Where the Mermaids Sing

A romanic vignette

The writer is a sculptor and Sudana Krasniqi has, for a long time, been sculpting vibrant forms of modern romance. In her distinct and often hilarious voice she fuses what is good from the past with what is good of new. What follows here is one such form: a search for love through Trader Joe’s, one of the greatest stores of the United States. We’re thrilled to feature her work.

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Illustration by Sam Keshishian.

You’ll have to forgive me—or don’t, all the same—if my notion of romance seems more suited for Nora Ephron films and Brontë novels (Wuthering Heights, in solidarity with vitamin D- deficient bratty brunettes gone mad) than my current reality, which is very much in post 9/11 New York. When you’re raised by the kind of woman who walked out on three ex-husbands, wore heels to the bodega, wouldn’t be caught dead without her favorite shade of lipstick on, always kept fresh wildflowers on the dining table, spent her Sundays crooning I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry to her black cat, Mischa—you really don’t have a choice.

Early on, this mythical creature who collected both Marlboro Miles and seashells with equal zeal—my grandmother—had me convinced that, like her, I was born with mermaid blood. She’d buckle my jelly sandals, dust off make-believe remnants of sand between my toes, undo my tight ponytail (“daughters of the Adriatic wear their mermaid hair down,” she’d say), and send me off to school ready for the seas. Or, at the very least, the second grade. On the rare occasion I expressed disbelief in her “mermaid theory,” she was quick to remind me I’ve never, not once, needed any swimming lessons—that I jumped into the Atlantic when I was four and made myself at home in its temperamental embrace since. When I take inventory of the fifty-three bikinis taking up space I don’t have in my one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment, I wonder if she wasn’t at least a little bit right.

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My grandmother’s ring finger had a permanent tan line she loved to show off as a symbol of her dedication to the delicate, and maybe lost, art of falling in love. The summer she turned ninety-four, she was willing to hop on a plane to Spain to try her hand at it all over again.

The way she told it, she’d met a man from Barcelona, and that was that. What else did she need? Possibly possessed by one too many Woody Allen films and the ghost of Hank Williams, without telling anyone she packed herself a carry-on, purchased a one-way ticket to Spain, hitched a ride to Tampa International Airport, and was determined to meet love halfway. If it wasn’t for some meddling TSA agents and my father (who she never forgave) she would’ve made it onto that flight, too.

When I look down at my own barren hands, with nothing but a too-long set of nails to show for themselves, I think, well it’s not for lack of trying.

As a single woman over thirty, my prospects grow bleaker by the day. I’m told that my best option is online dating. I’m told I should smile for the front-facing camera and let Tinder and a one-hundred-word bio pimp me out. I’m told that it’s high time I get comfortable being nothing more than a ChatGPT fleshlight with a pulse. I’m told to forget the language of poetry and songs, that getting fluent in LLM’s would serve me better. That yes, even serendipity and soulmates have been outsourced to the almighty algorithm gods with an option to, for an additional $2.99, “upgrade to message first.” Dating apps promise you’re only a few clicks away from connection, but I know better—I know it to be spiritually true—that damn phone is an instrument of the devil.

My grandmother is all the proof I needed to believe that love only ever takes a bit of luck and a lot of courage. She wrangled herself nearly half a dozen husbands by simply existing in the wild. Surely I—fellow daughter of the Adriatic, mermaid blood and all that—could muster up enough natural wit and charm to get a man to, if not propose, at least secure a reservation at Torrisi’s? If you ask any New Yorker, both are arguably just as hard.

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I started my journey the way my ancestors would have—soaking in a tub, two vodka tonics deep, Rhiannon on repeat, invoking the spirit of Stevie Nicks and Dorothy Parker both. With desire and delusion flooding my veins, I was ready to get dressed. I threw on a black turtleneck and leather pants paired with my finest faux fur coat, which would have looked out of place for a mere grocery run anywhere else, but in New York it was just the right amount of audacious.

Descending down the escalator leading into Trader Joe’s feels a bit like making your way through Dante’s Inferno-esque circles of hell. A place where lost souls in limbo—guilty of lust, gluttony and greed over frozen mandarin orange chicken and bargain floral arrangements—meet. The women look sad and the men look mean.

I grabbed the miniature red cart and made a sharp right to the salad and greens aisle—I need a man who values a healthy diet, after all. Mostly for vanity’s sake. I locked eyes with the burly jock in a Yale hoodie, who unfortunately is more interested in the organic pre-made bags of caesar salad instead. Pre-made bags of salad. Is this what they’re teaching over at Yale? What kind of man doesn’t take the time to make his own basic, fresh, four-ingredient salad? Makes you wonder what else he’s skimping on. Brushing his teeth at night. Waits until he’s asked a fourth time to take out the trash. Probably signs birthday cards with “best.” Besides, any seasoned shopper knows these have a sixteen-hour shelf life at most. Not worth the $4.99 unless you eat the entire bag in one sitting. He’s probably not single anyway. Let the sorority girls keep him.

I spotted a few prospects over by the free-range eggs. Ruggedly handsome and clearly ethical types, clad in band t-shirts and flannel that signal they have taste but aren’t pretentious about it. Their biggest sin is their penchance for craft beer, which, for the right man, I could forgive. I overhear them casually arguing over which Black Keys album is the best and shake my head slowly when they’re both wrong.

A lanky man with a peacoat, round glasses and The New Yorker tote speeds up ahead of me to the frozen Indian cuisine. This is good, he reads for fun, I think to myself. And the garlic naan on a cold Tuesday night is a nice touch, too. Now we’re getting somewhere. But we weren’t. To my horror, he grabs not one but two handfuls of chicken tikka masala. That’s seven chicken tikka masala’s in each hand. Jesus fuck, what could one man need with fourteen servings of chicken tikka masala? Is that all you eat, then? Paltry reheated dishes of chicken tikka masala? Know what you get with a guy like this, besides an unhealthy gut microbiome? Routine. Stubborn, whimsiless routine. Mermaids can’t live off of frozen chicken tikka masala alone.

I moved across to what makes the whole harrowing Trader Joe’s ordeal worthwhile, the snacks. There, on the top shelf, were those greatly sought after chocolate peanut butter cups Facebook forum stay-at-home moms would kill for. As I reached for the box, a blonde man who could easily pass for a Skarsgård brother, watched my 5’1” frame struggle, making no offer to help. These Skarsgård’s were raised by a pack of Swedish wolves. I made a big show of grabbing the chocolate peanut butter cups myself—I always could, that was never the point—and remembered I’m not into blondes with no manners, anyway.

Discouraged and hungry I decided to cut my losses, picked out a cheap floral arrangement as a consolation prize before making a beeline to the checkout, which was now 238 New York souls deep. Figuring I’ve got a good twenty minutes of standing around ahead of me, I pulled out the reformed party girls Bible, Eve Babitz’s Slow Days, Fast Company. I wonder if she ever tried picking someone up in whatever 1960s version of LA’s Trader Joe’s was. With a set of… eyes like hers, I’m betting she didn’t have to.

An old LIRR ticket to Long Branch I use as a bookmark must’ve slipped out, as the mountain-eyed gentleman next to me bends down to pick it up.

“Thank you,” I whispered quietly, loud enough for only him to hear.

“You’re welcome,” this salt-of-the-earth man says back.

“You know, I almost couldn’t see your face behind all of your… mermaid hair.”

“Mermaid hair,” I laughed. “My grandmother used to call it that.”

What could a man with mountain eyes and a girl, half mermaid, have in common? I don’t know, but I owe it to my grandmother to go to Torissi’s next week with him and find out.

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