What We Do When We Don’t Talk About Grief
Through word of mouth, regulars at the bar—who only came on Ladies’ Night when beers were half-price—knew why you hadn’t stopped by in the past two months. Those evenings when we felt carefree, when our husbands didn’t mind us wasting money on beers we pissed into the rusty toilet bowl. As you sat beside me on the stool, the bartender set a Camembert and carrot stick platter on the counter. Turning away from you, she muttered, “On the house.” Not knowing what to say, I raised my mug and blurted out, “Cheers,” my voice rising at the end like a question instead of a full-stop exclamation. You chugged a beer in one gulp. Then, out of the blue, you said you had started vegetable gardening in your tiny backyard. Planted seedlings of turnips and carrots. “Did you know that turnips must be planted close together so they can feel each other grow, make sure they’re all right?” you said, stabbing the cheese wedge with a toothpick. “And you know what?” You pointed at the carrot sticks. “These must be planted far apart so they can grow as they like. If not, they die.” I waited for you to keep talking, but you fell silent and slid the empty mug in front of the bartender. I wondered if the twins you miscarried were like carrots needing more space than your uterus could offer. Watching you down another beer with such craving, I knew you wouldn’t talk anymore. So I grabbed the carrot stick and took a bite. Crunch, crunch, crunch. And it was gone as if it had never existed. Playing drunk, I leaned toward you, my arm touching yours.
Norie Suzuki (she/her) was born and educated bilingually in Tokyo,
Japan, where she writes and works as a simultaneous interpreter. Her
work has appeared in Baltimore Review, Cutleaf Journal, The Offing,
and elsewhere. She received third prize in the T. Paulo Urcanse Prize
for Literary Excellence in 2024, and her work will be included in
“Best Microfiction 2026.”