Once We Were Lovers

Fucking Fucker

2010-11-14T20:50:00.001-08:00

If you want a girl like that, you'll have to be someone else. Someone really rich or painfully handsome. You are pathetic.

Nice Guy

2009-05-25T14:22:00.001-07:00

The conversation took it’s usual twists and turns as the night wore on. What was once looked at as fun was slowly turning to obligation for the group, their numbers dwindling from fifteen to ten to five. The food was delicious and the walk back from the restaurant had provided a much needed break from close quarters and four containing walls. Now, back within the confines of Jessica’s small home, the five drank and watched as the hands of the clock crawled around it’s face - all wondering when someone would call the night over so they could all leave and return to their lives.
“I hate Easter. It’s such a waste of time. I mean, what does it mean to me? I’m not hardcore Christian.” Jessica shrugged and sipped her whiskey. The ice popped and clinked in her glass as she swirled it with her finger to spread the chill. “It’s more for my parents now, really.”
“I hear that.” Michael raised his glass in salute, then drank. He smiled sheepishly to Jessica. He eyed her and hoped she would offer up her bed to him again tonight. It had been so very comfortable the night before.
Rose snarled at her wine glass, leaned forward and slid it back onto the small table before her. “I think that I’m officially past the legal limit. I think I’m done with this for now.” She leaned back and crossed her legs slowly while scanning the room to see if anyone was eyeing them. She knew Michael would, the cad, but she always liked knowing people were watching. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Eleven.” Jon Checked his watch. “Eleven-forty. Hmph. The time got away from me again.” He smiled. “That’s been happening a lot lately. I just kinda...zone out.” H smiled and looked around the room.
Brian walked out of the kitchen juggling some small, plastic water glasses. He moved to the table in the center of the room and put the five glasses down awkwardly. He then passed them out to the group and said, “The cure for a hangover is staying hydrated. If you keep water in your system, you’ll be far better off tomorrow morning.”
Rose grinned and winked. “Always watching over us, aren’t you, Lovely?”
Brian grinned back, his eyes dropping briefly to Rose, her legs and her flashed black panties. It was an instant that Rose was waiting for. A glimpse of Brian being a normal, healthy male. He always seemed so far above it, unlike Michael and his frat boy self.
“Good call.” Jon raised his water glass to Brian and drank deeply.
“I like the headache the next day. It helps to remind me not to drink so much next time.” Michael laughed, but took the glass anyway.
“How’s that working out for you?” Jessica shook her head and sighed.
“Do what you like. You’re all adults...for the most part.” Brian chuckled to himself and sipped his water.
“Such a nice guy.” Rose leaned back and drake her water down. “Always the nice, caring guy. Knight in shining armor type. A true gentleman?” She held her glass empty water glass out. “More?”
“Is that a bad thing?” Brian arched his brow and took Rose’s glass. He took Rose’s glass and moved back towards the kitchen to refill it.
“Not bad, just rather safe, don’t you think?” Rose liked where this was going. She saw the embers of the dying evening spark back to life. She called out towards the kitchen, “I mean, I look at Michael and don’t thing about a gentleman.” She shot a smile towards Michael. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he said as he wiggled his eyebrows and slapped Jessica’s backside.
Jessica tried to look annoyed, but a shadow of a smile snuck in around the edges of the frown as she allowed herself to be hugged by him.
“And Jon, here. He’s a sweetheart, but he has his little dark secrets. Don’t you, Jonny?” Rose giggled and Jon waved a hand at her.
“Oh, Honey, you know it!” Jon laughed and fanned himself.
“But our friend Brian here is so clean.” Rose took the water glass from Brian when he returned. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, M’lady.” Brian smirked and moved back to his spot against the wall. “So, you’re saying that I have to pump up my secrets and be more...like Michael here?” He jerked a thumb towards the snuggling couple. “Rough up a bit?”
“Sure.” Rose shrugged. “Take some risks? Be a little...bad, maybe?” She crossed her legs again and rested her glass on her knee.
“Hmmm...” Brian nodded and thought it over.
Jon said nothing.
“He’d make a good God, you know?” Jessica shrugged out from Michael’s grip to get a little space. “Like Zeus or one of the other Greek Gods. Playing with people’s lives. Making them do things.”
“I’d be a kind and forgiving God.” Brian laughed. “And giving.”
“I bet.” Rose snorted. “We’d all just have to worship you.”
“And build temples to me and things. I think I’d like that.” Brian grinned.
“Would virgins be involved?” Michael laughed.
“A kind and thoughtful God.” Rose eyed Brian and let the wine swirl around in her head with the thoughts.
“I’ve seem Brian be bad before. He’s not all love and gentlemanly qualities, darlin’.” Jon pursed his lips. “He’s not a saint.” He looked over to Brian, smiled and said, “No offense.”
Brian grinned.
“Oh?” Rose perked up. “Do tell.”
Brian sat down on the chair opposite Rose and looked towards Jon. “Sure, let her rip. What’d I do?”
Jon shook his head and sipped.
“Oh come on, man.” Michael motioned for Jon to speak. “Spill it. You can’t just put something out like that and not follow up.”
“Let’s just say that Brian here is more like Dr. Jekyll than Zeus. He has some skeletons. He’s done some shit.” Jon laughed a knowing laugh and looked over to Brian. “Huh, Doc?” He giggled and wiggled his head a bit from side to side.
“Maybe. Maybe.” A slow, wry smile crossed Brian’s face and Rose saw something change within it. Something went slightly dark about his eyes.
“Well? You going to say?”
Brian placed his glass down and crossed his legs. “Maybe not. I think I prefer to keep my little secrets locked up tight with no key in sight. Safer that way. No one gets hurt.”
It was Jon’s turn to snort out a laugh.
Jessica’s smile faded as she thought back. “I think we’re all better off that way. I for one don’t need to see that.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Keep your little secrets locked up and that key tucked away where ever you keep it.” She stared for a moment, then managed to let her smile return.
Rose smiled, but her brows furrowed. “Ok...what’s going on here? What the hell did I miss?”
“Nothing worth going into.” Brian smiled and let his eyes drop to Rose’s legs. He scanned her from ankle to hips to chest then back up to her eyes. He smiled a sly smile and winked.
Rose cocked her head to the side and looked puzzled letting out a nervous little laugh.
“To secrets among friends, huh?” Michael laughed and grabbed his glass. He raised it to his friends and muttered, “No matter how much it creeps everyone out.” He laughed and drank the water down.
Brian raised his glass, looked around the room at his dear, dear friends, and sipped his water.

A Girl Named Sue

2009-05-25T13:17:00.001-07:00

She was a beautiful redhead with curly hair and laughing eyes. Her name was Sue and she was lovely. When I looked at her, I wanted to scoop her up and hug her. I wanted to stare into her blue eyes forever. I wanted to tangle my fingers through her hair. My heart raced when I saw her and was sad when she left. I was young and reckless and silly then.
A friend was pursuing her, as I recall, and I had to have a heart to heart with him before I moved towards her. It was peaceful enough – his advances had been rejected one too many times and he was done with the chase.
“Would you mind if I asked her out?” I remember the statement being awkward, but well accepted.
“No, man. Go for it. Really – I'm done with trying for that.” He laughed and wished me luck. It was a funny laugh, too – somewhat bitter and resigned.

I asked her out that very day and we met that weekend. The date itself was nice enough. Nothing too robust or intense. I think it was a simple lunch and wandering day. It was quiet and low key with plenty of time to get to know each other. I remember walking her home in the warm, summer sun and drinking lemonade with her.
Her house was big and open with sensible art on the walls and a rather plain feel to it. It was a warm, bright day and I was smitten with this freckled, sweet girl. We were young and awkward and interested in each other. We chattered on the sofa and got caught up in small silences where we would just stare into each others eyes until one of us would look away with a laugh.
Sue grew serious and looked like she was contemplating something grave. She looked down to the floor and said, “This is stupid, but...Well, my parents are a little...I don't know.” She wrestled with the words in her head. “Well, they have stupid ideas.” I remember seeing this sadness behind those laughing eyes. I knew something was lurking.
“Like,” I said, still trying to charm her. I wanted to kiss her, not talk about her parents.
“Well...they don't like...black people.” She swallowed the words like bitter medicine. Her face fell slightly and her brow furrowed as she waited for my response. Being a light skinned, African American person, I wasn't thrilled by the news to say the least.
“Oh, I see.” I smiled and shrugged. “Well, we can see how it goes.”
But, it wasn't going to go anywhere. I knew it. She knew it. Racist parents make it hard to date anyone but who they deem acceptable. I knew that I'd never be liked by her parents even though I was a well spoken, upper middle class and respectable person. This was all too clear when I met them later that afternoon.
I introduced myself and shook their hands. I smiled and was polite. I was the sweet kid most parents wanted their daughter to date.
They didn't smile. They just stared blankly. I could tell that they wanted to ask why I was there. They wanted to escort me out as quickly as they could. I left shortly after, excusing myself and walking out without making it look too desperate. Sue apologized and we hugged goodbye.

I called Sue, but she was never able to speak for long. She wasn't able to meet for dates. Wasn't able to arrange a time for meeting in the future. I wasn't able to continue the effort and gave up much like my friend had earlier.

A month or so passed and so did the heat of the summer. Leaves fell at my parents house and needed to be swept away. A perfect job for a teen living at home with a day off. As I worked the broom back and forth across the stained wood, a car drove up the street and pulled into my parents parking area. The engine stopped and I heard chatter and laughter coming from inside the vehicle as four girls bounced and shoved each other inside.

The door opened and Sue emerged. Her short, copper hair caught the sunlight and her pale, freckled skin looked like cream. She smiled, waved and made her way down to me as her friends laughed and stared down from the car.

“Hi,” she said as she descended the wooden stairs. She wore a loose blouse and tight jeans and my heart skipped in my chest for a moment as I struggled with something to say.
“Hi. What brings you down this way?” I leaned on the broom, keeping it between us.
“I just came by to say hello. See if you were around.” She smiled that ice melting smile of hers. Her freckles were more pronounced. Her eyes were bright and playful. “We were driving around.” We both looked up towards the car which sent the three girls inside into another bout of laughter.
“They are a happy group.” I chuckled and looked back into Sue's eyes. Something was different there. Something was less magical.
“Well..maybe we can hang out sometime? Go see a movie or something?” She reached out and pushed my shoulder softly. Her small hand felt like a bird landing on my shoulder before flittering off again. “You should call me,” she purred.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She smiled a wide, scared little smile, moved towards me, and grabbed my shoulders. Leaning up on tiptoe, she pressed forward and kissed me gently on the lips. She blushed and smiled wider, before turning to head back up the stairs. “Call me, ok?” She made her way to the car, climbed in, and the car came to life again. As it passed, all four girls waved and laughed little squealing laughs – mission accomplished.

I never called.

Curry

2009-01-02T22:15:00.001-08:00

The smell of Indian spices filled the air and the bright lights aimed at key spots on the walls provided a soft glow that was pleasing on the eyes. . The chill of the outside was held back by the massive grills and the flames they gave off. Chefs cooked, the wait staff brought dishes out and the customers chatted and ate away at their meals.
The restaurant was packed. Tables were tight and the self-services area staged clashes between those waiting for chai tea and those trying to get utensils and glasses.
The tall, thin, dirty-blonde returned to her table with two cups of chai in hand. “Place was packed over there.” She wore spandex pants with a large sweater over them. A colorful scarf rested around her shoulders.
Her companion glanced over her shoulder, took the proffered cup of chai. “Thanks for braving the crowd.” She smiled and smelled the cup.
“Sure.” The woman sat and sipped her chai. She blurted out, “Thomas – he has real issues with this, of course - strong, assured women.”
Jessica had to think for a moment, then remembered the conversation that took place before Stephanie had left to go get the chai. “Oh, the game, right?”
“Yes indeed.” She smiled wide. “He had major issues with the game. He had to Lord over us – claiming that he was the best player and the most skilled.” She rolled her eyes. “Real issues there.”
Jessica nodded. “Seems so?”
Stephanie tapped the table with her forefinger. “He has problems with strong women. He can’t handle having a powerful woman in his life.”
“A lot of men can’t.” Jessica tore off a hunk of naan and dipped it into her sauce. She paused. “Did he say that to you?” She popped the bread into her mouth.
“Of course not. No, see, this happened when we went out the other night. I told him that he needed to turn off his iPhone. He was checking it and I didn’t want to carry on the conversation without him being present.” She sipped. “I said that he needed to turn off the phone.”
“Did he?”
“After a minute – yeah.” She laughed. “But, he made a stink over it. Said that it was something about work and people needed him or something.” She snickered. “But, he just had an issue with me telling him he needed to do it. Real woman issues.” She shook her head and picked at her food.
“Still seeing him?”
“Tomorrow.” She sipped. “We’re supposed to go out.”
“Well, that’s something.” Stephanie dragged another bit of naan over her plate.
“See, it all stems from his family.” Jessica leaned back in her chair. “He was an only child, right? His family was one of these “lovey dovey” families where the dad was making cakes and things and he put so much love into it that Thomas thought the world was like that. The whole family went around LOVING each other all the time. He thought that everyone he met was going to be as loving and nurturing.” She giggled. “Like some lamb?”
“No thanks.”
Jessica didn’t miss a beat. “So, here I am and he freaks out. He can’t handle a woman with power. Someone who’s not going to just sit and look pretty for him.” Unconsciously, she ran a hand over her face. She felt the wrinkles on the over tanned and rough skin there and her hand fell to her cup. Somewhat oily, her hair dropped over one eye and she brushed it back behind her ear.
The man at the table next to them smiled to the girl across from him and asked if she would like more chai. She asked for water and he excused himself and took his cup over to the chai container.
Jessica glanced around the room, then looked back to Stephanie – searching for something to say. She was somewhat frantic, feeling that the space left by the lack of words was going to swallow her up. Shove her back into some dark place.
“How was the party other than the game incident?” Stephanie blinked and waited.
Jessica smiled. “Fine, really. I mean, Thomas was Lording, like I said. But, other than that, things were fine, I guess. I mean…” She frowned.
Stephanie raised her eyebrows. “What?”
Jessica looked into Stephanie’s face – searching. Something flashed in her head.
Thomas wasn’t going to call her on that iPhone of his. She was sure of it. The party, the last words, and the promised call tossed away like some used tissue. It dawned on her out of nowhere. She felt defeated. A smile played at the corners of her lips as she looked at Stephanie.
“You ok?”
Jessica smiled. “You know what?” She slapped the table lightly. “I’m not calling him back. Not going out with Thomas again. He can keep his issues and his phone.”
“Oh?” Stephanie cocked her head to the side.
“No. He if has a problem with me being a strong, confident woman, then to hell with him. I mean, who needs that, right?” She laughed. “Not me. I’m not going to stop being who I am, am I?”
“Well, you shouldn’t have to. “ She glanced at the man returning with the chai and water, then looked back into Jessica’s bright eyes.
“Yeah, I don’t need that in my life.” She managed a smile. “Wanna go?”

Summers

2008-12-29T18:33:00.000-08:00

It was pretty much the best weather the City had all summer. I went for a run. That was nice. I showered and got back out into the sun as fast as I could. The trip down to Kelly’s place was amazing. I was going to take the bus, but the weather was too good to miss out on. I walked briskly, switching to the shady side of the street when I got too warm. My iPod was blasting RJD2 and I had a bounce in my step.
When I got to her place, she answered the door wearing shorts and a bikini top and drinking a beer. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders and her sun freckles looked like they had multiplied since the last time I saw her.
Her face was serious and calm. She slid the bottle of beer over her breast and whispered, “It took you forever to get over here. I almost gave up on you.” She held out the bottle and I took it.
“Sorry, I walked over.” I took a swig as she removed her bikini top and tossed it over her shoulder.
One of her neighbors wandered past her apartment towards the laundry room. If they saw her, they didn’t say anything.
Kelly turned and her slim hips swayed languidly as she moved down the hallway towards the bedroom. I followed her, watching as she removed her shorts and kicked them away. She was like a dancer – fluid and graceful. Her thong was next. She leaned against the bedroom door and slid it down her legs. “Come in. Close the door. Make yourself comfortable.” She turned and ran a finger over her small, tanned breast. She licked her lips and let her hand slide down between her legs.
She didn’t have to tell me twice.

It was pretty much the best weather the City had all summer. We all were hanging out in the park and it was just a beautiful thing. Tom had his drum and he played it while Cathy and Sammy danced.
I checked the time, took another toke, then said my goodbyes. “Gotta split. I promised Kelly I’d come by.” I brushed off my jeans and pulled on my shirt. “Later.”
I made my way through the park and scored another bag on the way to Kelly’s.
When I got there. Kelly was out in the back yard painting a sign that said U.S. OUT NOW. She had red paint on her cheek and looked so cute. Her dress drifted on the cool breeze her dark hair was tied back with a tie-dyed scarf. When the sun was right, I could see right through the dress.
“Took you long enough.” She grinned. “Out here painting these up all by myself in the sun, man. Not cool.”
I waved the baggie in front of her face and she whispered, “But I forgive you.”
We laughed and fell onto the grass – our hands exploring.
“Let’s go inside, Baby?”
We managed to get to our feet and move inside before anyone called the cops.

The sun was hot and warm and I picked Kelly up around 1pm. I heard her Father barking at her as I moved up the driveway. Wow - the guys voice carried like he was using a megaphone.
“And, where are you to driving to?”
I knocked.
“Coming!” Kelly’s voice was as warm as the sun. The door opened and she rolled her eyes and mouthed, “He’s such a bore.”
“Hello, Mr. Roth. Were you able to get out and enjoy some of this weather today?” I smiled. “Ideal for golf, right? Did you get your new clubs?”
Her father drifted over to the door and his face softened. “Well, not yet. Haven’t had time to go over and pick them up yet.”
“Well, don’t waste this day, Sir.” I shook his hand. “I’ll have Kelly home by…eight? I thought we’d just go for a drive and get something to eat.”
He arched his brow and smiled. “Well, like you said, it’s a beautiful day and it’d be a shame to waste it. Make it nine. You two have a nice time.”
We waved and walked to the car. Even with the windows down it was super hot.
I backed into the street and beeped the horn as we moved off for the day. When we were further down the road, I pulled over into the shade. Kelly looked at me shyly.
“What’s wrong?” She blinked.
I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
She giggled and looked around. “You’re going to get us in trouble.” She blushed.
I gave her cheek a pinch and laughed. “You’re the ginchiest!”

The weather was ideal. Some of the best we’ve had in a long while, I tell you. It was a fabulous day for tea.
I walked up the path to Ms. Roth’s home and knocked. The sun beat down on my back and I began to perspire. I couldn’t show up looking like some ruffian. I removed my hat and wiped my brow with my handkerchief.
The door opened and Ms. Roth’s Father loomed before me.
“Well hello my boy. Right on time as usual, eh?” He smiled and nodded as he took my hand. “Come in before you’re baked alive out there.” He motioned me inside and I swept my handkerchief back into my pocket.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“We’re taking tea on the back porch. There’s a nice breeze today and the oaks will keep things cool. This way.”
He lead me through the house to the back yard and our into the garden. The sun filtered through the trees and the cool breeze raced over my forehead – a Godsend.
Then, I saw her. She was beautiful. An Angel. She sat up and turned her head towards me ever so slightly. She was a vision. Her skin glistened as she twirled her parasol and smiled in my direction. I blushed. He dress was a bright yellow and it reflected the sun’s bright light. I blushed again as I glanced at the buttons down her side. They were like pearls.
“Mr. Cole – I’m glad you could make it this afternoon.” She smiled kindly and her lashes flittered playfully.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you for your invitation.” I bowed my head and glanced over to Mr. Roth. He nodded and I made my way towards her. “Thank you…for making a place for me at your table.” I took her hand in mine and held it for a moment. The smooth silk of her glove sent shivers up my arm. We looked into each others eyes and held the glance for what seemed like an eternity.
“Now now you two lovebirds. We’ll have none of that foolishness here today.” Mrs. Roth’s voice sing songed from the garden and I jerked my hand back awkwardly as Mr. Roth bellowed out a laugh. “The neighbors will be talking. Sit. Sit, now.”
I smiled awkwardly and sputtered out a laugh as Mrs. Roth took a seat next to her daughter. Mr. Roth sat next to her and I took a chair across from Ms. Roth.
I was in heaven. I was so close to her - able to sneak glances at her and exchange sweet smiles. I was in heaven.
This was a fabulous summer. My best summer ever.

Diner Date

2008-09-14T23:11:00.001-07:00

She wasn’t raised t say such things. She was a good girl. Modest and lady-like. But, event that gave her away. Not quite a lady, just like one. Like something is similar, yet not quite it. The conversation had gotten sexy, but she liked it.

The wine didn’t help. She wasn’t a drinker, yet this – her fourth glass – was being put away without rational thought. The way he looked at her was frightening, but it filled her with heat as well. Simple things made her mind swim.

Would she like more salad? Oh, god yes – give her more.

How was the lamb? He made it just the way she wanted it – tender, hot, and perfectly seasoned.

She was lost.

“Well, I guess we should think about getting you home. You look tired.” He smiled that smile of his. The smile that made her melt. She felt a heat rise in her chest and wanted to jump on him then and there. She knew it was just the wine. Knew it would be a huge mistake to react like she wanted to, but, she wanted him and wanted him now.

“I should, I guess. Have to work tomorrow and all. You sure you don’t mind driving? I could call a cab instead.” Or, just sleep here tonight after you RAVAGE me!

“No no. No cab. That’s silly. I’ll drive you.” He stood and cleared the plates. He dragged his finger over his desert plate and turned. His finger slipped into his mouth and he licked the crème from it. Was he trying to make her crazy? If so, it was working. She shivered. “Cold?”

“Just got a chill.” She smiled. And rubbed her arms. She looked down and noticed her nipples pushing through her blouse and blushed. Jesus. She needed to get her coat before he noticed. Or, maybe not.

“I’m sorry. I can turn the heat up.”

“I don’t think I could take more heat.” She stared blankly for a moment. Then, trying to cover, she mumbled, “Well, more than the finger licking.” Again, a heartbeat passed, then, “And the wine. I just get shivers sometimes.” Her head was swimming. She drank far too much, but loved every moment of it. She felt lighter than air.

He moved to her and around behind her.

She looked up and behind herself as he slipped his hands onto her shoulders and rubbed softly. She closed her eyes and let her head drop as his strong hands pressed into the soft muscle and olive skin of her shoulders. His breath was in her ear now and she grew warmer. More aroused.

He whispered, “I suppose…you could stay here tonight.” His hands slid down over her chest and cupped them gently. She swooned. “I could…set you up on the sofa. Or…” He nibbled her ear.

Her hands dropped to her sides and found his legs. She gripped them and felt the muscle under the firm flesh and cotton slacks. Her hands kneaded his calves. “I’m not sure I should.”

His tongue slid over her ear lobe.

“Maybe I could….sleep on the sofa. That….might be…” She felt something stir in her belly as fingers found her nipples. The wine spun her head as she yanked it upright. Her balance fell away as the perfectly prepared meal rose from her belly. She couldn’t even get out a warning as she bolted forward in her seat and was sick.

He yelped as his tongue was bitten. Her head smacked his bottom jaw and clamped his own teeth on his tongue. His head jerked back and hit the pots that hung behind him as she lost her dinner all over the wondrous, white tablecloth that covered the dinner table.

“Oh, God,” she hissed as she pushed away from the table and raced for what she remembered as the restroom. She yanked the door open and dove in, knocking an ironing board to the floor along with some rolls of toilet paper and what she believed to be tools, though she couldn’t focus enough to be sure.

He mumbled, “To the right,” but, of course it was too late and she was sick in his hallway.

This, in turn, removed the romance from the evening.

Hours later after medicine, a cold compress, and some cleaning had been preformed, they sat together on the sofa in robes. Hair wet from the showers they took – alone – they sipped water and tried to find the humor in the situation, but it was still a bit too soon.

“I don’t drink often.” She stared into her water glass, then swept her hair away behind her ear.

“I figured.” He snickered and she followed suit. “Well, the hall is spotless.” The two stared into the hallway, then began laughing. He leaned forward and kissed her softly.

It wouldn’t last.

2008-09-12T16:35:00.000-07:00

It just fell on her from out of no where. Or perhaps it snuck up behind her when she hadn't been looking, but there were tears streaming down her face and she felt about twenty leagues deep. She walked through the mass of people. Busy shoppers buying. The apple she was clutching slipped from her hands and onto the floor.

"I'm sorry," she said, though no one had noticed. She left the supermarket without buying anything and walked to the next supermarket. It was her lonely evening ritual. There were 5 supermarkets within walking distance from her house and she would tour them, searching for something to buy, but finding nothing. Frequently, she openly wept, but no one said anything. Was it common for women to weep and wander as she did? Was it a sight the cashier were familiar with?

She peered into other people's carts: diapers, chocolates, vodka, dried mashed potatoes. Each item told a story. She was perennially between stories. She only had the absence of an existence, folding around her friends' life's or acting as a mirror.

Then her mood lightened and she smiled at babies and brushed her hair and thought about how happy she might one day be.

2008-09-04T16:59:00.000-07:00

Flies

2008-09-03T08:17:00.001-07:00

"Wow. This is such a great place," said the blonde. She was being led by the hand of a man a few years her senior through a maze of Harley Davidsons. Their metal and mirrors reflected the August sun of a Sunday morning back up into the couple's faces and they squinted in pathetic defense. Before them stood an all chrome diner. It had blinked to them from the highway.

"I used to come here when I was in college," he said. "There is a bathroom in the back with a shower. Truckers stopped here on late night drives. The food is alright, but the waitresses are mean."

"I can't believe you never told me about it." She squeezed his hand and with the other made a visor to protect her eyes. The tarmac was sticky underfoot.

"There's a lot I haven't told you."

"No there isn't. Not really. You talk all the damn time."

"That's what I want you to believe."

"I believe you are a wonderful person, and I am glad you are in my life and I am glad to be visiting your parents and I am glad to be at this diner with you." She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it.

They approached the diner in silent awe. It was ablaze with reflections of the blue sky, the approaching couple, the motorcycles, the trees across the parking lot, and beyond them, the colorful shifting parade of the highway. He held the door open for her and she paused at the threshold. Out wafted the sweet smell of bacon fat, syrup and coffee. It was more than she had hoped for. Worn leather seats and bar stools, chrome detailed countertops and wall panels. Best of all were the mirrors on the ceiling and walls. She could see every angle of everyone.

There was a wait, but they didn't mind. He analyzed the display cases of cds for sale: predominantly country and heavy metal albums with the occasional best of the decade compilation. He was particularly pleased to notice a best of the 70's disc that he had bought a tape version of ten years ago on a road trip through the midwest. There were also packs of cards for sale, and, causing him to frown, a hunting knife.

She leaned with her back to the wall and surveyed the landscape before her. Wavey haired waitresses grunting at fat men in leather jackets. There was a friendliness there, she decided, though it wasn't one she knew to participate in, not that she was invited. She had felt the inhibitants give her the brief once over followed by instant disregard the moment she walked in: the young professional in expensive clothes with a mocking smile waiting behind her face. She noticed everything. People cleaned their plates, but left the tables messy. They left strings of golden syrup along the table as they replaced the glass containers back in the center after showering their pancakes. Homefries sat comfortably next to puddles of ketchup. Soft eggs and crisp bacon was salted. Inevitably, the bacon and eggs ended up saturated with syrup, and the pancakes were polluted by ketchup. The plates were petri dishes of blending flavors.

"A booth is free." The waitress shouted at them from across the resturant. They followed her finger to a table in a corner booth, isolated from everyone else. She wore tight pink gingham, which the man thought would have looked sexy on a woman twenty years younger, but which gave this waitress an air of martial dignity. They sat at the table and the waitress grabbed from her apron pocket and slapped them down.

"Coffee." It was not a question. While she waited for a reply, the waitress stared at her reflection in the mirror and adjusted the under-wire of her bra with one hand and a well-tuned wiggle.

"Yes. Two, please," the woman agreed. The waitress manouved herself to get their coffee.

"I hate it when you order for me. The man is supposed to order for the woman."

"What are you talking about?" The woman lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I have asked you before not to order for me."

"But I knew you wanted coffee."

"Look, I don't want to make a big deal out of it. I know you have your period and you might get all emotional. I just have asked you before not to order for me and you keep on doing it. No matter my motivations, you are being disrespectful."

"And you are being controlling and totally offensive"

"Maybe you are being controlling. Maybe I wanted tea. And you were the one who told me that when you have your period that it is good for me to just let things go because you get so emotional."

"Did you want tea?"

"No, but that isn't the point."

"That is precisely the point. God. Why do we always have to fight? It is so stupid."

"Like I said, let's just drop it."

"Let's try. Here is the menu."

They opened their menus. His was stuck together with congealed something, but he used his knife as a lever to pry it apart.

"What's crispy french toast?" she asked.

"It's a local specialty. Just before you finish the french toast you put cornflakes all over it."

"That's genius."

"Genius?"

"You know. It is a great idea. I have to try it."

"Its pretty good. I'm going to get what I always get here..." He drifted off.

"What?"

"What what?"

"What do you always get here?"

"Oh. I always get a stack of apple pancakes. They are delicious."

"I'll let you have bite of my crispy french toast, if you let me have a bit of your apple pancakes."

"Baby, what is mine is yours."

The waitress returned with two small white mugs of light brown coffee and dutifully scribbled their orders on a grease stained notepad.

The woman looked up at the reflection in the ceiling.

"I can see your bald spot."

"I can see your cleavage."

"I'm going to go wash my hands before I eat."

"The bathrooms behind the bar. Let me know what you think."

The woman stood up and navigated her way through the densely packed restaurant. Knives and coffee handles were precariously placed in her path, but she shimmied through. People were here in groups. Eight bikers had puled two tables together and sat, steadily eating. A fat family of four squeezed into a booth. No one looked at her, but she looked at everyone.

She passed the bar. She wanted to reach her hand out and stroke the people's backs the way she would trees in a forrest. She satisfied herself by allowing one hand to graze against the chrome piping of the tables on the opposite side.

She opened the bathroom door. It was astonishing. Yes, there was a shower, but that wasn't what had made her gasp. The entire bathroom, floors and ceilings included, was mirrored. She went straight to the center and turned a pirouette before realizing she had forgotten to lock the door. After doing so she sat down to relieve herself. She didn't like looking at herself during this. Everywhere she looked was her face in placid concentration. She looked into the ceiling, but the shape of her neck and the way her breasts were pinched together were unpleasing. She closed her eyes.

She stood up and turned to flush. In the toilet, next to ribbons of menstrual blood, were tiny flies resting on the inside of the bowl and some drowned in the water. Her stomach turned. Her instinct was to think that the flies had come from her body. Teeming inside her womb. She had to think carefully. The flies must have been here before, she just hadn't looked. Where did they come from? They couldn't have swum up through the plumming. She closed the lid and sat down. Again she was distrubed by her image. Again she closed her eyes, but the image of the drowned flies flashed in her head. She rested her head against the cold mirror.

There was a knock on the door. "Sarah, are you alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I was just daydreaming." Her voice echoed unpleasantly in the room.

"Well, the food is on the table. Crispy French Toast." She grew aware of the clatter of the diner beyond the door. Plates being washed, the spatter of grease, people paying and coming and going. Some laughter. She stood up and washed her hands twice. She used a paper towel to open the bathroom door and walked back to the table.

"Wanna try some pancakes?"

"Sure." They were delicious.

"What happened in there? The bathroom is pretty wild, huh? You take off all your clothes and dance around?"

"No. I just was tired."

"Back in college the big thing to do was to come here with a date and fuck in the bathroom between ordering your meal and getting the food."

"That's disgusting."

"Well, I guess that depends on who was doing the fucking."

They sat and ate. The woman decided she liked the Crispy French Toast. The cornflakes made delicious pockets for the syrup to catch the syrup. As the man paid the waitress at the register, the woman caught her own eye in the mirror.

"You know how I feel about you, don't you, Sam?" She asked.

"Not really."

"I don't know if I know either."

Love is Love is Love

2008-09-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

The young cousins sat side by side on the sunny riverbank. They were perhaps children, perhaps not. She wore baggy cut off jeans and a big black shirt and he wore the same. Their hair was the same length. Even though they sat the same distance from the lazy river his feet were submerged, whereas she had to strain her legs just to cool a toe.

"You know, you don't need to worry," she said, "I'm not falling in love with you or anything like that."

"You wouldn't say that if you weren't already in love with me." He gave her a gentle shove on the arm.

"I just really like hanging out with you..." Her adolescent features were scrunched in clumsy concentration.

"And bringing me presents, and writing to me all the time, and remembering every word I say." He winked at her.

"I do that with all my friends. Well, all my friends that I like." She folded her arms.

"I know you do. I'm just giving you a hard time. Still, it is a weird thing to say to someone. Why do you think I would worry if you loved me?" He lay back among the tall grass, resting his arms behind his head. "You know, nothing is as nice as this. Being here with you and looking up at the sky."

"See! You love me, too." The girl said.

"You give yourself away. You said 'You love me, too,' which means that you do love me."

"Well, of course, I love you. You are my cousin." She stood up and walked away. The boy lay there, smiling. She walked downstream about ten yards and stood and stared at the moving water. She looked back. Was he looking at her? He wasn't. She walked into the water. It tickled her calves and she giggled. She checked again. He still wasn't looking. She reached into the water and cupped some with her hands and walked upstream holding a parcel of water.

"Special delivery," she shrieked. A long splash stained his jeans.

"I don't care. It's nice. It's nice to be splashed by someone who loves you." He remained relaxed and immobile.

"I don't love you."

"You do love me. You don't love me. Make up your mind." He winked again. She walked back downstream.

"I'm going inside." She looked towards the warmth of their house.

"Can't you just enjoy being here with me for a moment?" His finger beckoned.

"You could come inside with me."

"No. I like it here." He rested his hand on his stomach.

"Well, even though I love you, I have to go." She was walking towards the house.

"That is not a strong enough love for me."

"I know."

"I know you know." He continued to stare at the sky. He was staring at the clouds. Were the stratus or nimbus? He could never remember which was which. One high above his head looked like a child's drawing of a cloud and he realized he had never seen a cloud that looked like a cloud before.

Love Revolutionary

2008-09-01T19:13:00.002-07:00

Who falls in love?

I do!

Me too!

Who among us has been hurt?

Me!

Twice.

Ten times.

Who here has hurt?

I didn't mean to do it.

She was asking for it.

A little bit.

Who here will join my Love Revolution?

What?

Revolution?

A revolution of true hearts to vanquish misunderstanding and banish pain!

Oh.

Well, that seems like a tall order.

Who's with me?

Listen buddy, do you think this is San Francisco?

My people, my people. You have to take hold of love before love takes hold of you. Are you fighters for love or proponents of pain?

...

I'll conquer you all.

Brunch with Mother

2008-09-01T18:09:00.000-07:00

As the kitchen clock struck ten, the smell of fresh scones and bacon drifted through the small apartment. Warmth from the oven warmed the apartment and light streamed in through the open window. It was a perfect day. Unfortunately, today was brunch day.

David stood before the antique mirror in the bathroom and shaved, tapping the razor into the sink and trying to concentrate on both the conversation and not slitting his throat.His stomach growled as he hurried through the process.

“She won’t stay long. She never does – you know that.” He rinsed the razor, tapped the blade against the sink, then dragged it over his right cheek. He heard a slam from the kitchen and sighed, “Come on, Debra. It’s not that bad. She will be in and out of here in an hour. She’s just visiting. Like always.”

A crash of drawers from the kitchen filled the air.

David rinsed, dried, and applied lotion to his face. He walked from the bathroom and folded his arms over his bare chest.

“Debra…please. We can talk through this later, but she’s going to be here in a minute and I want to greet her clothed.” He smiled.

Debra returned the smile, but it was cool and somewhat transparent.

“I’ll make sure she gives more notice next time, ok? But, just for now, can we be civil? Please?” David ran a hand over his head. He knew Debra didn't like his mother - not many people did - but, these visits had to happen. "Just stay out of sight and you won't even have to deal with her at all.

She nodded and moved off down the hall, saying nothing.

David bowed his head, breathed out a long sigh, then moved to the bedroom to get dressed.

~

The woman at the table ate at the scone in her hand with delicate bites and spoke with a slight accent and venomous tone. Her hair bun was as tightly wound as she was all the time. She blurted out comments on everyone she knew during their visits and David sat and listened with disinterest. He didn’t even know half the people she spoke ill off during her rants. She sat upright and prim, dispensing ill will. He’d listened to his mother bad mouth everyone from his father to his sister to his horrible, gay neighbors and he’d had just about all he could take for one morning.

“And, you know how she is – all fluff and pink and horrid makeup!” She rubbed her arms. “You always keep it so cold here.”

David ignored the comment about the cold. “Well, she is your sister, Mom.” David grinned and finished his bacon. The coffee swirled in his cup as he checked the time out of the corner of his eye.

“My sister is a ridiculous BEAST of a woman.” She swatted the words away with her hand as if swatting a bug. “Enough about her. She makes me so upset.” She dropped the scone onto the plate and looked at her son with dull eyes. “So, this girl you said you were seeing?”

David looked at her and wanted to laugh as the thought of him somehow making Debra appear through magic appeared in his head. He shook it off. “She’s out.”

“Out.” His mother rolled her eyes and leaned back in the chair with a smug look on her face. “Last time she had some sort of appointment and couldn’t be here either.”

“Well, you don’t give us much notice, do you?” David tried to remain polite.

“Your own mother needs to give notice? Schedule an appointment?” She frowned. “Well, nice to know where I stand.”

“It’s common practice – letting someone know you are thinking about coming by.” David couldn’t hide his impatience and his mother gave him that face that registered both hurt and anger. He’d grown to hate that face as a boy.

Just then, he caught sight of Debra slipping up behind his mother. She stood with pitcher in hand and looked as if she was bound and determined to empty it’s contents over his mother’s head.

David stood and deftly moved around behind his mother, snatching the pitcher up and spinning around to stand between his mother and Debra.

His mother gasped and ducked back a bit, catching her breath and blurting out, “What on earth is wrong with you?!” She frowned.

“Water?” David smiled wide, holding the pitcher high. He heard Debra slip around the corner. He moved back to the table.

Confusion showed on his mothers face as she declined. David slipped the pitcher back onto the countertop and shot Debra a look as she peeked around the corner smiling.

Debra smiled wide and her eyes contained the mischievous quality he’d seen far too many times before. She slipped around the wall.

He thought this would be a good time to end the visit.

“Well, like I said, mother, I do need to run. I’m sorry.” He checked his watch and winced. “I have to run down to the shops before picking up Marty.”

“I thought you said Marty was away this weekend.”

David remembered the lie he told on his sister’s behalf so she didn’t have to attend this little brunch extravaganza. “From the train.” I need to go to the shops, get my-“ He stopped and showed his annoyance by crossing his arms. “What? Do you think this is all some sort of…of con? Some massive running away from you?” He laughed. “Come on, you can walk down to the shops with me is you don’t believe me.” He shook his head with a chuckle and started clearing plates.

“Well, if you’re going to get her, maybe I’ll wait here and we can all have dinner together before I head home?”

David could feel his heart sink. Idiot. “It’ll be hours.” He turned to see Debra moving up slowly and calmly behind his mother with a sour expression. “You know, I’ll clean all this up later.”

Debra bit her bottom lip and brought her hand up high. Something was cradled in her hands. A dictionary?

David was across the room in a heartbeat again, shoving past his mother and up to grab the heavy book away from its arc towards his mother’s head.

With a squawk, his mother fell back into the chair and knocked into her coffee, spilling it across the table. “DAVID!”

David spun on his heel – dictionary in hand. “Present!” He laughed. “You reminded me.” He held the book up and started paging through it.

“You’re on drugs, aren’t you? I saw a program on this just the other night. There’s a singer from the UK that is on the same – heroin? I knew you were losing weight!” She stood. “You are on that or something else. You’re entirely off your ledge! Knocking me over like that!” She looked at her sleeve and grumbled, “Coffee on my new coat, David.”

David closed the book and dropped it onto the end table. He glanced around but didn’t see Debra. He whispered, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” His mother stood and moved to the sink to wash off her sleeve. “David, you need to seek help from someone. A counselor of some type. Or, go to one of those rehabilitation centers or AA groups.” She rinsed her sleeve with cold water.

David noted the chill of the room increasing. He glanced around and narrowed his eyes.

His mother shut the tap off and looked around for a towel.

That’s when David saw Debra…and the knife. With cat-like grace, he leaned forward, snatched the knife from Debra, and yanked the towel from the refrigerator door. He slipped the towel in front of his mother’s face as he quietly slid the knife onto the counter. “Ta-daa! Towel.”

Eyes wide, she took the towel. “David. I saw the knife.” She dropped the towel onto the kitchen floor. “David.”

David tried with all his might to come up with why he would be waving a knife around his mother. Nothing fit. He watched as the color drained from his mother’s face.

“It…it was floating. Just there. Floating in the air, David.”

“Floating?” He looked over at the knife on the countertop. “Um…I don’t understand.”

“Floating in the air, David. Right there. Inches before my face.” She was white as a ghost - an expression David found extremely funny in this particular situation.

“Mom? Are you ok?” He frowned. “You know, you don’t look at all well.” He cocked his head to one side. “Mom…are…are you on some sort of medication? Is this was that conversation is all about?” David forced concern onto his face. He felt bad about the bait and switch until he remembered all the horrid things his mother had said over the course of the hour.

His mother blinked. “I’m leaving.”

“Maybe I should take you?” He patted her shoulders. “You look so tired. Sure you don’t want to come to the shops with me?”

Without a word, she hugged him and moved to the front door. Purse in hand, she looked back at David and shivered. “Say hello to Marty for me. Maybe we can all meet for dinner one night next month. Out somewhere.” She swallowed hard as she glanced around the apartment. She made her way towards the door looking around like a child on a Haunted House ride. She waved and closed the door behind herself quickly.

David waited and listened for the sound of the front gate slamming shut and his mother’s car pulling away before saying a word to Debra.

He looked at her as she moved through the wall of the kitchen pouting playfully.

“Debra, that was really over the top.” He tried to sound stern.

Debra’s voice was a whisper that sounded like velvet. “Oh David…I wasn’t going to hurt your mother.” She moved to his side and stroked his hair with a willowy, silver and translucent hand.

“She’s an old woman, Debra. She could have had a heart attack.” He sighed. “Really, that was just not right.”

Debra pouted harder and slowly drifted backwards. Her velvet whisper drifted to his ears as she started to fade away. “I’m sorry David.”

“Wait. Come back.” David sighed again and placed his hands on his hips. “Come on.”

Debra appeared behind him. “What?” She blinked innocently. Her hair cut in a short shag and her face was full and beautiful. Her hands moved behind her back and she looked coy.

David turned around and cocked his head to the side. “Just…be nicer?” He smiled sweetly to her. “Please? I mean, as mean as she is, she’s still my mother.”

Again, the syrupy whisper filled the room. “I’ll try.” She shimmered and a smile crossed her face.

David returned the smile and took a deep breath. He could smell her floral scent.

Debra’s arms wrapped around his neck and she pressed in closer. Her body rose slightly so her chest was at his eye level, then she slithered down his front. She floated an inch off the floor looking into his eyes. “Forgive me?” She kissed him and the room grew colder.

The two sank to the sofa. The shops would wait.

A picture hung in the hallway. In it, a woman dressed in a mini-dress stands in David’s apartment’s kitchen by a refrigerator – an older style, but in the same spot. The image was slightly faded and the colors have mostly washed away. “Debra Shelly Summers, Eastmont Terrace, Summer 1967” was written in the corner of the 8x10 image.

(( Olivia, thank you for the honor of posting this on your blog! ~M~ ))

The Ugly Duck

2008-08-31T18:07:00.000-07:00

There once was an ugly duckling who was actually a swan. I'm sure you've heard that story. This story is about an ugly duckling who grew up to be an ugly duck. When all of the other birds encouraged her to get out of town, she did. She waddled to the next pond and the birds there called her ugly as well. Everywhere she went she was still herself, and she was still ugly. She was very lonely, and very sad. Imagine, no one would quack with her. No one would wanted to swim with her. She was alone.

Now, I wish this story changed. I wish I could tell you that the ugly duck was also incredibly intelligent, or remarkably brave, but she wasn't any of those things. The only special thing about her was her ugliness. She did become quite stubborn and tough throughout the years. She learned to fight and stand up for herself, but she remained an outcast.

There were good days, of course. She enjoyed leisurely paddles through glorious dawns, particularly tasty morsels of river-weed and the occasional winnings of stale bread from children. She didn't understand the children's comments ("Mommy, is that thing a duck?"), but even if she had she wouldn't have minded.

Eventually, the ugly duck grew old. As an old duck, young ducks no longer expected her to be handsome, and so they treated her the same way that they treated all elders, with a bit of fear, a bit of reverence and a lot of indifference. But the old duck had gotten used to being special, and now that her ugliness had been neutralized she lost her identity. She stared at her reflection with curiosity, "Am I not as ugly today as I was yesterday?" She deliberately swam through muck to try to maintain a certain level of repulsiveness.

When she died, not one duck cared. Her body floated into some reeds where it was devoured by a pack of water rats, who found her stringy, but redeemingly fatty. Soon, all that remained of the ugly duck was a single gleaming bone suspended on top of the water by the reeds.

Stomachache

2008-08-29T03:25:00.000-07:00

She sat facing an old love. They sat across a small black wooden table which was placed against a white wall in a room with a black matte tile floor. If she had fully extended her arms, she could have grabbed his shoulders. Before her was an empty plate. Beyond the plate, the table was cluttered with tiny broken figurines made from fragile materials. Her mother, who wasn't her real mother, but a dream mother, had approached and told the tales of the visiting artists who had come to their house and sculpted these scenes, and then, with ardor, how the girl had accidentally destroyed each one.

The first story of destruction the mother told was that of a tin foil girl in a long tin foil dress atop a cardboard turret, peeking out from an embrasure between the battlements.
"Long ago," her mother told the couple siting at the table, "my daughter tripped near this sculpture and pulled it down. The girl stood with a bow and arrow and there was a stairway leading away from the turret if she wanted to retreat. But when my daughter tripped, the tin foil girl lost her arm, lost her weapon, and the stairwell was crushed."

The second story of a wax paper man in a newspaper boat. "Before my daughter sat on this," the mother said, "the man held oars and there whole scene suggested the promise of land. Now it is as if the man is forever marooned."

Description after description floated down upon the couple. Among them: an old woman made of bark who lost her eyes in a game of catch; the scrap metal Father Christmas whose sled was split in two by a swinging ice skate; and a pipe cleaner warrior whose legs had been mangled beyond recognition in an entanglement with a hairbrush.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "I didn't mean to break these things." Her mother receded into a part of the room the girl could no longer see.

"Sometimes, sorry isn't good enough," the old love said with a cruel smile. He started to squash the already damaged figurines with this thumb. The girl watched. She tried to say stop, but her words were not there.

She reached across and grabbed his shoulders. When she touched him, he began shrinking rapidly. She picked him up, and held him until he was the size of her hand. She put him in the turret with the tin foil girl, but he pushed her from the battlements. The girl picked him up again and held him, like a kitten, by the scruff of his neck. He swung furious arms.

On the plate before her appeared two slices of walnut bread. She placed the old lover between the slices. His legs protruded and flailed wildly and she squeezed the bread together. She brought the sandwich to her lips and ate it, relishing the different consistencies of each part of his body. When she was finished, her mother appeared again with a large glass of milk, and she drank it all in one gulp.

2008-08-27T16:10:00.001-07:00

Encounter with a psychic

2008-08-27T16:07:00.000-07:00

When I was 14, I lived in Ukraine. I had parents lacking any imagination. While that made my life miserable, occasionally it was to my advantage. Once I, quite unexpectedly for myself, left alone on a trip to Moscow to attend a meeting of, mind you, anarchists, and please remember, that was not long after the collapse of the soviet empire, and my mother at least was a staunch communist. I half-heartedly lied to her that I was going to find out what I needed in order to be accepted to Moscow State University. To my astonishment, this lame lie worked like a charm. Later, I did get accepted to Moscow State University, but it had nothing to do with this trip. I got on the train with my classmate, a girl who was much closer to anarchists than I ever was. To tell the truth, being a dreamer, I was not particularly close to any people at all, since I lived in my own world. We shared a compartment with a journalist, a person in his forties who kept us entertained all the time without even trying to. He told us a very long story on how to make borshct, the story that deserves to be told separately, if only I can remember it. When he was changing to sleep (this being quite normal in russian trains), he advised us to close our eyes, since his body was so beautiful that we stood a good chance to be blinded by the sight. Later, he said that he was somewhat of a psychic and he wanted to foretell our future. About my friend, he said that she was going to be a great beauty and lead many men to their downfall. About me, he said I would marry early and be fiercely loyal to my family. This being a time of all kinds of shortages in Ukraine, he actually said: “I can see you fighting to get that chicken for your family”

Boy, was he a lousy fortune-teller. I am a vegetarian.

Nothing Is Wrong

2008-08-27T15:45:00.000-07:00

"What is this?" He stared down at his plate.

"What do you mean? It's dinner." She was bustling about the kitchen, putting a frying pan to soak in the sink and wiping down the counter. "Don't wait for me. Go ahead and start."

In front of him, on a purple plate , were fried purple potato wedges, a red kale and red cabbage with red onion stir fry, slices of grilled eggplant, and on a white side dish, what appeared to be purple ketchup.

"For dessert I made a blueberry mousse." She sat down. "Would you like some Pinot Noir?"

"Well, do you have any white wine?"

"Nothing chilled. I have Pinot Noir, grape or pomegranate juice. "

"Pinot Noir sounds lovely, then."

She poured him a glass. They sat facing each other in a room that was half Ikea (her student days), half Crate and Barrel (his more "adult" taste.) The room had a large window overlooking the city. He sat with his back to it.

"So, Patricia, is there any particular reason we are eating only purple foods this evening? Some ancient rite I am forgetting, perhaps?"

"No. No reason. I just was shopping and I thought it would be fun to prepare a purple meal. Ask how I did the ketchup!"

"Did you add blue food coloring?"

"Yes! Isn't it beautiful?" To this there was silence. He forked a purple potato, dipped it in the ketchup and chewed. Patrica was greatly enjoying the stir-fry.

"Patricia... is this a dig at me?"

"What are you talking about?" She took a sip of her wine and stared at a pigeon gliding past their window.

"Did you read the review of my book which lambasted my "purple prose?" He put his fork down.

"Did someone say that? How horrible. And untrue. That is very, very untrue. You write very simply and elegantly. I had no idea anyone wrote that about you. I just was struck by the possibility of making everything purple. It is striking, isn't it?"

"It is unusual to say the least."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes. Lighten up."

"Blue food coloring?" He raised his eyebrows and faked a smile. "To blue food coloring! Cheers." They clinked glasses.

"I'm going to change the subject now. Please just enjoy the food and don't worry about the reviews. How was your day?"

"Oh God. Okay. My day was fine, Patricia, how was your day?"

"Oh, it was the usual. Wake up, exercise, go to work, do work.... have to deal with people... Really, the best part of my day was making this meal for you."

"So.... are you wearing purple underwear under that outfit?"

"I dyed my pubic hair purple."

"You did not!"

"Of course I didn't, but next time I might."

"Do you think there will be a next time?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"It's a pretty good meal."

"Wait until you have the mousse."

"I have something to tell you," he said after a pause and waited until she looked back up at him. "I have been asked to..." He took a sip of wine.

"Yes?"

"I am going to take a teaching position in New York."

"But you know I can't leave here. I have to stay here for another year"

"I do know that. I'm sorry." He poured her some more wine. "We'll figure it out."

"Well. Congratulations." She pushed her plate towards the center of the table.

"You look sad."

"And why do you think that is? Why would I be sad now? Damn it. I can't be nice. This is bad. I want you to leave."

"Now?"

"Go. I need time to think. Go. Go." Pointing at the door.

"Where should I go?"

"I don't care. You can come back later. But go now. Please." All color had left her face.

"Are you sure?" He was shocked.

"Yes. Yes. I need time." He stood up and left the apartment.

He came home hours later and found her fast asleep in bed. Predictably, when he opened the fridge, he saw Patricia had carefully sorted the evening's purple food into separate glass containers. He pulled it out onto the counter, even the untouched purple mousse. Within 10 minutes he had polished it all off. His stomach aching he went to the bedroom and took of his pants. He stared at her for a while, and then laid down on the carpet on her side of the bed and listened to her breathing.

You're So Pretty When You're Faithful To Me

2008-08-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

For about year I had the Pixies song "Bone Machine" stuck in my head. More specifically, I had the phrase, "You're so pretty when you're faithful to me" looping around and around.

I was dating this girl then. Elizabeth. She was a pretty girl and she was faithful right up until the end, when all of a sudden, she wasn't. Whenever, under my breath, I started singing this phrase she would say, "Thank you" after I said "You're so pretty..." and then, when she realized I wasn't actually paying her a compliment she blushed, "Oh! I thought you were talking to me." After a few months of this, she said "I always do that!" It was true. She did always do that. Oh pretty girls who know they are pretty. Do I still need to tell them? Yes. Did I? Probably not enough.

This weekend I was watching a lot of movies. It is one of the nicer things I do to give myself a break from my existence. For me, a successful movie is one that completely replaces reality while it is playing. I am more than willing to suspend disbelief. I would live in disbelief if I could. But lots of things can interrupt this suspension. Cliche editing, bad dialogue, cheesy narrative. All of that can ruin a perfectly good exercise in escapism. But this weekend another thing struck me as false, and I am sad about it, because it is a flaw in nearly all movies.

For the first time I was struck by the fact that the vast majority of movies are completely dependent on the appearance of their actors. If the actors were ugly people, then the movies wouldn't be half as interesting. Once I had this thought, it was over. I scrutinized every line uttered, not for plausibility, but for the possibility that I would be interested in it if an ugly or even a plain looking actor was saying it. I could give examples, but I am sure you are capable of thinking of your own. Even Arts movies fall into this trap. Especially Arts movies, perhaps.

Anyway, that was what got me thinking about Elizabeth, because she was a pretty girl. Really. Long legs, pert nose, that amazing combination of blue eyes and brown hair. I was lucky to have ever dated a girl like her. I wonder, though, if she would have been so interesting if she wasn't as pretty. Could I have loved someone exactly like her, who made the same mistakes and did the same annoying things she did if she had been unattractive, faithful or not?

I wish I could say yes. So I suppose it isn't really a fault of the movies. But who is interested in what the unattractive have to say?

2008-08-25T16:41:00.000-07:00

The House

2008-08-25T06:56:00.000-07:00

I saw my love’s house in a dream. He invited all of us over for a party. His home occupied a space of a regular, not-too-big apartment in a bleak building, but inside, through a well-known miracle, it was a huge house with its own outdoor space. They even had their own weathers and times of day. It was dark and wintery outside, but in the huge garden where you got once you entered through the door it was a golden summer afternoon. There were children playing in the distance; my love’s small son was riding a bicycle. His wife, who I did not know at the time, was passing through the rooms, always just at the side of my vision. Inside, the house resembled a living creature, rather than a dull product of the labors of builders. The rooms were of unusual shapes and all at different levels. There was a long room curving like a snail’s shell. When one got to the other side of the house, one found out that it was situated on the shores of its private sea, and there was a very long glass gallery hanging above its tempestuous waters without supports. It was sunrise time over here, and one could walk all the way to the end of the gallery and feel in the middle of elements, for the weather was stormy.

I had another dream. This time, my love’s abode was a large and very old palace. He and his wife were talking softly and laughing in the sun that poured through the windows. I was trying to find my way out, but the palace was huge. There seemed to be no end to its rooms. Sometimes I thought that I found my way outside, but then it turned out that what I took for a garden were trees in planters, and the sky was painted on the ceiling.

Bodies

2008-08-24T18:19:00.000-07:00

At the gym, the focus is the body. Everyone in spandex, sneaking glimpses of each other and of themselves. The occasional polite social smile, the personal bubbles of silent focus.

"She is too thin... Is she really lifting that much?... I want to look like that...Oh God, is that me in the mirror?... Is that what I look like?... I am thinner than her, but her shape is nicer...Are those real?... When I am her age, I hope I look like that... I must keep going... My hamstrings ache, but that's how I'll get stronger... I have to work off that cake I ate earlier... Fatty... He didn't want you because of your sausage shape...No one will ever love you....Ugh, the only reason you think like that is because you have been brainwashed. You are here to be strong, not to look good..."

That was where they met. How he managed to attract her attention over the silent din of self-judgment, she never knew. Equally mysterious was why he had chosen to speak to her instead of the hundreds of much prettier girls surrounding them. Perhaps he had low self-esteem or was looking for a easy mark. In any case, she had liked him, with his funny insecure gym body. He worked obsessively on his upper body, but sorely neglected his legs. Skinny adolescent legs with a large torso. Even within his upper body was variation: excellent biceps, slight triceps, strong latissimus dorsi but completely neglected anterior deltoids, all framing a magnificent chest. He was uneven, and she found this charming.

Their first conversation was about the 15 lb medicine ball she was using during some sit up exercises. He commented that she was using a lot additional weight for sit ups ("You must have strong abs!) She put the weight down and explained that it was because she had put on 15 pounds over the past 10 years and she didn't want to forget that she should lose it and then immediately regretting having said this. For one thing, it wasn't true. Secondly, she was trying to practice being gracious.

"You don't look like you've put on fifteen pounds!" Astonished! She was tempted to grab his hand and direct it to her soft love handles, but smiled enigmatically instead.

Around them was a slow blur of spandex bodies lifting metal objects under florescent lighting. Some people groaned on machines. Others stood in a variety of poses shifting weights back and forth, back and forth. Everyone moved in half time in the turgid, sweat saturated air. One fat, but athletic blond walked by in tight black; her body looked like a seal.

"Anyway, I see you here a lot." He said, smiling.

"Yeah. I come a lot. I live close by, and it is a nice way to unwind after work... You come a lot, too!" She finished her set of repetitions and stood to chat. She was much shorter than him.

"What do you do? Is your work stressful?" He stepped back.

"Oh. Actually, I don't work anymore. Well, I do. But, yes, it is a bit stressful." She was glad her face was already red from exercise. Her situation was complicated and describing it was always awkward.

"Huh."

"What do you do?" She steered the conversation.

"I am in financial services, but I don't know if I can stand it for much longer." He smiled.

"Right."

"Well, I'm Frank." His teeth reflected the yellow of the lights down upon her.

"I'm Melanie. Nice to meet you." They shook hands.

"Nice to meet you too." She lay back down to finish her sit ups and he went back to exhaust his proud pectoral muscles.

And the next time they crossed paths, they spoke again.

"Hey Frank..."
"Hi Melanie!"

And the time after that. And finally, they found themselves on a date outside the gym for sushi . And then, just like that, they found themselves busily under her covers.

He did have strong arms, and she did have strong abs. At the initial unveiling they were modest and focused on each others lips and faces. The lights were off and their bodies seemed to glow against the deep blue of her sheets. They appreciated each other piecemeal. Legs were out of sight, buried in the nest of sheets and blankets. As they moved, and the covers slipped, more was revealed: quadriceps, lower back, calves and napes of necks. Eventually, the parts became unified into Frank and Melanie again. She noticed his smile, the curve of his arm, the position of his torso. Then they were surrounded by noises: nervous giggles, sighs, moans, squelches, more giggles, skin slaps, more moans, then silence, then breathing.

The covers around their ankles they lay back in the bed. Not touching. Not looking.

"Can I get you some water?" Shyly.

"I don't need anything right now." Exhausted. He turned on his side and looked at her. "I have to go soon."

"I know." She remained still, but her mind was jumping with sensations of what had just passed.

"Is that okay that I leave?" He reached for her waist.

"Of course it's okay. I have to get up very early tomorrow." She was at rest, full and happy. He fell asleep next to her by mistake. She poked him a few times to try to wake him, but he was out. After a few attempts, she covered him with the sheets and got up. On the way to the kitchen for water, she paused in front of the mirror, pushed the matted hair out of her eyes and flexed her muscles.

Accident

2008-08-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

The car and the cyclist had been parallel. Both facing the same red light. The cyclist was just to the right of the car. When the light turned green, both started moving. The cyclist moved forward, but the car turned right, crashing into the cyclist and propelling him simultaneously forward and to the right. He was shocked by the strong warm pressure of the car pushing into his leg. There was a loud nose when the car hit, and the a louder screech, followed by the sight of the cyclist being pushed forward into the intersection.

He was lucky. He slammed his feet down quickly and didn't fall. He stood, straddling his bike, in the middle of a busy intersection on Telegraph. He didn't feel any pain, but was aware of many people staring at him. The cyclist's first thought was that the pedal of his bike might have scratched the car. He was concerned. He looked back to see if the driver was mad. It was a very old woman. She was tiny, barely visible behind the wheel. She gestured for him to move forward. The met on the other side of the intersection.

First, he apologized. Then, she apologized. He peered into her large beige car. Her legs were covered with a thick tartan blanket, even though it was a warm day. Her walker rested on the passenger's seat. She was trembling, and her voice quivered with shock. She had thinning white hair and kind lines on her face. He said that he felt fine, because, at that moment, he did. She asked him if he needed a ride, and he politely declined. He wished her a nice day, as if he had been her server at a particularly friendly coffee shop, and continued on his way home.

After saying goodbye, he found himself wanting to cry. Pain is always a revelation. Every time experienced, it is as if for the first time. "So, this is pain." Not too recently, he had experienced pain from love, though now he had forgotten the feeling, even forgotten the love. He only remembered his body's reactions to the pain, but not the sensation itself. He remembered opening his mouth in his bed and a whispered scream forcefully escaping and the following sharp tightness around his chest when he tried to inhale. He had been struck by the paradox that while was glad that there was no one to see him, he hated being alone.

But this was pain out in the open, on a glorious sunny day in Berkeley, California. He had left behind the old woman and everyone who had seen the accident accident. He pulled over to the side of the road. He felt a slow throbbing in his ankle.

"I got hit by a car! I'm ok. My bike is ok." He sent a text to everyone who he thought might care. He didn't send it to anyone who had ever caused him pain, as they, clearly, didn't care. He didn't text his parents. He didn't like to worry them unnecessarily, and telling them that he had been hit by a car would make it a larger experience than he was ready to comprehend.

Slowly, over the evening, calls and text messages relayed warm wishes. He sat in his room, and the pain had already faded to a dull ache. He put ice on his ankle and elevated it. He wished for company. Eventually, he called his mother who immediately started to cry.

"You are always so brave," she said.

Stories

2008-08-20T18:55:00.000-07:00

Sally was on the smallish side for a six year old, and she stared out across her grandmother's wide kitchen table. Today, she had chosen to sit at the head of the table, in a high backed chair with arms and a worn leather seat. When she was young she had insisted that she be addressed as Queen Semolina when she sat in this chair. Before her was a large bowl of red grapes. Sally peeled the skin off the grapes before she ate them. She ate the skin, then squished the flesh against the top of her mouth. She swallowed the seeds.

"Grandma, tell me a story," she said. Grandma was sitting on an exercise ball by the window in her bedroom. She didn't reply. She was trying to teach Sally not to call out from another room.

"Grandma, come and tell me a story!" She shouted. Sally peeled another grape while she waited. Grandma pretended to be engrossed in a book.

"Grandma? Are you there?' Sally asked, popping the grape into her mouth. Grandma turned the page. Sally slid off the chair, under the table and crawled to the door of the room where her Grandma sat reading. She peered around the door. Grandma was wearing hot pink workout gear, and with a very erect spine, was reading a book about medieval musical instruments.

"Meow," said Sally.

"Meow meow," replied her Grandma.

"Will you tell me a story, Grandma?" Sally crawled into the room and curled up by the exercise ball.

"Shall I tell you the one I told yesterday?" Grandma asked, closing her book.

"No! This time tell me a happy story."

"A happy story... Let's see... I think I can tell you a happy story." Grandma slid off the exercise ball, started to stroke Sally's hair, and began.

"Once upon a time there was a prince."

"Was that Grandpa?"

"No, dear. Your Grandpa was no prince. So there was a prince, who wasn't Grandpa. He was a rogue, though, a shame to his family. At night time he left he castle to go to the peasant quarters and hurt their livestock and put poison down their wells. They called him The Very Bad Prince at first, but soon they started to call him the VB Prince, and eventually just the VBP.

The VBP was relentless in his desire to do bad. So, the villagers killed him. They did it humanely, because they were not Very Bad, like the prince. This was how they did it: The palace cook slipped an overdose of sleeping poison into the VBP's dinner one night and before he could go out to wreck havoc upon the village livestock, he fell into a gentle sleep and died. Rumor had it that he had a smile on his face.

They buried him. The end." Sally stood up.

"Grandma, that isn't a happy story." She pointed a finger at Grandma.

"Well, I think it is happy. It was happy for the villagers."

"Make it longer." Sally sat down and rested her head in Grandma's lap.

"OK. Well, the cook, the one who poisoned the VBP became very famous. Not for having disposed of the VBP, but because he made the richest dark chocolate cake in the kingdom. He knew how to take precious jewels and make them taste like candy. The cake was drizzled with gold, and encrusted with diamonds. It was truly delicious. People who tasted this cake even once were ruined for the rest of their lives. Nothing ever tasted good to them ever again.

The Cook was famous, but he was lonely. He had all the riches and acclaim that a man could want, but he had no one to love, and he felt unknown. No one noticed what time he woke up or went to bed. If he accidentally gained thirty pounds (which was easy to do with his cake around), no one cared. He wanted a wife and maybe even a child. He wished more than anything for someone to love, and for someone to love him back.

One night, a fairy appeared to him. She was a scrumptious fat fairy with hairy legs and a top hat. The fairy told him that he was pregnant. The cook was astonished. He protested that he would rather have a woman who was pregnant, but the fairy just laughed and told him that sometimes the best things in life were unexpected.

Anyway, the chef's child turned out to be your Grandpa. That is why your Grandpa made such wonderful birthday cakes for you when he was alive. He didn't learn how to turn jewels into food, but he learned how to bake. The end."

"Grandma, is that true?" Sally looked up at Grandma.

"Of course, it is true."

"I'm going to ask Dad," she squinted up into Grandma's eyes.

"Go right ahead."

"I don't think it's true."

"I didn't think it was true when Grandpa first told me, but then I accidentally sat on the fat fairy and killed her and when we buried your Grandpa, I put the fairy in his grave too. That's how I knew it was true."

"Grandma!"

"She was fat, but still small."

"Grandma. You are very silly."

"That I am."

"Will you tell me another silly story?"

"Meow," replied Grandma.

"Meow meow." The two crawled on the floor like cats and then pretended to sleep in the sun.

The Mouse

2008-08-18T17:51:00.000-07:00

Preface:
I want to write a fable about someone who accidentally gives her power away. A story with zero subtlety. One that will remind me, and any others like me, that it is important to hide one's vulnerability. I am writing this preface in case I fail in my efforts for clarity. The moral of this story is that it is unwise to deliberately, or accidentally, make oneself weak.

The Mouse:
Once, there was a mouse. She was a busy mouse and she ran to and from her house each day gathering food for the day, and for the future. She loved her house, and relaxed in it whenever she had the time. Most days she was a happy mouse. Some days the weather would be bad, or food would be difficult to obtain, and so she would be less happy. Other times, for no apparent reason, she was sad.

It was on one of these sad days that she met a handsome marmalade cat with emerald eyes. She was moping about the garden listlessly. He was sprawled out in a patch of sun on a patch of green grass the same color as his eyes. The cat was not interested in the mouse. He was an old spoiled, well-fed house cat. He didn't need to chew on stringy furry mice like her. Unlike most cats, he didn't even really enjoy hunting; he much preferred sitting on his mistress's knee.

"Hello Miss Mouse," he said, more out of boredom than anything else. The mouse squeaked.

"Hello Cat."

"You look sad today, Mouse."

"I am sad today, Cat. If you want to eat me, I won't mind." The mouse threw herself at the cat's feet.

"Is that so," Cat wondered. He had just eaten a big bowl of mackerel and didn't have much appetite. Also, hunting an animal strewn before him wasn't much of a challenge. He was a cat, though, and so he was curious about this small sorrowful creature before him. He wanted to know more about her. "I don't think I'm hungry today, Miss. If you want, you can climb up on my back and I'll take you home."

Mouse was surprised. If he took her home, he would know where she lived and then her home wouldn't be safe. However, because she was sad, she didn't care.

"Oh, Cat. You are behaving strangely for a cat. I have never been on a Cat's back before, and perhaps it will cheer me." She climbed up his onto his marmalade back and crouched there. She clung onto his tail when he started to move. She directed him past the azaleas, through the hydrangeas, and then under the willow tree to her mouse hole. He flopped down and she climbed off. She hugged his front paw goodbye and he purred.

"Bye, Miss M. I hope you feel better. "

"Bye Bye, Cat. Thank you." Seeing the small outside hole where she lived satisfied the cat's curiosity. He returned to laze in the sun and promptly forgot the encounter. The Mouse, a bit tired after her adventure, and still a little sad, decided she should rest in bed.

The next day, when the sun came up, the mouse jumped up with it. She felt well rested and ready to gather food. She was happy. Then, she remembered that she had shown the cat where she lived. From that day on she could never again fully enjoy her little house, despite her happy temperament, because she was worried that the cat could return and eat her up.

Snowy Drive or When Will I Ever Grow Up?

2008-08-16T20:28:00.000-07:00

I don't drive. I never have. It is always something that I consider learning, but never seriously pursue. Not driving has been both a blessing and a bind. In recent years people have started praising me for not driving as I am not contributing to global warming. This is an unintentional benefit, and while I am happy I am not harming anyone, I can't claim any deliberate sacrifice to be revered.

One of the biggest consequences of not driving is that I have spent a lot of my life in the passengers seat, staring out the window and daydreaming while someone else does the hard work. In this sense, there is nothing noble about my not driving. It is a selfish choice. Once I heard a man brag to a friend about how he was excited that his girlfriend didn't drive-- I wasn't sure why he was so excited. Did he imagine it signified her passivity? Was he thrilled by the novelty of it? Personally, I always think it is a rather shameful thing to admit to new dates, tantamount to admitting an inability to take care of myself.

A benefit of being a passenger, though, is that I have met many people through needing rides to and from places. This was especially true when I lived in Massachusetts. I went to college in Western Mass, but liked to go to rock concerts in Boston, Cambridge and New York. I met many people who turned into good friends from posting on online bulletin boards to find rides to shows. I always shared the price of gas and promised people a mix tape or mix cd and some snacks in return for their generosity.

I started hanging out with a much older man this way. He was a bit of a sad case, if I appraise his situation clearly. He was in his late thirties, single, unemployed and most of his thoughts seemed to be concerned with contemporary rock music. He was also sad about his last girlfriend having left him four years before. Four years before, I had been sixteen. I didn't really understand his sadness, but there was something compelling about it. I wanted to understand it, the same way that I wanted to understand Tolstoy and Lotte Lenya's voice.

One winter night, after seeing a show of bands from D.C. at a famous basement club in Cambridge we started the two hour drive back home. It was snowing and while this made the ride beautiful, I could tell it made him tense. I was excited after the show, but because I didn't want to compound his stress, I was quiet. He had decided to drive on the back roads, and I didn't understand why. The highway would have been salted and plowed, but these roads were slippery and untouched. At times the road was buried under the snow and I could tell he was just guessing which way to point the car.

What had initially been light snow, turned into something much heavier. The countryside was unlit, save for his headlights, and I was mesmerized by way the deluge of falling white snow seemed to curve towards the car. His car always smelled like spilled coffee and this particular evening it also smelled like donut frosting. He put on a CD by Smog. It was the first time I had heard Bill Callahan's music. The snow seemed to be dancing down to the irregular rhythms of the music, and now, and I expect for evermore, listening to his early guitar playing conjures white flakes against a dark sky in my mind.

He pulled off the road, but kept the engine running; he kept the lights and music on.

"We need to stop here for a bit. It is too hard to drive." He said. I wanted to get home, but I didn't want to tell him this, so I said nothing.

"Right there. That's an abandoned paper mill." He told me. I stared through the snow and almost could make out the gray silhouette of a large building. "It's on the river. They used the water as energy. I used to play here as a kid."

I couldn't imagine him as a child. The longer I stared at the mill, the less distinct the shape became. The snow became paper pouring from the broken windows. The mill seemed to grow in size. I couldn't tell what were the trees around it and what was part of the building. He got out of the car and walked towards the mill.

I watched his back in the headlights. He was tall and too thin. Like someone who just lives on rice. I know he ate more than he seemed, but when I visited his house he only had a box of macaroni and cheese on the shelf and a unopened cloth bag of white rice. He was soon swallowed by the darkness. I didn't know what I would do if he didn't come back. It wouldn't be light for about six hours and, despite having the keys in the car, I didn't know how to drive for help. My canvas shoes would not offer any protection against the snow and I didn't want to leave the car.

During the thirty minutes he was gone, I cycled through worry and a disciplined optimism. I made plans. I'd stay in the car until morning and then walk on the road to the next town and explain the situation. I didn't want to look for his body on my own.

He came back, though, his lank wet hair frozen in places. His blue lips were shaped into an unfamiliar smile. He said that the snow was now falling lightly enough for him to drive me home. I felt more alone when he returned than when he gone. I asked if I could help him in any way, and he turned the music up.

Tunnel

2008-08-14T21:02:00.000-07:00

After journeying about twenty feet into the tunnel, we stopped speaking. In front of us there was darkness and behind us the same. The tunnel had rounded a bend, and we had seen the daylight fade behind the curved rails and craggy walls after about fifteen feet. She had left the flashlight at her place, but we had decided to walk through the old train tunnel anyway. The tunnel smelled alive: fresh, moldy, and green. She had come here on her own before, with a flashlight, and she had brought me here to share this place with me. We were sharing favorite experiences. I heard the bottom of her jeans trailing along the metal and loose rocks of the tracks. I pictured the way the jeans got tight above her knees. I had never dated a girl with strong legs before. I didn't know how I felt about those legs, but, in the tunnel, I was glad for her strength.

We walked parallel to each other on the tracks. We knew not to walk into the walls by sliding one food along the rails. I was terrified of hearing anything else moving. I was suprised by how frightened I was of the dark.

On the train ride here (which went through the new tunnel) we had chatted seamlessly, weaving the story of our lives together into a beautiful new garment which we were happy to cloak ourselves in. We were both new to the concrete metropolis where we had met. We were both English majors. Both observer types. And we both loved playing the guitar. There were differences, of course. She had spent the first few months in the city leaving the urban area as soon as possible, and learning all the interesting hiking trails in the area and identifying all the local fauna and flora. I had ridden my bike around the various neighborhoods, noting the different microcultures and learning where to buy drugs. My parents were divorced, her's happily married. She was a vegetarian. She grew up rescuing small spiders. I was a unrepentant omnivore. I grew up taking cows to the abattoir with my dad. I thought we might complement each other.

We had kept talking as we left the station, passed the reflecting rice field and started our walk along the gorge. It was hot and humid. We could hear cicadas and gnats kept flying around us. We walked along a path that had been blasted in the middle of a cliff. Below us ran a wide river and much above us we saw trees. She had brought sweet buns from a famous bakery and she offered me one just as I started to feel hungry. The river was low, but she said that in the spring it had been much higher. We could see straight through it to the multicolored rocks on the bottom. It reminded me of the valley where I had grown up. It reminded her of walking along a pebbled beach. The path, though once just rockface, was now overgrown with sweet ripe blackberries and our fingers and mouths were soon stained deep purple. Overhead, we heard a loud shriek. She had seen baby hawks here in the spring.

After an hour more of conversation we reached the tunnel, our bodies and faces flushed from the exercise and the excitement of feeling understood. It was then she realized she had lost the flashlight. We weren't sure whether or not to proceed. The tunnel was long, she explained, and terrifying even with a light. I didn't mind leaving and returning another day. I was happy to just spend time with her. She decided that it would be a shame for us to have taken the trip without completing our mission, and I, wanting to please her, agreed.

We were talking about the film director Lars Von Trier as we entered the tunnel. Our first date had been to see Dancer In The Dark, which had left her in an emotional stupor and me nonplussed and more than a little bit irritated. She had gripped my hand during the hanging scene, and that had, too, had irritated me. It was cold in the tunnel. My sweat-soaked clothing became instantly clammy. Our conversation faded with the rescinding warm light. We stopped talking. The silence of the tunnel was insurmountable. At the opening there had been a faint breeze, but after a while, there was nothing, just coldness. It was a cold I had never felt before. In high school, I had a reoccuring nightmare about being shut in the walk-in freezer at the cafe where I worked. This tunnel was that kind of cold. It felt as if the walls were alive and generating cold the same way a human body generates heat.

We walked for a long time. Maybe for ten minutes. Inexplicably, though I couldn't see anything, some parts of the darkness seemed brighter than others. I imagined textures and patterns in the blackness. I wanted to reach out and the walls, but I was afraid of reaching out my hand and not being able to see it. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I it didn't feel like an appropriate gesture.

"Do you feel that?" I asked her.

"No."

"There is a breeze."

"I don't feel anything."

But there was a slight breeze, and it indicated that we were nearing the end of the tunnel. Just a few steps further and the wall ahead of us was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight. We saw the jagged carved rock, rotting tracks and metal rails that had been our companions all along. As we left the tunnel, our eyes winced in self-protection at the sun's warm light. We sat down in relief. We had emerged in a wooded area, and we sat between the shadows of branches. I moved in to kiss her, to seal our successful fate, and she permitted a kiss. It was like a frozen blackberry. I went to hug her, but she pulled away. "I'm too cold to touch," she told me. She did some jumping jacks and deep knee bends, and I watched, wanting some human comfort.

Much later that night we made love for the first time. Her body was again cold and she was silent the entire time, in a way that reminded me of one sad old cow at the abbatoir.

To A Personal Hero

2008-08-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Salinger,

Fuck you and fuck your Glass Family. Fuck Franny. Fuck Zooey. Fuck Seymour and Buddy. Also, for extra measure, fuck Esme with her precocious verbal ability and her slender beauty.

"I'm just too beautiful and gifted and smart. It is so hard to know as much as I do and not be unhappy. Oh, I am so ruined by all this knowledge and innate talent. It is incredibly difficult to understand human nature as deeply as I do. I wish I didn't judge other people so harshly. Yet, I am so kind for finding other people's flaws charming and human."

They are disgusting.

What about the rest of us, Salinger? Us mediocre folk? Those of us that are plain? We who are left by our lovers for others more beautiful? Who are only of average intelligence? Who don't know everything? With childhoods untainted by the curse of others' curiosity?

Please permit me tell you:

We don't want the Glass family's understanding or pity. We don't want their compassion. It is appalling. They are right to feel self contempt. But a whole book of their self contempt due to their dismay at human nature? Several books? Also, we don't want to read an author writing sentences for one character that he then has another character describe as "clever." That, Mr. Salinger, is egotistical.

Fuck you. Understand that your navel gazing self pity makes you ugly.

Ugly just like my handsome genius manchild of an ex-lover.

Which is why I am so mad, of course. I know. I am as transparent as this empty glass. But fuck, I feel like Franny all the time. We all do. So why did you have to make them so golden? So much better than us? I can forgive your Glass family for feeling superior to everyone else. You created them to be superior. But you create the sense that when I feel superior to others, your Glass family would be horrified, disgusted. Zooey would be astonished that a simpering average adult like me feels such contempt for those around her. Or, perhaps, he would find this flaw of mine charming. He and Franny would judge me as they would a child who boasts about running faster than her younger sister.

I understand, though, perhaps. It isn't that you don't understand that average people feel the same way as your brilliant Glasses. It's that you know that no one cares about average people.

Can't wait for a new book,

A Fan

Relief

2008-08-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight, at 8:18, she got the text.

"Hug?"

She didn't reply.

They were both single. Nightly, she and her neighbor would text or IM the other, then they would walk out onto the sidewalk in front of her house and hug goodnight. It was certainly a sweet routine. She knew that he would rather the hug progressed to something more, but she was noncommittal.

Last night, she had changed out of her pajamas for the hug. She put on a violet skirt and a black top. She noticed in the mirror that her breasts looked larger than usual. Perhaps her period was coming. She ran down the stairs, opened the front door, then the gate and waited under the tree. She didn't know what kind of tree it was, but it had waxy deep green leaves and hummingbirds flew around it in the early morning. When she had time she lay in bed and stared at them.

She started to march in place to stay warm.

"Boo!" He jumped up from behind a car.

"You scared me."

"Hug?"

The hug was unremarkable. She gave him the same big squeeze she gave everyone. It was supposed to inspire trust and a feeling of safety. He had broad shoulders, but was short, like her. He had blue eyes. She listened to him talking and pretended to ignore when he stared at her chest.

He told her about her day. Lots of plans: some little, some big. She nodded.

"I have to go."

"But you just got here!"

"I'm cold in this skirt." It wasn't a lie. She could feel the goosebumps on the backs of her legs.

"One more hug?" He smiled, and she knew she couldn't ever feel anything but pity for him.

This time, instead of squeezing, she went limp. She rested on his shoulder. She couldn't remember a time when her back had felt so loose. He pulled her tighter and started caressing her slowly. She grew aware that she was supposed to kiss him, or to cry, or something.

"OK! I have to go. Goodnight!" She pulled away, fumbled with her keys, opened the two gates and climbed back to her bedroom. She hurried back into her pajamas, dropping the skirt and shirt onto the floor and fell back on top of her still made bed wishing she was someone else.

Later, Though the Dinner was Delicious, They Didn't Enjoy It

2008-08-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

"Let's stay and watch the seals go out to sea," Lousie cried out. Pytor raised his eyebrows the way he did when he disproved.

"Oh, I don't know. That could take hours. They'll go out when the tide is up to the cliff."

The seals were about ten feet from the cliff. There were over one hundred of them lying on the sand like sacks of grain. They lay almost on top of each other. Occasionally, one would roll over, or shuffle forward, soon to become still again. About twenty feet above them, on a cliff protected by Montery Cyprus, sat Louise and her boyfriend. Their faces were aglow in the light of the sun, which was enjoying a leisurely July descent over the Pacific. Lousie leaned back on her hands, her gaze fixed on the seals.

"We should stay. I have never seen a whole flock of seals go out to the ocean before. And what else do we have to do? When will we ever have the chance to do this again?"

Pytor leaned back on his arms.

"So you think it is "a flock of seals?"

"Mmmmm.... A pack of seals? An assortment of seals? A seal of seals."

"Do you really want to stay? It will take a long time," he reflected.

"I do. It will be fantastic."

They sat. It was early in the evening, not yet six o' clock. The seals would be there for a long time.

"Look!" She pointed at the ocean.

"What?" He had been looking elsewhere.

"When the waves crash down over that reef the sun backlights the wave and all of the seaweed makes silhouettes."

"I don't see it."

"Well, you have to wait for a wave."

"I'm waiting."

They sat and she stared at the waves. Sometimes the waves would land a little further on the shore and splash the seals. They didn't mind enough to move.

"Hey! Did you see that?" She asked him.

"What?"

"The seaweed illuminated!"

"I missed it. Sorry. I was thinking about something else." He lay back and looked up at a cloudless pale blue sky.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Oh. Nothing. We don't have to talk about it."

She took a sweatshirt from her bag, bunched it up into a ball, lifted his head and then placed the shirt under it.

"Are you thinking about work?"

"If you don't mind, I'd really rather not talk about it."

"Is everything OK?"

"Yes. Everything is fine. Enjoy the seals. We are here for the seals."

"If you are sure everything is okay."

He pulled a corner of the sweatshirt over his face. She leaned too look at the seals. The tide had splashed over a bundle of seals particularly close to the ocean. They lifted their heads from their lazy slumber.

"Pytor! I think the seals are going to move! They are moving."

"They aren't going to move until the tide is fully in. That will take a long time."

"But they are moving. Oh. No. Only one of them moved. Oooh, Pytor, I think I see a baby one."

Pytor remained lying down.

"Pytor, do you mind that we are staying? I mean, are you OK?"

"Yes. Please enjoy this moment. I am enjoying lying here and when the seals finally do move, I will look at them with you."

"I'm going to count the seals."

"Great." She counted them forwards and backwards and got different counts each time. Pytor started to snore. Lousie rested her hand on his thigh and squinted into the sun. She frowned, then smiled. Her lips moved and silently formed words of love, and then she smiled again. She ran her fingers up and down the inseam of Pytor's jeans. He slept.

As the tide came in, the seals inched closer to the cliff wall. "They are so lazy," she said aloud. "Just so so lazy."

The sun seemed as lazy as the seals. It barely seemed to move. She watched the seals as they propelled themselves forward with their short flippers and muscular bodies. Once they were in the water, they were so graceful. On land they were clumsy and comical. Yet, in order to conserve energy, they stayed on land resting for as long as possible before returning to the sea to fish until low tide again.

She lay down next to Pytor and took the sweatshirt off his face. The sun was lower in the sky now, and his dark stubble cast long shadows accross his face. Lousie stroked it absentmindedly and accidentally fell asleep.

Pytor rolled over onto her. "Wake up, Lou! I'm a seal! It's time to wake up!" Lousie opened her eyes. The sun was gone. She peered over the cliff and the seals had gone, too.

"We missed them."

"We did." Pytor pulled her back towards him.

"No. Let's go. Its cold now." She broke from his grasp and stood up. He looked up at her. Her black hair stood out against the bright but sunless sky. Her face was dark.

"You really wanted to see them go into the ocean."

"Yeah."

"We can try to see them again." He offered, standing up as well.

"I guess so. Let's go." They started walking and he noticed she hugged herself in the cold. He handed her the sweatshirt and as she pulled it over her head she tripped on a branch and scraped her knee. Blood stained the hem of her skirt.

"Shit. This is new," she muttered.

"I knew it was a bad idea to stay," Pytor said.

Alone at Sunset

2008-08-07T21:48:00.001-07:00

If we had been together, I would have been so unhappy.
But I am unhappy anyway.

You Laughed Out Loud

2008-08-06T21:09:00.000-07:00

Despite
Your paunch,
Your yellowing teeth,
Your knee-jerk cynicism,
I do love you.

We sat opposite each other,
Me, with a large coffee,
You, with a chocolate croissant.
Me, with a wedding ring,
You, with a freshly shattered heart.

"It's been a long time."
"It has."
"Do you still like horror movies"
"Does the sun still shine?"
"I still don't like them."

"I'm so happy for you."
"Thanks. I'm glad we can see each other."
"You were the first person I called when I got to town."
There were chocolate stains around your lips.
I remember a time when I would have licked you clean.

Then, my lunch break was over.
A quick hug goodbye.
A promise to meet in a few years.
When I have children I want them to know you.
We'll all eat sweets and you'll tell them how their mother was frightened during horror movies.

Your Former Subject

2008-08-03T08:07:00.000-07:00

When I was young, I used to mentally age people. In classes, at parties, anytime I was bored, I would stare at people and imagine them old. Young beauties would coarsen and thicken, frown lines deepened and erect spines became bent. I did it with strangers as well as intimates. With the latter, as my knowledge of the individual grew, my vision would alter to adjust to new insights: smile lines crinkled around the lips, botoxed foreheads would stiffened, or thick muscles turned wiry.

I am older, and this game no longer interests me. Perhaps it is because my friends are becoming old and so the exercise is rendered useless. I can stare down at my still child-sized hands and see my own skin engraved with time. Now, I find myself imagining people as they were when they were young. Sometimes this is easy, such as when people are eating ice cream or a fresh custard bun. Other times it is like chiseling marble, trying to find the perfect form lying within. I have to remove the make up, the suit of armor, the practiced poise. In the end, I find the child: happy or frightened, but uninhibited. I see him or her squatting down engrossed in the movements of a caterpillar, anxiously anticipating the comforting arms of a late parent, or frustrated by the lack of freedom on the first day of school.

Now, when I look at you, who I have grown to know so well, time collapses into a kaleidoscope of known and imagined journeys. You were, perhaps, an uncoordinated, shy child who lived mainly in a constructed world made safe by the accumulation of facts and the calculation of figures. You were uncertain physically, and this made you charming to adults, but a target to other children. Like most children, you could be lovely. You could also be intolerant, impatient and demanding. As you grew older you became stronger. You pushed yourself in every way imaginable. Your focus was always yourself; all paths led inward. As an old person, you will stand tall, physically and intellectually strong, but your face will bear the lines of an emperor whose kingdom has migrated away.

Lions and Wolves

2008-07-31T12:45:00.000-07:00

"What is your favorite animal?"

"I don't know. I guess I like them all."

"All of them?"

"Sure. I even like pigeons."

"Even hermit crabs?"

"Yeah. I really like all animals. Why? What is your favorite animal?"

"I like wolves."

"Why?"

"Because of their howl."

"Because of their howl...I've never heard their howl."

"I've heard it on TV."

"Oh. Well, I've heard that. Yeah. It's a good howl."

"I also like lions."

"Why?"

"I like their hair."

"Lions do have good manes."

"Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Correct me. I didn't mean their manes, I meant the golden color of their hair."

"Well, if you knew what you meant, then why didn't you specify? I like their manes."

"This isn't about what you like."

"You're starting again. You and your wild animals. Lions and wolves, Jesus. Can't you just like cats?"

"I can't help what animals I like. You shouldn't tell me what animals to like."

"I'm leaving."

"Typical."

"And I'm not coming back."

"I don't care."

"You sound so stupid when you say 'I don't care."

"Go!"

"I'm gone."

"Not fast enough."

"Bye."

"..."

"And now you're not talking to me."

"..."

"Fuck."

"..."

"Ah-ooooooooo. There's your wolf howl. Ah-ooooo. Ah-oooo. I hope you like it."

"..."

"Bye."

And, finally, he left.

Decisions

2008-07-26T14:36:00.001-07:00

"It's not good to think you are better than other people," the King reminded his daughter.

"Oh, I know. I don't think I am better than other people. I'm sure that he makes his family very happy... and I know there are many things that he is better at than I am. For example, he is excellent at sports. I couldn't catch a ball to save my life. Likewise, there are some things that I am better at than he is, like thinking and acquiring knowledge." They were sitting at the royal table. The Queen and the prince were off on a shopping expedition to a foreign land.

"Be careful. Arrogance is always a trap. Do you have to see him again?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." She pushed the salad around on her plate.

"You don't know?" The king filled his mouth with an enormous bite of tomato in a notably elegant manner.

"Well, I'm seeing him again tonight." She sipped some wine.

"When do I get to meet this young man?" The king ate more tomato, this time with a little cheese.

"Why do you want to meet him?" The princess pushed the plate away and leaned against the high backed chair.

"Well, you know I love sports. I'd like to meet the young athlete." The king winked.

"You're not going to humiliate him, are you?"

"Of course not."

"Why are you going to humiliate him?" Two servants glided in and cleared the table.

"Why are you going to see him again when you just spent the better part of an hour complaining about his lack of intelligence?"

"I was just venting." The princess checked her hair for split ends.

"Well, if you like him so much, you should bring him up to see me."

"Fine. I will. But be kind to him."

"Of course, I'll be kind. I'm not the one who thinks he is 'incapable of original thought.' I just want to meet the man you are dating." The king folded his hands rather proudly over his slender waist.

"Maybe I won't see him after all."

"Oh?"

"No. I just feel tired all of a sudden." She looked a little bit sad.

"Coffee will be ready soon."

"No. Tell the maids to send him away when he arrives." She stood up and arranged her skirts around her.

"Of course, dear. Will you join me for chess later?" The king beamed.

"I'll be there." The princess sulked out of the room.

"Good girl. You could use the practice." The king called after her. A servant put a raspberry sorbet garnished with a sprig of mint and a freshly made espresso before the king. He looked most pleased.

Why Bother?

2008-07-26T14:04:00.000-07:00

-You look great! Did you lose some weight?

-I lost a few pounds. Thanks.

-No, really. You look great.

-Thanks.

-So, how have you been?

-Oh, alright. How have you been?

-Fine, I suppose. I moved in with Sarah, you know. That has been interesting.

-I think she is really good for you.

-Do you think so?

-Yes.

-Yeah, well, I hope so.

-You are a lucky man to find such a nice girl.

=Well, thanks.

-I can tell she really cares about you.

-Yeah. I guess she does.

-It's great. It must be nice.

-So, have you been dating?

-Not really. Well, a little bit. No. Not really.

-Sounds like you are dating someone...

-No, I'm not.

-C'mon. You don't have to hide it from me. I won't be hurt.

-Are you mocking me? I'm not dating anyone.

-You need to relax. So why aren't you dating anyone?

-I don't know. How is work going?

-Not so good. I hate it. What do you think I should do with my life?

-What do you want to do with your life?

-That's the question.

-I think it is a stupid question. Much better to ask "How should I spend my time?"

-Whatever. I need to make money. I know how I want to spend time.

-How do you want to spend time?

-Thinking.

-Mmmm. You could go back to school.

-Yeah. How is your job?

-Awesome. I love it.

-So now you just need a boyfriend

-I don't need anything.

-You always say that.

-I don't always say anything.

-You always say that, too.

-I have to go.

-I know you do.

-Have a good night. Tell Sarah I say, "Hi." and that I can't wait to see her again.

-Sure. Take care of yourself, ok?

-OK. Bye.

-See ya.

a dabbler in love letters

2008-07-23T22:04:00.000-07:00

Peter hadn't received a love letter in 12 years. Even then, it had been more of a break up letter than a love letter. In the letter, his girlfriend, who lived two states away, had quoted a pop song, "How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?" His response: "How can we be friends when you write shit like that?" And that had been his last love letter. Since then, the odd emailed declaration of love had come his way, but nothing tangible and certainly nothing memorable.

One night, when his most recent ex-girlfriend had curled up in an ancient lazyboy for a painfully detailed phone call with her mother, he had sat in her room and looked through her stuff. Most interesting had been her old sketchbook, from when she had entertianed dreams of being a Serious Artist. She had drawn pictures of her high school sweetheart in various stages of consciousness and repose. Sometimes he was upright and alert, other times she drew him sprawled out on the floor, drool accumulating in his messy hair.

Between the drawings were small notes left for the ex, "I'll be back soon, sweetie. Just going to get some supplies." "Make dinner for yourself tonight. I'll be out with the girls. I love you!" "If you have time, please come meet me at the coffee shop. I'm working late." She had never drawn Peter, nor had she written him a letter.

After they broke up, Peter started crafting lovers notes, but not to anyone in particular. He would take friend's notebooks while they were using the bathroom, or while they stepped out for a minute, open the books to the middle and write small intimacies: "Don't forget to change the kitty litter!" "Your Mom called. Let's stay in tonight." "Last weekend was so much fun. Thanks for making my birthday so special." "I am so so so lucky to be with you." He would take napkins in deli's and write anonymous confessions of love and then leave them in public places for the next person who appeared to find. He slipped them between pages of library books, or leave them on coffee shop tables. He never stuck around to witness their discovery.

One night, walking home from choir practice, he found a pile of books outside a house. He checked the titles, and grabbed a copy of In The Night Kitchen. He thought he could read it to his nephews. He started leafing through it as he walked. A letter fell out onto the sidewalk.

"I Brian C. will never harass or cause personal distress to Helen Steinberger. This is a personal apology for the date of 1-3-97."

When he got home, he stuck the note to his refrigerator. He looked up Helen Steinberger on Google and found out she had been eighteen when the note was written. Now she was married and the mother of a little boy. She had lived in the same city as him at one point, but now she was in Des Moines. Her Facebook status indicated that she was currently enjoying a coffee in the sun while watching children at the park.

The next love letter he wrote was several years later, and it was to the woman who he eventually asked to marry him.

Hilarious Pint of Pus

2008-07-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

The crowd shuffled, shoeless, into the children's gymnastics room. The staff had neatly lined up their shoes outside of the brightly painted room, full of padded climbing structures wrapped in garishly colored pleather. It was Monday morning. Some had heard the news and had spent the weekend weighed with grief and worry. Others were concerned: curious to find out the reason for the meeting, but wary that it might inflict them with the same sorrow that they identified on the faces of those around them.

People found places to sit on the floor mats and apparatus. They faced forward, and only the occasional murmur of reassurance was to be heard. Two boys tried to sit on a trampoline, but, finding the arrangement inappropriately comic, quickly found themselves other spots.

When the director finally spoke, from the front, her voice broke with tears and the young man standing next to her put his arm around her shoulders. She stepped back for a second. When she came forward again, she told everyone the news.

Eyes glanced over to, and then quickly turned from a girl sitting on a big red mat towards the center of the room. She had a shield of friends around her. They leaned back on their arms, but occasionally would pat her in demonstration of sympathetic connection. Having patted her for a few seconds, the hands limply returned to their much easier duties as supports.

The girl's head hung low and her tears stained the bright yellow staff shirt with mustard drops.

The director stopped speaking and people waited, not really sure what to do. The center girl, clearly a lover, or a sister, got to her feet first. Her friends scrambled to join her. She led them out of the gymnasium. After a few more minutes, the room was filled with whispers, and after ten minutes, the room was left empty.

Thirty minutes later, the room was filled with busy three year olds pulling themselves up onto balance beams, pirouetting on the trampoline and perfecting the ancient art of the somersault.

Prayer

2008-07-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

Forgive me my vanity in thinking I am less vulnerable than I am,
Grant me the strength to avoid men who can best be described by the adjective, 'reptilian;'
Give me the strength to resist my sympathetic yearning for men who suffer;
Lead me not into the temptation of wanting to help those beyond my reach;
Deliver me from falling in love with self aggrandizing men, furious at the world's disregard;
Amen

The Balloon Boy

2008-07-19T16:56:00.000-07:00

The adolescents were running with purpose. Several intricate strategies were being utilized. It was a vicious game of Capture the Flag.

A girl was trapped in jail. "Someone come and tag me!" She cried, but no one came.

A blue helium balloon, almost deflated, drifted by on the summer wind. The balloon was beyond her reach. She watched it float across the playing field, towards the parking lot.

One boy from her team left the game, and drifted after the balloon. He was thirteen and over six feet tall. He was unused to his recent growth and moved strangely, his top half lobbing along in front of his lower. He followed the ball past the first car in the parking lot, a red Toyota, then the second car. He lurched forward and poked the balloon up into the air. It floated back down onto his outstretched finger.

He turned back towards to the game, prodding and pushing the balloon along with him. He walked more slowly and carefully now, engaged in a complex dance with the balloon and eventually he reentered the playing field.

Madness continued around him, the air dense with frenzied directions of how to break enemy lines. The boy ambled through the game play, keeping the balloon afloat. Where others hurried haphazardly, he now maintained a comfortable rhythm with his blue partner.

One of her team members broke through and tagged her, "I got you! Run! Run!"

The girl stood, transfixed. If he had led her into a mountain, she would have followed.

Between the Maple Trees

2008-07-17T17:28:00.000-07:00

There is a house on the corner of Broadway that is the same color as the sky on a sunny day. In front of that house there are two old Maple trees. In the summer, especially on foggy days, but when the trees are brilliant green, you can stand opposite this house and imagine you are looking out through a forest at a blue sky over an open field.

There had been such a field behind her parents house, and so now, as she lived so far away, on her walks to and from the grocery store or from work, she would periodically stop and gaze at this house on Broadway. She sometimes wondered if anyone in the house ever noticed her looking. If they did, she hoped they would come and introduce themselves. Who painted their house the color of the sky?

She had skied around that field. Spotted fawns in the spring. Ran through the corn maize in the summer and gathered colored leaves for waxing in the fall. It had been that sort of field. One August, when the field lay fallow, and wild grass grew thick, she had walked around the field with a lover.

It had been around six o' clock, and so the heat didn't slow them down. They walked up and down the soft hills at the perimeter. The sky had been blue when they left the house, but warm winds brought clouds and a thunderstorm.

The raindrops were cold, but the air was warm, and they kept walking. They didn't duck under the dark green leaves of the trees in the woods, but stayed in the field. At intervals they broke into a run for no sensible reason. They laughed and held hands. They hugged and their wet clothes clung together. It was the sort of evening she didn't yet know was rare.

When the rain stopped, the air was cooler and the sun had almost disappeared and so they walked back to the house. Her mother was entertaining and several serious ladies sat around the big bowls of salad and summer peaches and nectarines resting on their spacious kitchen table. When the couple entered the room, full of giggling urgency, the ladies stared. Her mother had been upstairs, perhaps still getting dressed for the evening.

She caught sight of their reflection in the window: two bedraggled long-haired urchins dripping water before these proud stately women. Even though it was her house, she felt unwelcome, and she grabbed his hand and led him to her room where they took off the wet clothes and tried to warm themselves.

This was what she thought about when she stood in front of the blue house with the maple trees in front. Weeks later that boy had left her, and, at the time, it hadn't mattered.

Yeah Yeah Yeah

2008-07-16T21:28:00.000-07:00

She gave the matter of leaving him a lot of thought. After all, he was the nicest man she had ever dated. He was pleasant, if boring; funny, in a simple sort of way; and far more handsome than she had ever imagined she could date. Simply taking him out to dinner and doing the deed seemed disrespectful. She hadn't really given him signs that she was unhappy in the relationship, and so it would come as a shock to his routine.

She spoke to her friends about it.

1) "Just do it-- a clean break will be easiest.

2) "Send him a text.

3) "C'mon. Don't be so ridiculous. He's a grown up. He's been dumped before. We all have.

4) "About fucking time. Call him and say you have something serious to talk about. Then, he'll know.

5) "Don't apologize and don't smile.

None of these would work. She did care about him, but not romantically. More in the way she cared for an injured bird she had found when she was thirteen.

She decided to do it slowly, in stages. First, she started calling him when she only had minutes to spare. She left just enough time for ritual greetings, but not enough time for any honest conversation. Then, she became busier with work and a new fitness plan. Finally, she casually introduced him to a girl she selected with great care.

A week later, she sent him a text, "I think we should talk."

"I want you to meet my parents," he wrote back.

Eurydice

2008-07-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

He turned to look at her with eyes hungry with need.

He had led their upwards struggle. She noticed how his shoulders sagged forward, heavy with grief and slighted entitlement. His music had long gone silent but he breathed with a rhythmic urgency that seemed at once familiar and startling. The breath, amplified in the still darkness, reminded her of lost experiences of music and dancing.

Before he came for her, when she was alone, she had forgotten all pleasure: the way that the rain used to massage her, or the gentle grooming of the forest wind. She felt ashamed for having left him, incapable of dancing, unworthy of the wind's attention.

Then, he had found her, and they had begun their climb. Each step upward was a struggle to remember how she had been. She was frightened of what he would see when he saw her. Her fingers struggled through her greasy hair and stumbled with horrified curiosity over her dessicated breasts and jagged hips.

If she survived the climb, she could take nourishment once again. She could press her palms into his shoulders until he stood straight. Until then, she needed his strength to carry their hope.

The weight proved too heavy.

At first he was unsure if it was her, as she was changed. Her face flooded with resignation as he comprehended his mistake. She lowered her head, suddenly heavier, in farewell.

Flesh and Bark

2008-07-10T21:01:00.000-07:00

The precise moment she knew she didn't want to be with him occurred 3 months before she finally left. She was clinging to climber's staples embedded into a Redwood tree, being belayed by an overweight seventeen year old boy. She was breathing deeply. The smell of the tree was overpowering.

She hated climbing, and she always forgot this until she was actually off the ground. She loved Redwoods, but, 20 feet off the ground, she realized that she was able to love them much more when she was looking up at their flakey bark and dark green needles, and not when her body was wrapped around one of them for dear life.. She had reached a part of the trunk flooded with sticky sap. To complete the course she had to climb twelve more feet, and pull her body onto a board suspended by wires. She then had to jump accross a series of boards before she the belayer would float her down. She carefully balanced her weight on two staples and stared at the sap. There were small mites encased in it. The sight made her queasy. She imagined it would burn like molasses against her bare arms.

And that was when she knew. She couldn't imagine having his child. She could no longer suffer his pedantic self important drivel. The idea of his flesh on hers was something she could no longer tolerate.

"I want to come down," she called.

"Oh, you can do it. Just keep going," called the boy, trying to be encouraging.

"I don't want to," she called back. "Please just let me down."

"Ok. Just lean backwards off the tree." He pulled the rope into a tight break. She could feel it almost lifting her off the staples.

She clung to the tree for just a second longer, and then pressed her mouth against the amber sap. She expected it to cling to her lips, but it was smooth and cold against her skin. She leaned back and stared up as the course receded away from her as she was belayed to the ground.

The Disapointments

2008-07-09T20:07:00.000-07:00

He liked to sleep with the lights off, the shades down and the heat on.
His sweat smelled like boiled cabbage.
He valued honesty over kindness.
He walked haphazardly without caring about other pedestrians.
He called pigeons, as do many, "the rats of the sky."
He was never punctual and demanded patience from others.
He explained that it was only natural that he check out every woman in a dress that passed on the street.
He was incapable of happiness or long term satisfaction.
He equated income with human worth.
He deemed all celebration a waste of time.
He never ate watermelon to the rind, but discarded ridges of delicious pink flesh.

Sighting

2008-07-08T21:07:00.000-07:00

Her back was towards me and so, at first, I wasn't sure if it was her or not. She was holding the hand of a tall man. I know she is dating a French man, so I told myself that if I heard him speaking French, that it was definitely her. I walked into the next gallery and started to listen. I didn't understand what he was saying, but it was definitely French. It was her.

I left the museum and headed North to the trail by the bay. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible. I hadn't seen her in years, and I wasn't sure if I was ready. Then, I remembered that scene in Vertigo, when Jimmy Stewart watches the lady with the spiral hair at the Legion of Honor. I went back and positioned myself where I imagined he had been standing. The air smelled like Eucalyptus. I stood there for along time. My feet fell asleep and I jogged in place a little.

There she was. Red dress, long hair. She looked fatter, and I tried to take some consolation in her weight gain, but I was lying to myself. She kept touching him and laughing. I meant to look at him more carefully, but he was wearing a baseball cap and his face was obscured. He looked average. Even with her extra weight she looked like she was slumming it with this French gentleman.

They started to walk down the long road through the golf course. I waited until they had passed, and then I followed them. I remembered, at the second corner, that she and I had been there years before with her parents. We had brought a picnic and walked to Land's End after the museum. Her mother had become tired and I walked slowly with her, while my ex-girlfriend hurried along the hilly trail with her father. We ate turkey sandwiches on buttered rye bread and cherries and left before the sun set.

I followed them all the way down to California Street. I guess I could have said "Hi". I remembered the foggy Forth of July we spent walking around this golf course. We were just out, walking, the way we used to do. Neither of us had dressed appropriately and the wet air enveloped our exposed, goosebumped arms. We did jumping jacks to warm ourselves and then ran home.

At the bottom of the hill, they took a right, perhaps to go to Geary Street. She took his hand, and he moved a little closer to her. It was sad to watch her leaving. I walked back up to the Legion of Honor and then on to Land's End for the sunset.

A New Low

2008-07-07T17:45:00.000-07:00

In tears, I called his house and his girlfriend, who I believed he had broken up with, answered the phone. Though we were the same age, she had an old voice. He wasn't there to speak to me. I was emotional, my wits long worn down and I started talking to her. We hadn't met, but we had a lot to discuss. We commiserated about his philandering ways, his impulsive behavior, and his dishonesty.

After about ten minutes I thanked her for taking the time to talk to me. She was calm.

"Don't worry, I'm used to talking to his flings. It happens all the time."

When we hung up, my body convulsed with shame.

Rye Rolls and Sticky Buns

2008-07-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

A bespectacled woman sat at her laptop in a yellow painted cafe. She was drinking milky coffee from a large blue mug and picking at a rye roll so densely packed with raisins that it had the consistency of cake. It was early morning, and all the tables in the cafe were taken. There was a line out the door.

A young man approached, "Is anyone sitting here?" He gestured to the chair opposite her, the last available one in the cafe.

She smiled, nodded her head and shifted her computer closer towards her to make room for him. He was sun-tanned, so much so that SPF 15 was almost needed just to be in the same room as him. His scruffy hair, streaked with blond, and his clothes, light and baggy, looked as if they could do with some cleaning. He placed his pecan sticky bun and mug of green tea on the table. The scents of tea and coffee mingled. She continued to type.

"Whatcha doing?" She briefly glanced over her computer and then continued typing

"I'm writing."

"Like, stuff for school? Stuff for work?"

"Stories for myself, actually."

"That's cool. What about?" She pushed the top of her laptop to about 45 degrees and took a loving gulp of coffee.

"I am writing a blog about break ups and old love affairs."

"Is it true stuff or fiction?"

"It's fiction"

"Sure its fiction."

"It is fiction."

"I have a story about a love affair. Want to hear it?" He took an enormous bite of the pecan bun. His cheeks swelled up with food. She shut the laptop and waited for him to swallow. The bite took many chews and three swallows. He had an unusually large adam's apple. When he opened his mouth, streams of saliva spun from his top teeth to the bottom ones and there was a pecan stuck onto his left canine tooth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and then began.

"When I was twelve, I fell in love with an eleven year old from down the street. She used to babysit for my younger brother and sister. She was flat chested and wore big pink plastic glasses. We watched Batman together. The old Batman, with Adam West and we'd joke about it. Sometimes we'd reenact scenes when she babysat. She'd be Robin, and I'd be Batman, and my siblings would be the baddies.

Once we went on a long walk in June alone together. It was upstate New York in the summer. It was too hot and humid to walk in the sun, so she took me into the woods behind the neighborhood. She led me past a dry waterfall, through a grove of maple trees to a dark damp mossy area near the stream. There were hundreds of boulders of different sizes all covered in this velvety vibrant green. We lay on the moss and stared up at small patches of blue sky through the densely packed canopy of the trees. We didn't talk much, but that was ok.

That was the summer the first Tim Burton Batman came out. I wanted her to come with me. So I walked over to her house and spoke to her mother. I asked if she could come with me to see the movie. Her mom said she would ask her. I walked back with a pounding heart, listening to the cicadas screaming but too excited to notice the mosquitos. I fell asleep that night itchy and wondering if I could hold her hand.

I never got any response. She stopped coming over to babysit. My mother told me she had gone away to camp. Towards the end of the summer I was mowing the lawn when she rode by on her bicycle. She was riding down to the circle at the end of the block, her t-shirt clung to her body. I knew she'd be coming back past my house again and positioned myself where our grass met the street. When she rode by she was so close I could smell her sweat. I stuck out my arm and pushed her. She flew over the handlebars and skidded onto her face.

I quickly pushed the lawnmower back up into the garage and went into the living room and started playing with my sister. Again my heart thumped and again I didn't hear any response.

On the first day of school, I got on the school bus knowing she'd get on at the next stop. She climbed on and half of her face was covered in purple scabs. She sat in the seat behind the bus drive and didn't turn around to look at anyone. Later that day I heard people calling her Scarface. I felt confused.

That November my family moved to West Virginia and I never said goodbye to her.

Of course, that isn't the end of the story, otherwise I wouldn't tell it. When I went to college I saw her at an Elliot Smith show in a basement in Boston. It was a couple of years before he died. She was sitting in the back, leaning against a much older guy. I was relieved to see her face had no scars. I went over to say hi. We exchanged numbers and I called and invited her out for coffee.

We met in a cafe on the top floor of a tall skyscraper. I liked it because it was full of lawyers and there was a great view; I usually went there to study. She drank coffee. She told me that the first time she had drunk coffee had been at my house. My mother had told her to start drinking it with lots of milk and sugar and she had. Now she preferred it black. At the end of the meeting I kissed her forehead and she squeezed me goodbye.

We started dating. We only spoke about my having pushed her off the bike once. We were drunk in a snowy alley. It was late, after some show. We were making a punk snowman, but we could barely see cause there was no streetlight. We found a soggy cigarette butt on the pavement and hung it from the snowman's mouth. She asked me if I had really pushed her and I said yes and that I was sorry. She laughed and said it didn't matter. I asked why she hadn't gone to the movie with me, and she said that when her mother had told her she had panicked and cried. She said she had been too young.

We broke up a few months later, but I don't want to talk about that. Wow. I haven't thought about any of that in years. You kind of look like her. That is my story of a love affair. Do you want to use it in your blog?"

"I liked your story, but you should be the one to write it down. I have to get to work now." By this time her blue mug was empty and all that remained of the roll was a solitary crumb. She put the computer back into her bag and got up to leave. She stopped next to him as she was leaving, and after pushing the hair from his face, kissed his forehead goodbye.

What I Miss

2008-07-05T22:54:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia is a tempting trap. I could lie awake and recreate days we spent together. You waking up first and kissing me "hello" before getting out of bed gently, rearranging the covers over me and then heading out for your run. I'd make coffee, then we'd slowly sip it with breakfast after your shower. We'd take the bus together half way. You'd steady me when the bus made sudden stops and we'd kiss "see you soon."We'd text romantic notions to each other and meet for drinks after work.

These are not what made us special. It was our mutual commitment to our fantasy. We created something wonderful. To enter this fantasy again, after it was so brutally untrue, is like waving a wand to combat death's scythe.

I have no hopes for happiness. It is not you that I miss.

Shit Everywhere

2008-07-05T16:10:00.000-07:00

Fuck. What happened here?

Cate got mad at me.

So she trashed your place?

Yeah.

I didn't know she was crazy.

Yeah.

How did it happen?

I just came home and it was like this.

She broke into your apartment and just trashed it?

Yeah.

Thats crazy.

Uh-huh.

Are you going to clean it up?

Yeah.

Thats fucked up. I'd make her clean it up. Did she do it because she was mad at you?

I didn't call her back or something and she thought I was cheating on her.

Are you cheating on her?

No.

Fuck.

Yeah.

Are you going to break up with her?

I don't know.

You don't know? You should totally break up with her.

Yeah.

Do you have any beer?

She poured it all on the kitchen floor.

Fuck. Let's go out.

Yeah.

A Love Story

2008-07-04T12:17:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time there was a hippie chick who fell in love with a goth girl. They lived happily ever after.

To their friends, though, the relationship was troublesome.

Imagine a Taijitu, or a Yin and Yang symbol, perfectly balanced. Now, imagine that the Yang element, the white half, starts to encroach on the Yin's section. The white bleeds over its boarders. The movement is deliberate, insidious.

The Yang spreads over three quarters of the circle. Now seven eighths. It progresses unhurriedly, almost lazily.

Soon the only Yin that remains is the small black circle once inside the original Yang's half. It is small in the whiteness.

The Yin speaks, "I love you."

"I love you too," answers the Yang and swallows the tiny remaining Yin.

The goth girl ostensibly remained a goth girl and the hippie chick, a hippie chick, and they lived, perhaps happily, ever after.

I've Left.

2008-07-02T21:40:00.001-07:00

And that is all.

Please Be Quiet

2008-07-01T21:34:00.000-07:00

Whenever he is talking, no matter the subject, I think, "Shut up. Shut up." At the beginning, and for a long time after, I responded to his conversation, asking questions, giving suggestions and generally participating. When he didn't engage with my responses, I switched to nodding and humming in agreement. Now, I find that I can read a book or type on my computer and that he keeps on talking without any acknowledgment whatsoever.

At first meeting he seems like a fascinating man with a lot to say. Otherwise, I don't think I would have liked him so much. I was giddy when I thought about him. There were warning signs at the beginning, though. After we first slept together I should have known that it couldn't last. After my orgasm, he looked at me with self-satisfied triumph. He seemed to be expecting applause. As if I was so lucky to have had the opportunity to sleep with him. I know some women do lie to men. You know, "Oh! I haven't had an orgasm in three years. Tee hee." Like that. It gives all of these men incredibly overinflated egos.

Never mind the fact that when we are having sex he looks like a praying mantis because of the way his body careens away from mine. Has anyone ever had the nerve to tell him that before? Would it possibly make him shut up? More likely he wouldn't even notice. Worse, it would just give him something else to talk about.

Anyway, I should have known, but I didn't. And now I have to figure out how to break up with this guy. I want to be nice about it, though. I mean, he isn't so bad. I think he really does like me. He just is a verbal processor. He can't really help it. In a way, I am the bad person for feeling the way I do. I just wish he would shut up.

Grow

2008-06-30T21:04:00.000-07:00

The young couple lay on their backs, panting, in the park. It was Saturday morning, and so they had just finished their daily jog with an extra hill.

"Do you smell piss?" The woman asked the man, once she caught her breath.

"Hold on." He inhaled. "Yes."

"I think it is because so many dogs pee in this park." She sat up and looked around at all of the dog owners and their dogs, many of whom were peeing.

"That is disgusting."

"We are in the middle of a drought. Dogs have been peeing here but no rain has washed it away. We could by lying in months of accumulated dog piss." She stood up.

"I don't know. I think it absorbs... also, the city waters the grass, or else it would just be brown hay. Grass doesn't grow in California." He stretched his arms over his head. In doing so, his t-shirt raised exposing his fuzzy belly to the fog and his lower back to the grass.

"Grass is a nice, though." She mused.

"I love the way it feels on my legs and arms." He moved his limbs so they brushed against the grass.

"Even piss-grass?" She looked slightly disgusted.

"Let's go home." He stood up.

"You can take the first shower." She didn't touch him as they walked home.

They went home, showered, sat around for a bit and then went out to the market.

"I think we should get a dog." She told him.

"Oh." He looked confused.

"We could take it running, and it would be practice for having a baby." She spoke quickly.

"Oh. I don't think we're ready for that." He turned into the grocery store without checking for her response, and started palming fruit for firmness.

Wake Up

2008-06-29T08:12:00.000-07:00

Dreams don't have to make sense. They are the result of the mind imposing a narrative on the brain's stew of electrical impulses consolidating images, phrases and sensations into new and existing neural networks. The story, or dream, spun could be revealing of how one's mind typically interprets the images, phrases and sensations experienced when conscious.

In this dream she was sitting up in bed and leaning against a headboard. She didn't know what material it was, but it was cold and had nubs that pushed painfully into her back. Her boyfriend was having sex with her. The dream told her that this was the case, though she could only see his face. She was squinting under the light of an enormous chandelier oozing crystals. His face centimeters from hers and he was screaming.

"Blah blah blah." He didn't stop to breath,"Blah blah blah." Spittle hit her face. She tried to dodge it. and saw that a group of their mutual friends were standing around the bed, trying to tell her something very important. They were wearing elegant clothes and holding glasses of champagne. She couldn't them over his relentless shouting. She struggled to get up to be with them, but couldn't throw his weight.

"Wake up. You're having a nightmare." Startled, she opened her eyes. He put his arm around her stomach protectively, and his body encircled hers. "Was it about me?" She nodded.

He kissed her cheek and stroked her hair. "I'll get you a glass of water." She watched him leave and then pulled his blankets up over her mouth.

When he returned with the glass, she appeared to have fallen back asleep.

Happy

2008-06-27T19:31:00.001-07:00

The drunk lovers sat on the concrete entrance to BART at 16th and Mission. It was a warm May night and the couple were making use of every moment before their respective trains arrived to take them safely to their apartments. The last trains would be arriving soon. They looked a little out of place amongst the homeless people and crack addicts who typically frequented the brightly painted corner. He, in his business jacket, and she in what was described by the sales girl as a "cute and flirty summer dress." The man suggested the woman return with him to his room, but she declined. His arm was wrapped under her cotton cardigan, and she lent against him, kissing his chin and sideburns. They said sweet, but unremarkable, things to each other.

An homeless crone approached them to beg for money. The woman, in love with the world, reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of change. She gave it to the woman and wished her the best of luck. She turned back to the man and nibbled his ear. They kissed. Their lust disguised the dirty corner as a love nest. As he teased her neck with gentle kisses, the homeless woman conferred with a friend, a wizened gentleman of indeterminate age.

He approached the couple, also asking for change. The woman again reached into her purse and discovered another handful of change. She happily gave it to the man, acknowledging him with politeness, and again turned back to her friend.

They were approached by another beggar. And another.

"You've got to stop giving them money, you know. They are starting to bother me. Its rude!" He protested. The woman was surprised.

"Oh!" She started laughing and couldn't suppress her giggles until she was alone and on her train ride home.

With You

2008-06-25T23:14:00.000-07:00

Even though we dated in the early 00's, I associate you with the 80's pop music we used to sing in dark karaoke booths. I hadn't heard Toto's Africa, or Bowie's China Girl before hearing your thin, but earnest, voice singing them through a microphone with the reverb so high that we could have used it as a blanket. Even now, years later, when I hear "the rains down in africa," I see your profile back lit by a television monitor with lyrics superimposed over the imagine of a slender teenage girl walking around what appears to be Prague at sunset.

Our song was With or Without You, by the band U2, and I always insisted on singing it. Sometimes you joined me, but more often than not you took the opportunity to take a break and refuel with cheap syrupy fruit-flavored liquor. I had never paid attention to U2 before dating you, but they were your favorite band and so I had become familiar with their music. Once you explained to me that With or Without You was really, as you believed all U2 songs to be, an allegory for the human relationship with God. I thought this was a plausible interpretation, but didn't fully understand why Bono would sing "She got me with...," if really he was speaking about Jesus. You found religious belief fascinating in the abstract, but irrelevant to your personal pursuits. We shared the unspoken agreement that religion was something people like us didn't need.

The lyrics didn't map perfectly onto our relationship, but there is a certain sadness and despair to the song that I related to and a sense of unavoidable and necessary suffering that our relationship shared. The lyrics are ambiguous, with three characters: the singer, "you" and "she." I identified with the body bruised and the one who gives themselves away, who in your interpretation is perhaps Jesus, and I thought of you as "she." This was a hazy interpretation though; the lyrics weren't as important to me as the guitar at the beginning of the song. The guitar line is eerily simple and rhythmic. I felt as if this guitar line caressed me, as if it danced up and my body, sliding down my spine and tickling the back of my knees. The song no longer has such an effect on me. When I hear it now, in airports or streaming from anonymous cars as they pass by, I am reminded only of you.

I never liked the song's conclusion, when Bono screams hysterical descending "Oh's." I imagined a crowd of fans, mouths opened wide, joining along with this release, undulating before Bono posing onstage with outstretched, upturned hands, as an enormous monitor on the back of the stage projected this image back down on all of them. I didn't want any part of this communal catharsis. I found it revolting. I clung to the pain of our relationship as if it was something unique to me. It wasn't anything I thought anyone should ever be able to sing along with. It seemed crass and ruined the song.

One drunk karaoke night, when we sang our song as a duet, I dropped out for this final wail-along, and listened as you lifted your voice in the cry. As you sang, I heard a truth I didn't understand. You saw I had tears in my eyes and, misunderstanding my sentiment, sang along with even more sincerity.

Night

2008-06-25T23:09:00.000-07:00

I see a full moon.
It reminds me how you broke my heart.

I see a half moon.
It reminds me of the full moon,
Which reminds me how you broke my heart.

I see a cresent moon.
It reminds me of the full moon,
Which reminds me how you broke my heart.

San Francisco

2008-06-25T10:44:00.000-07:00

It was a warm evening and people were sitting outside the cafe. Shadows were long and the descending sun made everything rosy. Four dogs of different breeds sat pointedly, tied to nearby parking meters, focusing intently on the cafe, waiting for their owners to appear after dinner. As I approached, I saw two young women sitting under the radiant bougainvillea that decorated the southward wall. They were dressed in the season's fashions for young professionals: the colors were warm and mute, the fabrics gauzy and the cut professionally suggestive. Inside the cafe, someone sneezed. On the table between the women lay a wicker basket now holding only bread crumbs, ceramic blue plates glistening with the residue of salad and two large mugs of half finished lattes. When I passed the duo, one spoke shrilly, in crisis.

"This isn't how I want to live. I don't know what to do. This is all wrong."

The other, affectionately, "Shut the fuck up."

Diminishing Returns

2008-06-24T17:48:00.000-07:00

I will animate a simple black line drawing of a man walking in profile onto a white screen from the left. He will stop about one third into the frame, the full length of his body showing. Vertically, he takes up most of the screen, his feet at the bottom and his head near the top. The man is drawn with angular lines. He has no facial features, a crew cut, and his shoulders and arms are large to indicate that he is strong.

A woman enters from the right. The woman is as tall as the man's shoulders. She is in profile. Her hair is curly and her figure drawn with black, round lines. She has eyes but no mouth. She also stops about one third of the way into the frame.

The couple stand facing each other. She tilts her head up to look at him. Her body softens. Then, with one arm she opens her chest and pulls out her heart. It is an anatomical heart, red and beating eagerly. It is not attached to the woman's body with veins and arteries and so it comes out easily and without mess.

The woman holds the fluttering heart before the man and he looks at it. She gently tosses it to him, but he makes no effort to catch it and it falls to the ground. The heart flattens a bit and the beating becomes momentarily interrupted on impact, but soon resumes. She quickly retrieves it and pulls it up to her chest.

This time, she gestures she is going to throw the heart before the toss. The man nods, but after she throws it, he does not move. Her heart bounces of his chest and lands at his feet. The heart flattens again. The beat stops, and then assumes a slower tempo.

The woman retrieves it. This time when she picks it up, the heart is damaged. Blood drips a little. She falters a little as she stands back up.

The heart is tossed. The man remains immobile. The heart ricochets and falls. Blood spatters on the legs of the man. The beats are faint. The woman stoops low and gently scoops up her damaged heart with both hands.

The man turns and walks back off towards the left.

The woman opens her chest and places the tender mess back inside. She waits for some time, and then walks, slowly and with effort, after him.

Oceans Apart

2008-06-22T23:22:00.000-07:00

When I called you, three months after we had last spoken, I couldn't blame you for being outraged.

"You left me for a guy who treats you like that?" You were unsympathetic, and rightfully so. When I think back on the various ways I have told the story of our breakup, I don't really know the truth. My story has changed multiple times. The convenience of deceit is simpler than understanding the mechanism by which love failed.

My moving to a different country was a big change in our relationship. I hadn't understood the effect that such a move would make. We had lived on different coasts during the two years we dated and so I couldn't see why having an ocean between us would make much difference.

Perhaps, it wasn't just that we couldn't communicate as easily, it was also that suddenly I needed you more. I was lonely, isolated and wanted, like Max, "to be where someone loved me the best of all." So, I relied on you more. It was an additional burden on our distance strained relationship. You disappeared, leaving a cryptic message on my machine, "I won't be able to talk for a month." A job opportunity, the first in years had appeared and you had taken it. I was happy for you, but my grief for myself overruled.

That was the end. I was lonely. I needed a family, and so I fell in with first guy who seemed to need me like I needed you. After the month had passed, when we finally spoke it was so that I could tell you I had found someone else.

I don't know where you were when we had that conversation. It was second of January and I was wandering the deserted city while most people were warm inside their houses. When we spoke, I was blocked from the steely wind by a luminous shopping center that resembled the hull of a sea freighter impossibly balanced between skyscrapers and convenience stores. It was late, and everything was closed, but the storefronts were illuminated and shop assistants, like tiny people from a parallel universe, rearranged clothes and posed mannequins through the windows. I had just spent my first Christmas away from my family. The stores were busy with new year sales. They, too, were getting rid of the old to make space for the new. I climbed up and down a concrete staircase in a plaza holding onto the metal railing in one gloved hand, and the phone in the other. Patches of dirty snow were encrusted along the sides of the building and an eddy of freshly fallen dry snow swirled in front of the closed doors.

Despite my remembering the place, I forget what we said to each other. I told some lies. You were mostly silent. I gave the final push and you closed to me.

I never saw you again. I tried to see you a few years later, but you explained that your new girlfriend would not permit such a meeting. It didn't sound like a very convincing story. Now, I don't know that I would want to see you. It would satisfy a curiosity, but there is really no reason for us to ever meet.

sweetheart

2008-06-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

i was sitting on the table, you were sitting on the floor. we chatted with each other. we never felt bored.

the feelings dessicated. disappointment settled down. your words became nets. pauses our protests.

did we try to make things better? we didn't have the time. the world was out before us. we didn't have a child.

i helped you find another. we never said goodbye. if you have children, i know they'll be fine.

aftermath

2008-06-19T23:53:00.000-07:00

first there were small giggles, followed by the occasional chuckle, which soon crescendoed into loud guffaws. she lay on her kitchen floor and convulsed with laughter. her sides ached. she couldn't get up. her friend was by the counter cubing tomatoes for a salad.

"and then he said..." was the most she was able to say. "he said...." but laugher kept overtaking her. the friend ignored her. she focused on preparing their food. this wasn't the first time her friend had been paralyzed by silliness.

finally, the food was ready. the laughing fit subsided and they sat down to eat their tomato and chive salad. they ate it with crusty bread slathered with cream cheese (low fat).

"so, what did he say?"

"well... i guess it isn't really so funny."

you came home late

2008-06-19T17:36:00.001-07:00

you forgot to buy the cat food again, but you were too tired to make a trip to buy it after a hard day at work. i didn't mind picking it up. i had been from home and was happy to have an excuse to leave the house. we weren't very happy together anymore, and so leaving you alone to pass out on the bed, without having time to make an obligatory pass at me, was a nice escape.

we were in the middle of an indian summer, and the air was still warm and heavy though it was almost midnight. the only supermarket open was a brisk twenty minute walk away, but the heat invited a slow stroll. i took the route under the ginkgo trees. their pungent leaves hadn't fallen yet; they were along a busy boulevard, and in the summer i had pointed out to you how their green fan-shaped leaves had collected a thin film of city grime. "that is what we are breathing!"

when ginkgo leaves fall, they drop at a rapid rate. a friend once told me that they all fall in a period of 24 hours. i believed her for a long time, but later learned that they usually fall within 15 days. she also told me that they smelled awful, and that in Philadelphia there was one ginkgo lined street that she avoided every fall due to the smell. i wanted to see the leaves falling. even though i knew it was a tall tale, i longed to see a shower of yellow leaves dropping at once. when i got to the trees, all the leaves were still attached. i plucked one leaf and scraped the grime from the leaf making one clean path down the stem. the dirt stuck under my fingernail. i dropped the leaf and watched it leisurely twirl to the ground. i grabbed a handful of leaves and stuffed them in my pocket.

i returned home with the cat food. the cat was asleep on your chest facing you. when you breathed in she rose at a slant as if she was about to fall into your open mouth. as you exhaled she resumed a horizontal pattern. i put food in the cat bowl and she opened her eyes lazily. but stayed on your chest. she was your cat from before. when i had first moved in she was jealous of me, and wouldn't come anywhere near me. over the three years we developed a pattern. when you weren't around, i would suffice. if you were there, she wished i would leave.

i climbed up on the bed and stood looking down on you. you didn't wake up. i pulled the leaves from my pockets, raised them high over your head and opened my hands so they pirouetted down onto you. one landed on your chin, under your open mouth. you still didn't wake up. so i lay down on my side of the bed and pretended to sleep.

tomorrow

2008-06-18T23:05:00.000-07:00

we will wake up and paint our toenails and walk down the street sipping ice tea from glasses we'll bring from home. we'll stop to stroke every dog. we'll buy crusty bread, soft cheese and red wine and find a sunny spot on the grass. we'll sit and laugh and then we'll say goodbye.

i'll pull out my book and lie on my belly reading it in the sun. i'll fall asleep on an open page. i'll drool and wrinkle the middle of the page. when i sell the book, a 15 year old girl will buy it the following week. when she gets to the page with the wrinkled interior she'll wonder what i spillled.

i'll climb the trees and race along the rooftops chasing the last sunny patches before the sun sets in the west. i'll sprint over the blue roof of your house, but i'll have forgotten you by then. i won't jump extra hard and try to make your house crumble. i won't fly down the chimney. i won't ring your doorbell to tell you that since you left i have been lonely.

you always say that

2008-06-18T23:00:00.000-07:00

running late...
do you ever give the right directions?
it was on sale.
do you mind just doing this for me?
i forgot to tell you.
did you want me to do that?
i didn't get around to it.
i just had a really stressful day.
can 't you wait until i finish speaking?
i'm so tired.
you know, the pretty girl.
next week, ok?

is this right?

2008-06-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

i don't know if you remember the first time we met. to be honest, i am not sure if i remember all of the details, but some parts remain clear. we met in a public place and when i looked at you the rest of the world was out of focus. when you spoke it was as if i couldn't even hear myself. when i touched your hand your flesh was like the future.

that isn't true, is it? we both know precisely how we met. we were standing in line at the grocery store at midnight. you were buying twenty packages of ivory soap and a banana. you had lined up the soap on the conveyor belt quite neatly, and had carefully placed the banana on top. i was with my boyfriend. we were 18. i wanted him to buy condoms, but he was afraid, and so i was buying them. i held the condoms in my hand, and positioned my body so you couldn't see. even though you were clearly a freak, because of the soap, i still felt too embarrassed to let you see what i was buying.

or were you someone different? were you perhaps the waiter in the greek diner with the pencil mustache from whom i ordered waffles and strawberries for dinner in the middle of winter? you were disapproving, but i ordered what i wanted. my friend asked for soup and a baked potato with bacon on top. you gave me a reproachful look, as if to say "see, you should listen to your sensible friend." i left you a big tip because you gave my waffles the delicious flavor of protest.

no! remember how we sat on a children's climbing structure behind my college dorm eating oranges and drinking coffee. i wanted to share the incredible flavors, courtesy of wallace stevens, with you. it was autumn and the air was cold in my mouth. i wanted to show you how i could do the monkey bars. but you wanted to go to a party. so we sat around for a bit. and then you couldn't do the monkey bars. and so we left the fresh outside. and i never forgave you.

perhaps, when i killed the dragon, it was you who sat afraid in his cave. i loved you so much. it is funny to think i could have l felt so deeply only to have forgotten you. you sat amidst the stolen gold, and it made your face look yellow. were you crying? did you care for the dragon or fear for me. i had to kill him. i tried bargining, rationalizing, and pleading, but the dragon swore you were his most valuable prize. and so i won you, but later i discarded you. what was i to do with your sorrow?

we rode to the moon once. we chased our dreams there. they had gotten carried away. but we were cold on the moon and so we floated back down to earth. we lost those dreams and then we lost each other. i'm glad to have you back.

i saw a red tailed hawk! powerful wings beat over my head. i wish you could have seen it. where were you? was that when you were working? you have missed so much.