The Triangle

            The Triangle



The Aunt allowed the girl one pleasure: half a glass of Coca-Cola on weekends. The girl watched the world through this glass, with its line dividing sweet from unknown involved in separate private whirling. She sipped carefully, under the gaze of the living-room bird, straining her neck to read the bird’s thoughts.

She brought The Aunt tea, straw, teeth, things she needed. Said Sorry if they were late, or Thank You if they weren’t. Said Sorry when inside her was soggy and swollen. On her eighteenth birthday The Aunt brought the girl to a hotel, said: Here.

The hotel proprietor put the girl to work washing coins. For the work the girl got a small room in which she stood with all the lights off watching people on the street, not touching.


She liked to count the coins as she washed them while not looking at any of the rich hotel guests during their lunchtime. Or stand behind the lobby palm people shine into the hotel. But she needed more than this. Salt. Her salty mouth circled back to the ocean. One teaspoon, a little more rocking. At the beach with The Aunt. Together they’re asleep.

She barely slept. In the early mornings she dream-walked through hallways, stole unopened newspapers and taped the classifieds to her walls. She studied the ads, imagined their authors walking through the streets with their tongues dragging on the floor.

One afternoon, a soft-bright yellow triangle jumped out from the bottom of a page. It looked like her.

The personal ad beside it read:

TRIANGLE, 26. Lefty. Secular Buddhist. Seeks person for intimate company. Person should be early-riser, tall, industrious. With a collection of sorts. Rocks would do. Birds even. Routinely given to philosophic inquiry. Find me in the botanic garden on Tuesdays.

She could have sworn this triangle was glowing.


Dear Triangle, she wrote, though the ad asked for no letter. Dear Triangle,

I have often contemplated my own geometry. I give the thread of my walk to others. The wind picks up a little, affects the thread. Say it gets stuck in a branch. Who’s responsible for it then?

Sometimes the sun is drawn to me blank. Or I feel I am in a war diorama edited by insects.

I think you and I are similar in this. Those around us have built houses. We are looking to investigate a more “risky” technique. Wood breaks in storm. Wood catches fire. I often ask myself: Is that tree real?     

I like to think about wool, for instance! Wool is practically nonflammable. It springs back on itself in infinite shape. It is versed in absorption. You never know when you’ll need to absorb something!

We might take our threads for a picnic and knot them together and shove this knot thousands of years underground.

I have learned to hunt alone. I can keep it up all day. That is to say, I ache for company.


She had hardly come to a definitive statement, but thought, better to leave room for the unknown. She signed, “John,” which was the name she heard most often and therefore seemed similar to hers.


That Tuesday she paced about the botanic garden pretending to be a spy. She followed a group of uniformed schoolgirls. Imagined they each held a tiny yet integral sliver of a bomb. They could only detonate while all touching at once. She watched them drift together and apart, grasping elbows, bumping lunch-sacks.

When the crowd of girls left the front of the tiger-lagoon a yellow triangle floated in their place, before the metal bars, rapt.

She shivered below her surface.

It’s lovely, she thought. A profound yellow. The yellow at the heart of something. The yellow inside a peach.

She knew it was a person in every way except that it was a triangle. This made it superior to the other persons she knew. It would rush through her, its color behind her eyes. It would fill her and she would pulse, her toes curled into claws for the purpose of holding on.

Its backpack had another bag hanging off the side. What’s in there?

She thought about weeping, but decided instead on peppermint candy.

She stared at the triangle until she couldn’t feel her feet. Then she stared from a sitting position. It floated by the tigers all afternoon. Her breath slowed as she followed the subtle undulations it granted still air.


She returned to the botanic garden every Tuesday for a month, letter in a sealed envelope. The triangle spent an average of four minutes in the Northern Native Plants section, five in Desert Flora and the remainder of the afternoon before the tiger-lagoon. She scanned every newspaper article for information on tigers, macaws, or wide leaves that might be useful. She wanted to give it color or a banquet.

No one else approached the triangle. This was her only comfort. She felt a growing closeness between them. She could see their threads snuggling in a slipper.

She wrote the triangle a second letter, this one detailing her research on tropical birds.

She hoped it would interpret some of the geographic formations sexually.

This would all be so much easier if she had the triangle’s address. Or its email.


What an ecstasy it was seeing the triangle complete its Tuesday routine. She decided next Tuesday would be The Tuesday. She would approach softly, with caring footsteps, and hold out her hands, like you do with dogs. This way it would know that she meant no harm, and that she wanted it to lick her. It would whisk her away on its scooter, not the electric kind. She would see clearly the contents of the bag hanging off the side of its backpack. She would clean it with her tongue. And after, they would visit a museum. In the museum would be rocks that looked like other rocks but somehow convinced them for good they did not need a house. She’d liken a house to something irrelevant like a woman that lives alone and eats children. The triangle wouldn’t understand this it’d say, What? Never mind. They’d give birth to fire gods. She’d leave her scarves everywhere.

She decided she needed to take one Tuesday off to prepare for all of this.


The next Tuesday she approached to find construction tape encircling the botanic garden. A wrecking ball above the tape, diving into the glass. Wreckers. She had seen them before. They swallowed up the mysteries of this city, and its people, so that beauty could only be seen in dreams.

Where was the triangle? She stood, transfixed, as bulldozers arrived on the scene, chomping the botanic garden to bits.

She felt the sides of her head folded into a single line, flat as a kitchen table in a house no one lives in. A lost question. The building debris slid toward her. She looked down and realized it had begun to rain. The glass proscenium, inseparable from the other misshapen shards of plastic in the mud.


    Not Lost or Found

The triangle slept on the floor. Like its family moved and forgot to pack it. Or after a haircut. With the memory of being discarded still there, underneath. It couldn’t weep, of course, but its voice was often thick with emotion. To the outsider, this slow, acrid way of talking made it sound rich.

It’s just me under this shelf! It said, slowly.

This wasn’t true. There was also a stack of DVDS and some lint. A crow often visited. The lint had transcended but still dreamed of sleeping on a cat; every day, on its shelf it felt the absence of a cat.


Why will no other triangles talk to me? The triangle asked the lint.

You need to talk to yourself, said the lint, like a guru. Ask yourself: Am I singular or plural? Imagine yourself as best friends.

The triangle sulked to a different part of the floor. It was wasting itself on long strands of wondering, encouraged by the lint. What could it wrap them around? In order to get off the floor, or just get off?

The lint lifted off the floor in one of its levitating meditation exercises.


I don’t know what’s wrong with me, the triangle drawled. I’m young. I’m employed. I’m tall.

You’re floaty, the lint corrected, hanging like a cocoon.


What I mean is, I already have identified my destiny. So what are these rocks for? The rocks inside me. It pointed to the center of its shape, where there was nothing.

There is no inside you, the lint said.

How does one not hate one’s roommates? The triangle wondered.

The rocks were imprisoned for their crimes, the DVDs suggested.

That’s not the point, the triangle said.

What you need is a lover, the lint said, levitating again. It was very high up. Difficult to hear.

A shower? Asked the triangle.

Towels, said the DVDs.


A lover. Someone that’s sweet inside. You need to pick up the parts of yourself that fell off, like crumbs into a scarf. Lovers help with this.

But who wants crumbs?

The crumbs are still part it, the lint said. It was trying to instruct the triangle in secular Buddhism.

If only it were that simple. The triangle grimaced.


Alright, the lint answered, I’ll help you write a personal ad.

With a gust of something that felt like warm breeze—a tropical question—the triangle thought maybe the lint is the kind of spirit guide who hooks it up for-real.


For weeks the triangle returned home from waiting in the Botanic Garden for someone similarly tall and industrious, as it had said it would be doing in the ad, and slunk into its usual shape on the floor.

No one read it, it groaned.


You’re just not looking hard enough, the lint said. Are there humans who always carry a second, unnecessary bag, like you do? Notice.

The triangle thought about it and decided this second bag was in no way unnecessary, even though it had nothing in it that couldn’t fit in the first bag.


Not everyone knows to schedule time for love, the lint interjected. Most people don’t know anything.

Not everyone is free on Tuesdays, the DVDs pointed out.

Definitely not, said the triangle.



While the triangle lay on the floor reading Granta, its favorite mag, the crow flew in and dropped a letter onto one of its glowing sides. The letter slowly slid to the ground.

What’s this?

Love letter.

You read my mail?


Whoa! This is graphic. Hold on, it says, “I will meet you at the Botanic Garden on Thursday, not Tuesday, I usually walk my cat Tuesday, and I prefer to be outside only when the weather is all we have. Signed, Anonymous.”


The lint approached the Botanic Garden nervously, losing parts of itself, collecting them, not sure if they were really still part of the same whole, when it was being honest. Not sure what it would say to the triangle. Not radiant as it would’ve liked to be. It had sort of gained weight recently.

It stopped a hundred yards away, and tucked into a tree as a precautionary measure. The triangle floated next to a pile of rubble and a girl. A girl wearing what looked like sandpaper, with a newspaper in her armpit. They were talking. Close. The lint tumbled down the tree, stuck on a leaf for a bit, got tired of that, sunk home.


No mail for you, the crow said, when the lint returned to the apartment. It was reading everyone else’s car magazines. I want two mazaratis, it croaked. I want my baby to have a mazarati.

The triangle returned to the apartment late, in an amorous mist. Told the lint it should have seen these cranes, should have seen this sky. It looked full of not-itself. An exitless color.

The lint tried meditate, but couldn’t get off the floor.


The Castle

We turn off the highway when we see it in the distance. We can get to it before dark, easy. It’s not always within view but we’re always driving toward it, down the highway and deserted streets—gaps in the highway that haven’t time to resemble anything else. When we lose sight we indict the person who saw it last, as if they’re responsible for its disappearance. They get angry, change the subject. We need to turn back. Why have we strayed this far? We’re ashamed at our indulgence. We shell out blame. No one saw it. Well, if we had stopped for food earlier. Then it’s there, and all questions cease. We’re close; we’re at its gate.

The gate swings open and we drive in, illicit. Inside the gate and in front of the castle is a great lawn, and on this lawn is a fat man sprawled in a lawn chair getting a close shave.

Go! Someone says, finally. The car turns, we look ahead at the road, seeing it for the first time—the writhing nothingness from which our objects and events appear.


Zoe Gold (b.1992) is a prose writer from San Francisco. Her work can be found in PANK, Fanzine, Faultline and Powderkeg. She currently teaches Composition at BMCC.

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