Pitsker 36

The Cuttlebone

By Violet Pitsker

When I first saw Sasha she was bent over sweating, stacking speakers in the artificial daylight. I walked up to her and I smiled. I loved your set, I said.

Sasha stood up and wiped her brow. Thanks, she said. She had the sort of face that made me want to put glass between us. Too close and it might break into something ugly. I swallowed. Suddenly, I felt afraid of what I was doing.

I had always been a girl who other girls wanted to kiss. You look just like Kristen Stewart, a friend said, touching my cheek. We were on her dorm bed and I smiled at her, with teeth.

Thank you, I said. You look like Taylor Lautner.

Sasha stood there smiling at me, eyes sparkling, waiting for me to speak. A clump of phlegm slid down my throat. One could hear the ocean in moments like this, throwing itself at the sand blocks away.

You know, I said, you look just like my friend Taylor.

I invited Sasha over to watch a movie, a movie with Kristen Stewart. I lifted a lazy finger and pointed at the screen, where Kristen climbed a mountain swathed in film-grain daylight. Do you think I look like her?

Sasha squinted at the screen and then at me. Her eyes lingered on my cheekbones. She nodded, gravely.

You look even better.

It was moments like that when I wished I could make myself blush on command. Sasha was scooting closer and I angled my legs away from her. You should go sit on the chair, I said, nodding at the recliner across the room. She frowned.

Why?

So I can look at you better.

She laughed at me. But still, she got up and she sat in the chair. She stared at me with heavy lids.

How’s that, she said.

Yeah, I said. That’s really good.

I told my boyfriend that I was in love with Sasha. He laughed; I felt a spur of anger. A man’s sexuality was different, I thought. It writhed in my DMs like beached fish.

Late nights I would wait for my boyfriend to fall asleep and I would roll over and touch myself, thinking of Sasha. I imagined taking her out to a bar with leather booths and dusty bottles of Campari. We’d drink and stare at one another and then I’d drive her home in my boyfriend’s car while in the passenger seat the streetlights would amber the ridge of her brow. I’d pull up in front of her house and watch her unbuckle her seatbelt, lifting it from her body with her long, pink fingernails. I had so much fun, she would say. I would stay belted, hunched forward, my shoulders up around my ears. Me too, I’d say. Sasha would lean in a tight millimeter and I’d catch the smell of her perfume darting around her hair, her clavicles. Can I kiss you, she’d say. I’d look at her, take in her body in the way that men had done to me since I was young—since I was a child. I’d bite my lip.

Maybe next time, I’d say.

And I’d watch as Sasha’s eyes clouded with confusion—she would turn her face, I imagined, blink away a half-formed tear. I would smile, beneath my boyfriend’s sheets, my mouth open, muscles pulsing around warm fingers, body shining gemlike untouchable. In the car, I’d pat Sasha’s hand encouragingly.

But maybe next time, I’d say.

I slipped out of bed and washed my hands and peed. When I got back, my boyfriend was snoring. I leaned over and looked into his mouth. Far back in his throat, his tonsils glistened thick with fluid.

I saw Sasha next at the farmers market. My boyfriend had stepped away to buy a latte and I was lunching on apricot samples. I went from variety to variety, poking their flesh with my stubby digits, scooping up toothpicked pieces from plastic buckets. The apricot man glared at me through his sunburn.

Kristen! the voice called. (Or: it called my real name.) I turned and caught sight of a woman and a man, arms raised in greeting. Sasha was wearing a brown linen dress that wrapped and warped around the swells of her body. It was windy and the man next to her had to keep holding onto his baseball cap. I stepped out and put a hand over my eyes, trying to get a look at him. Some sort of boss or mentor, I thought. Surely not—

Kristen, Sasha said, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend.

The boyfriend stuck out his hand. Ethan, he said.

Nice to meet you, I said. His hand was large and wet with sunscreen. I shook it and turned to Sasha. I’ve been thinking of you, I said.

Sasha lit up with that same large smile. Already I felt a crick in my neck from looking up at her. I’ve been thinking of you too, she said. The boyfriend was looking at his phone, frowning. Sasha had bits of spinach in her teeth and I wanted to hand her a toothpick so I could watch her fish them out. Me and Ethan just got back from Mammoth…

Kristen! I caught sight of my boyfriend over Sasha’s shoulder, walking up with two paper cups. Sasha turned and my boyfriend raised a cup into the air all caramel in the sun. I glared at him. Could he not slow down? He had snuck up on me; he had not given me enough notice. Already he was filling my gaze with his frame and his white tank top, muscles rippling, moving in their slippery ways, enough to make me want to slap them still, say, Enough!

Hey, my boyfriend said. I’m Tyler. Sasha’s boyfriend put out his hand again.

Ethan, he said. I wanted to laugh. I could not believe him. He was less a man than a Pokémon.

Hey, my boyfriend said, Ethan, nice to meet you. And who’s—

Sweetheart, I said through fresh-whitened teeth, this is Sasha.

My boyfriend grinned. Sasha—hey, awesome. I’ve heard so much about you. He looked at her down the blackhead bridge of his nose. I curled my fists. I wanted to leash him and drag him sniffing toward the parking lot. He turned to me. Babe, you want this coffee? They gave me an extra—

No, I said.

Alright then. He turned to Sasha’s boyfriend, smiling. Ethan?

The two of them began to speak and Sasha’s eyes slipped back onto me. She smiled and suddenly I became aware of the distance between us, its perfect length. I felt a spasm like I was about to pee myself.

How have you been? Sasha said.

I’ve been alright, I said. I crossed my legs. You?

I’ve been okay. She looked over at Ethan. He and my boyfriend were showing each other something on their phones, pinching and zooming around little line charts. Things are fine.

Fine is good, I said.

Yes, she said. I suppose.

I swallowed. I felt as if there were bubbles in my vertebrae—something that needed to be snapped.

What are you doing tomorrow? I said.

She smiled sideways. Nothing, she said. Why?

I was wondering if you wanted to go on a picnic.

The wind hurled itself at Sasha’s dress. She held on to her sunglasses. That sounds cute, she said. I’d love to.

The beach?

Yes. I’m off at 5.

Good, I said. I’ll bring dinner.

Oh, that’s alright—

I would really like to watch you eat something, I said.

Sasha turned bright red. Her eyes flicked to Ethan and then, slowly, back to me.

I could not fall asleep that night. I put in my AirPods and scrolled until I found a video about cuttlefish.

The video showed a large male, goat-eyed, liver-spotted, drifting along the ocean floor. He was trying to fuck this little female but she was not interested. She held herself prim, tentacles tucked together as though tied with a hairband. He was trying with her but she kept squirting and undulating herself just out of his reach. They eventually settled into a stalemate, the male hovering over her, the female staying still, the colors along her back gently shifting. I wondered what the patterns meant. Pop psychology, I thought. Most likely, she was calling him a narcissist.

Another male arrived on the scene, small and anemic. I watched as he went off behind a rock and changed his coloration. He emerged with a special stripe down his side, and the narrator jumped in all plummy to explain that the cuttlefish was cross-dressing. He held his limbs neat and tight and he drifted over to the pair. The female perked up pink and she unclenched her mouth-parts. The two of them drifted together and I watched as they hooked up right under the huge, ugly man. Face-fucking beneath the marbled waves.

I put my phone down on my chest and smiled. I’m excited to see you tomorrow, I texted Sasha. Then I shut off my phone and drifted off into dreams of tentacles soft like tape measures.

I picked up vegan Thai from the place on Main and parked my boyfriend’s car by the beach. When I stepped out I caught sight of Sasha sitting at a stone table by the bike path, the grass all short and wind-blasted around her. She looked like a woman from TV, I thought. She caught me staring and she smiled.

We walked down the boardwalk and when we reached the sand we kicked off our shoes and found a spot to lay out the blanket. Immediately Sasha stripped off her clothes. She was wearing a tangerine bikini and the expanse of her skin was all bronze in the early evening. I kept my arms wrapped around myself and I watched her dab sunscreen onto her face. She looked like a cat, I thought. I kept waiting for her to lick at the backs of her hands.

You want some? she said, holding out the tube. I shook my head.

No thanks, I said. Her bare hip was nearly pressing up against mine; too close. I wished I had brought a second blanket.

Do you want any food? I said.

In a minute, she said. She was rubbing sunscreen into her arms. She had a tattoo on her left arm. An ancient mermaid, its face long blotched out into an amoeba. The sunscreen, I thought, must have been a recent addition.

How’s Ethan? I said.

Oh, she said. He’s fine. She put the cap back on the sunscreen tube.

Fine?

Yeah, she said. She shook back her hair and smiled at me. Did you bring a swimsuit?

I shook my head. I don’t swim.

She laughed at me. And so you’re just going to sit here?

I think it’ll be okay, I said.

What?

I looked up the tide tables earlier, I said. It doesn’t peak until the evening.

Sasha giggled. I fingered the edge of my top. It was an old Portishead shirt I’d found at the thrift store, and I briefly worried that she might ask me to name a few songs. It had been a while, I wanted to tell her.

You’re funny, she said.

What? I said.

Nothing, she said, you just are. She put her hand on my leg and I flinched.

Sorry, I said.

Are you okay?

I’m not really used to…

I’m sorry, she said. She frowned. Hey. What’s wrong?

Nothing, I said. My breaths were coming in shallow. I looked out at the ocean. There were pelicans out beyond the breaking waves, surfers and children with styrofoam boards and a little girl on the sand, holding up a small, gray crab she had dug from the muck, its slippery-white underside strung with clusters of tiny, orange eggs. The child’s fingers pinched around the creature’s exoskeleton. Soon, I thought, they would break through the shell. I felt Sasha’s hair tickling at my shoulders. I turned to her and found her looking at me.

You know, she said, I met Ethan so young.

Hm, I said.

Before I had figured myself out.

She looked away from me. Her profile seemed composed of smooth shapes—circles and ovals and rounded corners.

It can be hard, she said, not to feel trapped.

He’s very nice, I said. Tyler had paid off my student loans the month we met. It was a small gesture. A small gesture that kept me chained.

I’m sure, Sasha said.

We watched the roll and press of the waves upon the land. Out on the sea, I saw a shape that I thought might have been a dolphin. Sasha shifted and I caught the scent of her sunscreen.

Ethan’s alright, she said. We have an agreement.

An agreement?

Come on, Kristen.

She ducked her head sideways at me and smiled like a little girl. The sunscreen was strong on her skin and I felt myself shiver. I swallowed. It was the aromachemicals, I told myself. They were engineered to make me feel this way.

Oh, I said.

Not that anything has to happen, she said. I like being your friend.

I like being your friend too, I said.

I’ve just always loved the idea, she said, of women. When I met you…

A dozen gulls landed upon a picnic blanket near to us and their squawking filled the air. To our left was a group of young adults playing that game that involved bouncing a ball down into a small black net, a game I had never known anyone to play, only seen people playing, people I did not know, so many that it felt like evidence of something strange, a psy-op. I looked back at Sasha.

Would you like to eat something? I said again.

She laughed. Maybe after I swim, she said.

Are you sure?

If you really want me to…

They didn’t give us any utensils, I said. But we can use our fingers.

Do we have an agreement? I asked my boyfriend.

He looked up from his laptop at the kitchen counter. It was late but still he was working. He frowned. He needed to shave.

What? he said.

An agreement, I said. Sasha has one. With her boyfriend.

Are you guys fucking? He looked amused. On the verge of laughing. I curled my fists.

No, I said. I was sure he was picturing it, me and her, and I wanted to slap him. I was just wondering.

You were wondering.

Yes, I said.

Wondering if you could fuck her, he said.

I pinched myself between the eyes. I hate you, I said.

I don’t know what you’re asking me, he said.

I’m asking you if we have an agreement!

Why are you yelling? he said. Then: I need to finish these charts…

Why are you so obsessed with your fucking charts?

Look, I don’t ask you about your work—

All I’m asking, I said, is if we have an agreement.

Sure, he said. You know what? Fine. We can have an agreement.

I blinked. I felt off balance. Really?

I assumed you guys were doing it already.

What?

You and your little girl-crushes, he said. I see it. He looked back at his screen and smirked. Go crazy. All I can say is, good luck.

What does that mean, ‘good luck’?

Well, Kristen, I don’t know that you’d be the one on top…

I chewed the inside of my lip. I had just gotten my nails done and I wanted to rake them across his smiling face.

We’ll see, is what I said.

I suppose we will, he said. He smiled at me, a bland, milky smile. So, dinner, he said. Tender Greens? I have a coupon.

I’d brought a dental dam in my back pocket. I’d gotten it from a safer sex thing as a teenager, kept it around through the years, just in case. On daring nights, I kept it in my wallet. I rehearsed the moment when I might unroll the banana-flavored plastic. Sasha, lazing her arms back across the plush sofa, looking at me with expectant breaths. Don’t worry, I’d say. I have something for this.

Sasha had cut her hair. She answered the door and I startled, her shoulders all broad and flared, her face dimpled in at the sides. She really looked like Taylor Lautner now, I thought, and I slipped past her. We didn’t really talk—she poured me wine and soon she had me pressed between her legs, so much like the cuttlefish softly humping face-to-face. She was exerting a lot of force on me, and I wondered if this was normal. I felt myself slipping lower—I slipped so low that my nose was against her clitoris, my tongue close to her opening. The dam would have been helpful now. I closed my eyes and I flopped my tongue around all cephalopod.

Oh my god, she said.

I shoved my nose side to side against her. I had never seen this move in porn, I thought, and I prided myself on my originality. In my head, I could hear deep-sea sound effects, wet squelches of alien creatures mating, creating new life. I felt myself running out of breath.

Fuck, she was saying, what the fuck are you doing?

I gripped my fingernails into the soft skin of her lower belly. She was so smooth all over. The two of us, creatures born from brine. I stuck my tongue deeper into her. Sasha moaned and bucked her hips and for a moment I tasted air, cool air, and as I inhaled she grasped my head and ground me into her, into a sudden gush of fluid that traveled up my nasal passages, dislodging chunks of slime inside, liquid that suddenly felt like a violation, too much, too deep, and on reflex I choked, I snorted, I blew the fluid out my nose in a sticky glob and wiped myself on the folds of her labia like a fleshy kleenex. I paused and looked up at her. Sasha had her head back, her eyes closed. I scooted myself away from the mess and up to her level. How was that, I said.

Mm, she said. Her eyes were still closed.

I can go again, if you…

That’s alright, she said. She opened her arms for me to lie on her breast. Come here.

I did not move. Sasha frowned.

What’s wrong? she said.

Nothing, I said.

Will you let me hold you?

I swallowed. There was a line forming between her eyebrows.

What is it? she said.

I need a second, I said.

Oh, she said. Yeah. Okay.

I scooted away and sat on the edge of the bed. I wiped at my mouth. Sasha looked so strange to me, then. Her body was a mess of mine—the same parts, arranged into unfamiliar shapes. I missed my boyfriend, suddenly, and the thought made me want to cry. The way he gave me shape with his limits, sealing me in from an expanse of open water. I rubbed at the underside of my nose. I wanted to scrub myself of her. I wanted to scrub the scent from each of my open pores.

Hey, Sasha murmured. Kristen.

I closed my eyes. I was not there—I was in the car, my boyfriend’s car, watching him turn the key firm in its slot. Soon I would feel my body press itself into the seats, the powdery swaths of leather swallowing the scent from my skin. My boyfriend would not say anything. He would put his hand on my thigh and I would curl my fingers around it, my boyfriend’s hand, upon my thigh, hairless against black leather.

Violet Pitsker holds a Bachelor of Arts from Oberlin College and a Master of Social Work from Portland State University. She grew up in Los Angeles and enjoys playing the piano and performing comedy. She was a 2026 McCormack Writing Center Summer Scholar and is currently at work on her debut novel.