a child's collage. He answered with shrugged shoulders. He pulled out a magic marker and drew whatever shapes came to mind. He poured more drinks on his arms but didn't notice their reaction (cranberry juice: the color of freshly sliced grapefruit; cranberry and vodka: rolled off his skin like water off oil). He stopped going out, decided he wanted to learn how to ride horses, never went anywhere near a horse.

One night, July, Seth decided to start again. He couldn't remember the exact shade of Maya's (or Maria's?) mark, only that it had tasted a little like a bellini, sparkled. A girl at the bar: no birthmark but these freckles, up and down her arms, her cheeks. The color of the dots on the back of your eyelids after staring at the sun for too long. He sat on the stool next to her, said he wanted nothing to drink, no thank you. He asked her where she'd been and they talked all night about travels, constellations, beaches. Would you like to go? she asked. We should drive out to the elementary school. We can climb up onto the roof, watch the sky. There aren't any lights, just complete blackness. Seth looked at her and wanted to lick her arms, wrist to shoulder. Wanted to light her freckles like candles on a birthday cake and feel them singe his tongue. He wanted to strip and for her to see his body as a map. Wanted her to point to the marks on his body and point, place dot stickers or pins, say, I've been there, and there. Yes, he said. Of course.

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