Unicorn Clock

Oakland, 2016

It’s a funny thing about nicknames. They’re invented to seal a close connection. But I’ve also watched them fade out of use as a relationship changes, and entrancement evaporates.

For a couple of years, I was her Unicorn. Our dates and texts were filled with unicorn references. Gifts, too: unicorn Band-Aids, unicorn socks, Unicorn Gold toilet freshener. A unicorn onesie to wear on our weekend trip to Safari West. And this Lucite unicorn clock, which she found in an antique shop window. I can imagine her glee: It’s so cool to know you’ve found the perfect Christmas present.

Now it’s Christmas again, three years later. We walked around Lake Merritt yesterday, a three-mile loop, and never once held hands.

These days she calls me Jefe. We’re sort of like family now. Though I don’t feel like the boss of anyone, I’m glad I still have a nickname—but there’s nothing magical about it.

The unicorn clock never made it to the bedroom wall. It balances unsteadily on my dresser, just behind the unicorn piggy bank.

I was her Unicorn—and she was my Jungle Cat. She always will be. But time has changed our connection. The claws and fur have been trimmed, and her nickname shortened to “JC.”