Summers

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

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.

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.

Flies

"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

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

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

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

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

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.

Encounter with a psychic

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

"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

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?

The House

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

"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

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

You Laughed Out Loud

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

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

"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.