Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Summer Afternoon
She lay back on the bed throwing her arms out wide in supplication- of what she had no idea. Perhaps to the heat demon that had lain claim throughout the land in recent days. The oscillating fan did little more than tease her with a hint of cool air and tiny beads of sweat continued their journey through the valley of her breasts. It felt good to lay stretched out to feel the pull across her shoulders and the rise of her chest with every breath. The fan ruffled the hair lying across her flushed cheek but did not have enough strength to move it mired as it was in the humid dew that covered her entire body. She tried to imagine winter with it's icey frost and biting winds and soft blankets in front of roaring fires with hot chocolate cupped between frozen hands. Thinking of winter didn't really help at all. Instead she thought of steamy climates, of Brazil and Argentina of the South American jungles and of hot hands on her body and gauzy netting draped around beds where moans were gathered up and lost in offering to the surrounding ruins and their gods. A much more pleasant imagining but still of no use to the current situation...
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Ferris Wheel
Unfinished thingy from class...
It stands there tall- in front of you- a skeleton ferris wheel. Remnants of it’s former majesty on display in the flecked gold peeling from the weathered wood. Broken bulbs that used to adorn the side have long since turned to dust and the seats rock in the breeze- squeaking to one another tales of glory and tales of sadness. The iron has long rusted and the planks are missing nails and warped. In the parking lot old advertisements are caught in the chain link. A pack of cigarettes for 2.36. It is hard to remember a time when you could buy a box of cigarettes for only 2.36- longer even then when gas was that cheap. The ferris wheel looks like a clock, the seats the five minute marks, the heavy still base the minute and hour hands locked at 5:30- maybe in the morning maybe in the evening. It seems frozen but it’s not it shows the passing of time just like a clock, just like a faded advertisement for a price that hasn’t seen recent times.
In it’s fading and torn plastic seats, the ghosts of memories past remain. Billy Smith stole his first kiss from Katie Myers while pausing at the top, his hands wet with nerves and heart racing. The breeze was gentle but with a hint of approaching thunderstorms and the electricity in the air made his blood boil harder. Katie grew up and left town long ago but Billy- Bill- remains and sometimes parks his car in the abandoned amusement park lot drinking beer and thinking about that night. About the taste of cotton candy on her lips and how blue her eyes were.
In the wood of the back rest on one of the seats Tad Braun had carved T heart A one spring night while Alison Loh kept watch giggling as they approached the ride operator on every down turn. Tad would hide the knife and throw his arm easily around Alison’s shoulders while winking merrily at the carnie with a shit eating grin. Then quick as a flash he’d be back at it. Two babies and a few years later Tad was still throwing his arm around Alison’s shoulders and she was still giggling like a girl his co-conspirator in all things.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Free Man
Peterson Greymore did not like his name. It was two names, really, and cumbersome. His mother, a literature graduate student, and his father- her advisor, had been taken with the notion of naming their only son something strong, literary and romantic. He'd once asked his mother why she hadn't just named him Lord Grayson and have done with it. She had slapped him with her eyes and he skulked out of the room, the topic of his name never coming up again.
At work he went by plain old Peter. Plain old Peter lived in a nondescript apartment with white walls and minimalist furnishings and designs. He also worked in IT- it was the most boring non-romantic job he could think of growing up and the perfect fuck you to his elitist academic parents. They took heart in the knowledge that he had been accepted into MIT, they ignored the fact that he'd dropped out after a semester to attend ITT Tech.
Peter enjoyed the anonymity of his career. He never had to leave the cave like office where his cubicle sat. In fact, most of the time he hardly talked to anyone save Sam- cubicle neighbor and fellow underachiever. While drinking beers after work at the local titty bar, Sam liked to point out that one was hardly an underachiever who knew coding like they did. Peter just nodded but knew better. It wasn't necessarily their careers that were an underachievement but their participation in life.
Peter enjoyed the routine of going from home to work to bar to home. Occasionally he played the part of the dutiful son and returned home for dinner or the requisite holidays functions but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had escaped this gilded cage society his parents so loved...
At work he went by plain old Peter. Plain old Peter lived in a nondescript apartment with white walls and minimalist furnishings and designs. He also worked in IT- it was the most boring non-romantic job he could think of growing up and the perfect fuck you to his elitist academic parents. They took heart in the knowledge that he had been accepted into MIT, they ignored the fact that he'd dropped out after a semester to attend ITT Tech.
Peter enjoyed the anonymity of his career. He never had to leave the cave like office where his cubicle sat. In fact, most of the time he hardly talked to anyone save Sam- cubicle neighbor and fellow underachiever. While drinking beers after work at the local titty bar, Sam liked to point out that one was hardly an underachiever who knew coding like they did. Peter just nodded but knew better. It wasn't necessarily their careers that were an underachievement but their participation in life.
Peter enjoyed the routine of going from home to work to bar to home. Occasionally he played the part of the dutiful son and returned home for dinner or the requisite holidays functions but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had escaped this gilded cage society his parents so loved...
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Bare Walls
"Why haven't you hung any pictures on the walls? No pictures...no art...nothing. It looks like you've just moved in."
She took a drag from her cigarette and blew out the smoke watching it get caught in the path of the fan that was ineffectual in it's attempts against the mid-afternoon heat. She looked at her hand studying the ashes clinging to the edge of the cigarette before moving to stub it out in the ashtray with a frustrated sigh. Across the coffee table from her a clearing of the throat reminded her that he was still there still waiting for an answer to a question she had already almost forgotten. A quick glance around the room did show bare walls and bare canvasses leaning against the walls.
"Actually it's been nearly three years since I moved in." It had been quiet so long that he jumped a little in his seat, startled to hear her raspy voice answering him. Of course it has nearly been three years, he thought. After all it had been nearly three years since the last time they sat across from each other like this, only then they both wore gold bands on their fingers.
"You know I think I keep the walls bare because I prefer the potential that they represent. Like those canvasses leaning by the bookshelves. I bought them at least two months ago with a very specific idea of what I wanted to do with them, yet there they stand still white still waiting and still full of potential."
He found himself nodding- it made sense, kind of. "That doesn't explain why no pictures of your family and friends though." When they'd been married the house had been full of pictures and all the little homey things that make a house a house. She used to bitch about the dust they collected but it never stopped her from adding new pictures. He had always loved coming home to the warmth of that house, so different from the sterile cold feel of the downtown loft he returned to these days. He found himself studying the colors of her furniture and the throws and pillows thrown around the sofa and chairs. Even without the pictures and artwork she still managed to surround herself with warmth. There was a welcoming feel to this bare little apartment.
"How's your mom," he asked when the silence had gone from pleasant to opressive.
"Why are you here Brad?" she countered.
He cringed, hating the steel in her voice- the steal that he'd given birth to three years earlier. He looked up to find her studying him with eyes not entirely hostile but guarded nonetheless. Did I do that to her? he asked himself. Or perhaps he was mistaken in remembering a time when those eyes were open and trusting. There was a hardness to her face now. He couldn't imagine the woman in front of him ever laughing, but he knew she must- that she had in another life and maybe if he looked just hard enough he could find those laugh lines, find where she had buried the twinkle from her eyes. She started to bounce her leg and he could feel the vibrations through the coffee table, it was a nervous tic of hers that he used to find endearing now it just made him want to say what he needed to and get out except that his mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara and his chest felt tight and painful. Is this what a heart attack feels like? he wondered to himself.
"Sarah...um...well, really I just came by because I wanted you to hear it from me instead of from someone else."
She never flinched, looking him straight in the eyes but he could feel the tension, could see her closing in on herself almost becoming smaller in and effort to protect herself. Oh Sarah I'm so sorry I hurt you, he thought to himself.
"See the thing is...well, the thing is Sarah that Phil and I are going to get married." The second sentence came out in a rush and at first he wasn't sure if she had understood him. She continued to stare at him for a minute and then she blinked slowly and with a deep sigh leaned back into the couch laying her head on the backrest and staring at a spot somewhere beyond his right ear.
He looked down noticing for the first time the dried bit of mud on the tip of his loafers. He felt like that bit of dried up mud. When he finally drew the courage to raise his head up he found her sitting forward again and studying the cuticles on her right hand. She'd always had great nails he thought. After a long night at the hospital, he come home and try to crawl as noiselessly as possible into bed but she always woke up. She'd sit up against the headboard and he curl around her, his head resting on her chest feeling it rise and fall while she scratched his head softly with her long nails- relaxing him as he told her about his day. Her nails weren't long anymore, they were short and looked chewed. He fought the urge to cry, suddenly wanting to crawl over to her and rest his head on her chest while begging her forgiveness and kissing the tips of those bitten down nails. But he didn't, he wouldn't because he had done what he had to do but that didn't mean he'd ever meant to hurt her so or that the guilt would ever leave.
She finally looked up to meet his gaze, no more steel in her eyes just a calm sadness. "I already knew. I knew the other night when I was watching the news and saw that the appeal had been overturned." She looked down for a minute and then right back up nodding a little to some but of internal dialogue. "It's a good thing", she said. "I'm glad."
He noticed that there was only a little bitterness in her gaze, mainly though there was just acceptance. He nodded too. "I'll...uh I'll send you a picture. From the ceremony."
She laughed then. It was a rueful laugh to be sure but a laugh nonetheless and her eyes almost twinkled. "Maybe I'll put it up."
They chuckled together then, each knowing that this would be the last time they'd see each other.
She took a drag from her cigarette and blew out the smoke watching it get caught in the path of the fan that was ineffectual in it's attempts against the mid-afternoon heat. She looked at her hand studying the ashes clinging to the edge of the cigarette before moving to stub it out in the ashtray with a frustrated sigh. Across the coffee table from her a clearing of the throat reminded her that he was still there still waiting for an answer to a question she had already almost forgotten. A quick glance around the room did show bare walls and bare canvasses leaning against the walls.
"Actually it's been nearly three years since I moved in." It had been quiet so long that he jumped a little in his seat, startled to hear her raspy voice answering him. Of course it has nearly been three years, he thought. After all it had been nearly three years since the last time they sat across from each other like this, only then they both wore gold bands on their fingers.
"You know I think I keep the walls bare because I prefer the potential that they represent. Like those canvasses leaning by the bookshelves. I bought them at least two months ago with a very specific idea of what I wanted to do with them, yet there they stand still white still waiting and still full of potential."
He found himself nodding- it made sense, kind of. "That doesn't explain why no pictures of your family and friends though." When they'd been married the house had been full of pictures and all the little homey things that make a house a house. She used to bitch about the dust they collected but it never stopped her from adding new pictures. He had always loved coming home to the warmth of that house, so different from the sterile cold feel of the downtown loft he returned to these days. He found himself studying the colors of her furniture and the throws and pillows thrown around the sofa and chairs. Even without the pictures and artwork she still managed to surround herself with warmth. There was a welcoming feel to this bare little apartment.
"How's your mom," he asked when the silence had gone from pleasant to opressive.
"Why are you here Brad?" she countered.
He cringed, hating the steel in her voice- the steal that he'd given birth to three years earlier. He looked up to find her studying him with eyes not entirely hostile but guarded nonetheless. Did I do that to her? he asked himself. Or perhaps he was mistaken in remembering a time when those eyes were open and trusting. There was a hardness to her face now. He couldn't imagine the woman in front of him ever laughing, but he knew she must- that she had in another life and maybe if he looked just hard enough he could find those laugh lines, find where she had buried the twinkle from her eyes. She started to bounce her leg and he could feel the vibrations through the coffee table, it was a nervous tic of hers that he used to find endearing now it just made him want to say what he needed to and get out except that his mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara and his chest felt tight and painful. Is this what a heart attack feels like? he wondered to himself.
"Sarah...um...well, really I just came by because I wanted you to hear it from me instead of from someone else."
She never flinched, looking him straight in the eyes but he could feel the tension, could see her closing in on herself almost becoming smaller in and effort to protect herself. Oh Sarah I'm so sorry I hurt you, he thought to himself.
"See the thing is...well, the thing is Sarah that Phil and I are going to get married." The second sentence came out in a rush and at first he wasn't sure if she had understood him. She continued to stare at him for a minute and then she blinked slowly and with a deep sigh leaned back into the couch laying her head on the backrest and staring at a spot somewhere beyond his right ear.
He looked down noticing for the first time the dried bit of mud on the tip of his loafers. He felt like that bit of dried up mud. When he finally drew the courage to raise his head up he found her sitting forward again and studying the cuticles on her right hand. She'd always had great nails he thought. After a long night at the hospital, he come home and try to crawl as noiselessly as possible into bed but she always woke up. She'd sit up against the headboard and he curl around her, his head resting on her chest feeling it rise and fall while she scratched his head softly with her long nails- relaxing him as he told her about his day. Her nails weren't long anymore, they were short and looked chewed. He fought the urge to cry, suddenly wanting to crawl over to her and rest his head on her chest while begging her forgiveness and kissing the tips of those bitten down nails. But he didn't, he wouldn't because he had done what he had to do but that didn't mean he'd ever meant to hurt her so or that the guilt would ever leave.
She finally looked up to meet his gaze, no more steel in her eyes just a calm sadness. "I already knew. I knew the other night when I was watching the news and saw that the appeal had been overturned." She looked down for a minute and then right back up nodding a little to some but of internal dialogue. "It's a good thing", she said. "I'm glad."
He noticed that there was only a little bitterness in her gaze, mainly though there was just acceptance. He nodded too. "I'll...uh I'll send you a picture. From the ceremony."
She laughed then. It was a rueful laugh to be sure but a laugh nonetheless and her eyes almost twinkled. "Maybe I'll put it up."
They chuckled together then, each knowing that this would be the last time they'd see each other.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Panic
The thing about a panic attack is that from the outside one can appear quite calm. Imagine the scene. You, sitting in your nondescript cubicle, fingers clacking across keyboards echoing around you. The rustle of papers, the murmur of voices on the phone along with a cough here and a clearing of the throat there. If you listen carefully you can hear the beeping of the truck backing up outside 7 stories down. Mainly you heart your heart trying to jump out of your chest. You try to inhale shallowly to keep anyone from hearing your erratic breaths but your heart keeps beating faster and you are convinced everyone knows it- everyone knows you are on edge and about to jump into the chasm of fear. On the outside you appear fine, giggle at the gentle flirtation of a coworker, flash smiles that don't fully reach the corners of your eyes. Everyone walks away from you thinking "what a great gal, she has really got it together." You want to run out of the building screaming and rending at your hair. The panic and the tears bubble in your chest trying to escape and you adopt a frozen mask of official business that hardens trying to keep the fear at bay. Your skin crawls with the want to run run run but you don't give into it. The idea of hiding in the stairwell is quite tempting, so is a long walk maybe to Starbucks to get a drink but that would only make the anxiety worse. It's the feeling of being out of control that is the hardest to deal with. Of having to clamp down so deeply and concentrate so fully to keep everything tightly reined in when you want nothing more then to let go.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Signing
I can hear the buzz right outside the door. The murmuring chit chat of a couple hundred people standing in line, comparing notes. I am humbled and frightened simultaneously. My publisher is next to me conducting some sort of business on her cell phone- she is always on her cell phone, it used to make me bristle but that cell phone is what brought me here so I can't complain too much. The event coordinator for the bookstore is on my other side ear piece in ear and talking animatedly with the voice on the other end- no doubt someone out on the line. Behind me sits my sister sipping from a glass of wine and relating embarrassing anecdotes about my to a gaggle of star struck book sellers. They weren't scheduled to work that day but had come in to meet me and get signed, I give a small snort at this. They see me as some sort of hero- the book lover that wrote a book...one of them who made it. Everything is in motion all around me but I am still and quiet thinking about how I've come full circle, how even though I never worked in this particular store- I know it intimately. I know these people and I know this world and I never imagined that I would be standing here on the other side of the mirror.
"It's time", the coordinator gently guides me towards the door as she nods curtly in response to the voice in her ear. The door opens and I'm assaulted by a wall of adoration and cheering and shouting. A small part of me wants to cover my ears with both hands and fall into a fetal ball at their feet screwing my eyes shut, the rest of me takes a deep breath and thanks god that I don't blush easily as I feel the heat infuse my entire body and my hands begin to shake with nerves. I smile then, it's shaky but genuine as I move towards my seat in the signing area trying to make eye contact with everyone as I walk along the line. Faces swim past me young and old, men and women. I smile at that- didn't think men would be my core audience so their presence is nice. I catch snippets of conversations as I seat myself and break open the seal on a bottle of water.
"I heard it's a true story- torrid love affair between the three of them."
"No, no you have it wrong. It's a true story definitely but I heard she was still in love with him and told him to pursue the other one."
"Well I heard that she was secretly in love with Jennifer but pushed her back into his arms because she thought they belonged together and was being a martyr."
"Martyr? Who even uses that word anymore? No you are all reading too much into it. The true love story is between Jennifer and Matt and she just kind of got caught in their story and helped it along."
"You think she'll tell us if Jennifer choose Matt in the end or Ned. I think she went back to Ned, I mean she wouldn't just give up on her husband like that."
"Sure she would, Matt is her soul mate and he was there first before Ned anyway. God I hate that she left the end of the book dangling!"
"Oh I don't. I think it was absolutely perfect how she left it so ambiguous. It lets me imagine it how I want it to end."
"And how would you want it to end?"
I wonder myself how she would want it to end as I smile at the next beaming face and ask who I should address my words to. The other women's voice gets lost in the din and I will never know how she sees the ending of my book but I smile to myself as I realize this is exactly what I wanted when I sent my baby out into the world. Truthfully, I'm not even sure myself how it turns out. I have my suspicions but no confirmation and I catch myself scanning the crowd every now and again hoping to see them, or maybe just her. I had thought that she might come but it's been so long and they don't really owe me any answers, I'm profiting off of their story as it is.
After about two hours, I catch the coordinator out of the corner of my eye scanning the crowd. I wonder if she is trying to decide where to cut off the line. My hand feels as though it may fall off soon but I keep going. I know what it's like to wait for just a second of time with someone I admire and I won't disappoint those in front of me so I bend down to sign yet another book and that's when I smell her. I freeze for half a second, my hand poised mid signature as my blood boils and my heart jumps into my throat. Without looking up I struggle to finish signing the book in front of me and then glance quickly at the person thanking me profusely. She is next, I know it even without looking- I know her scent just as I know his- they are both so unique. I fiddle with my water bottle too nervous to look up until she speaks to me.
"So how does it end?"
Her voice is still the same and I find that I didn't realize just how much I missed it. I take one last trembling breath and calling myself a coward force my head up. The first thing I notice is her large, round belly. I pause there for an instant my body flooded with envy, regret, pain, happiness and joy for her. It's painful to see her have that which I cannot but I can't be upset not when I know just how much it means to her as well and as I raise my head towards her smiling face I find that I can deny her nothing and feel so much warmth towards as my smile matches hers.
I don't know if anyone noticed my odd reaction to this woman before, but as I stand and make my way around the table towards her, our smiles lighting up the room, I can feel all eyes on me. I reach out and gently lay my hands on her belly, staring down in wonder. She asks me again "so, how does it end?" I meet her eyes, grinning even harder as I feel the baby move beneath my hands. "I don't know", I tell her. "You tell me."
She grins back at me and covers my hands with her own. I look at our hands together feeling the baby move when I notice that her rings are different. Her wedding rings are different. She must notice the quick intake of breath I make because she squeezes my hands once and then tilts her head to the right pointing my attention. I close my eyes again and take a deep breath, already knowing what I am about to see. I turn my head and when I open them he is standing there, a hesitant smile on his face. He is worried about my reaction but he shouldn't be. I am suddenly so happy for the both of them that I start crying and laughing all at once. I don't care that we are in a room full of people who are no doubt wondering if these two people with me are the elusive Jennifer and Matt. I don't care that I holding all these people up after they have waited for so long, all I care about is that two people I care deeply for finally figured it out and I can't stop hugging her and kissing her cheek and now we are both crying and I'm sure we are making a fantastic scene but I just don't give a shit. Then, suddenly, he is behind me and wrapping his arms around me as I turn to hold him back and he still smells so good. It's a sin how good this man smells and all I can think over and over is "Thank god. Thank god, thank god, thank god." They figured it out and I am so happy for them I could just burst and finally, my story has an ending.
"It's time", the coordinator gently guides me towards the door as she nods curtly in response to the voice in her ear. The door opens and I'm assaulted by a wall of adoration and cheering and shouting. A small part of me wants to cover my ears with both hands and fall into a fetal ball at their feet screwing my eyes shut, the rest of me takes a deep breath and thanks god that I don't blush easily as I feel the heat infuse my entire body and my hands begin to shake with nerves. I smile then, it's shaky but genuine as I move towards my seat in the signing area trying to make eye contact with everyone as I walk along the line. Faces swim past me young and old, men and women. I smile at that- didn't think men would be my core audience so their presence is nice. I catch snippets of conversations as I seat myself and break open the seal on a bottle of water.
"I heard it's a true story- torrid love affair between the three of them."
"No, no you have it wrong. It's a true story definitely but I heard she was still in love with him and told him to pursue the other one."
"Well I heard that she was secretly in love with Jennifer but pushed her back into his arms because she thought they belonged together and was being a martyr."
"Martyr? Who even uses that word anymore? No you are all reading too much into it. The true love story is between Jennifer and Matt and she just kind of got caught in their story and helped it along."
"You think she'll tell us if Jennifer choose Matt in the end or Ned. I think she went back to Ned, I mean she wouldn't just give up on her husband like that."
"Sure she would, Matt is her soul mate and he was there first before Ned anyway. God I hate that she left the end of the book dangling!"
"Oh I don't. I think it was absolutely perfect how she left it so ambiguous. It lets me imagine it how I want it to end."
"And how would you want it to end?"
I wonder myself how she would want it to end as I smile at the next beaming face and ask who I should address my words to. The other women's voice gets lost in the din and I will never know how she sees the ending of my book but I smile to myself as I realize this is exactly what I wanted when I sent my baby out into the world. Truthfully, I'm not even sure myself how it turns out. I have my suspicions but no confirmation and I catch myself scanning the crowd every now and again hoping to see them, or maybe just her. I had thought that she might come but it's been so long and they don't really owe me any answers, I'm profiting off of their story as it is.
After about two hours, I catch the coordinator out of the corner of my eye scanning the crowd. I wonder if she is trying to decide where to cut off the line. My hand feels as though it may fall off soon but I keep going. I know what it's like to wait for just a second of time with someone I admire and I won't disappoint those in front of me so I bend down to sign yet another book and that's when I smell her. I freeze for half a second, my hand poised mid signature as my blood boils and my heart jumps into my throat. Without looking up I struggle to finish signing the book in front of me and then glance quickly at the person thanking me profusely. She is next, I know it even without looking- I know her scent just as I know his- they are both so unique. I fiddle with my water bottle too nervous to look up until she speaks to me.
"So how does it end?"
Her voice is still the same and I find that I didn't realize just how much I missed it. I take one last trembling breath and calling myself a coward force my head up. The first thing I notice is her large, round belly. I pause there for an instant my body flooded with envy, regret, pain, happiness and joy for her. It's painful to see her have that which I cannot but I can't be upset not when I know just how much it means to her as well and as I raise my head towards her smiling face I find that I can deny her nothing and feel so much warmth towards as my smile matches hers.
I don't know if anyone noticed my odd reaction to this woman before, but as I stand and make my way around the table towards her, our smiles lighting up the room, I can feel all eyes on me. I reach out and gently lay my hands on her belly, staring down in wonder. She asks me again "so, how does it end?" I meet her eyes, grinning even harder as I feel the baby move beneath my hands. "I don't know", I tell her. "You tell me."
She grins back at me and covers my hands with her own. I look at our hands together feeling the baby move when I notice that her rings are different. Her wedding rings are different. She must notice the quick intake of breath I make because she squeezes my hands once and then tilts her head to the right pointing my attention. I close my eyes again and take a deep breath, already knowing what I am about to see. I turn my head and when I open them he is standing there, a hesitant smile on his face. He is worried about my reaction but he shouldn't be. I am suddenly so happy for the both of them that I start crying and laughing all at once. I don't care that we are in a room full of people who are no doubt wondering if these two people with me are the elusive Jennifer and Matt. I don't care that I holding all these people up after they have waited for so long, all I care about is that two people I care deeply for finally figured it out and I can't stop hugging her and kissing her cheek and now we are both crying and I'm sure we are making a fantastic scene but I just don't give a shit. Then, suddenly, he is behind me and wrapping his arms around me as I turn to hold him back and he still smells so good. It's a sin how good this man smells and all I can think over and over is "Thank god. Thank god, thank god, thank god." They figured it out and I am so happy for them I could just burst and finally, my story has an ending.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Hi Honey I'm Home
All I can see in my mind's eye is their feet moving just outside of the sheets and all I can hear are her soft sighs- those sighs she makes just as she starts to really let go. I have closed the door lightly- I'm not sure why- and I am standing against it listening to the muffled moans grow louder behind me through the door. They never even noticed my interruption. I'm not sure if I'm more shocked by the fact that there is someone in our bed with her or by who it is...or by the fact that I can't seem to bring myself from leaving this door- from hearing the act reach it's final crescendo. Billy, our Corgi, sits at my feet watching me with those sorrowful Basset Hound eyes I could never explain from his papers. Yeah buddy, go ahead and pity me, I think to myself. Billy begins to howl mournfully, inexplicably and I wonder if they will notice. They do. I hear a mumbled "what the hell is wrong with that dog?" I'm tempted to yell back "he's got some fucking loyalty to his master which is a helluva lot more than I can say for you you son of a bitch!" But I don't say it because my mother isn't a bitch. Instead I wrap my arm around Billy and- lifting him up- I turn to walk out the door. I slam it.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Venetian Sunsets
The best time to make the crossing from the Lido to Venice is just before sunset so you can watch the golden glow come over the city as you approach. It's early evening and the ocean air is cool after the heat of the day and a fine mist covers your skin as the vaporetto chugs over the waves. The smell of diesel mixes with salt and the engine is loud behind you but it all mixes together to lull you as your gaze settles on the glowing city in the distance. The setting sun blazes a warm fire across the sky and sparkles as it catches the campanile ringing in the evening. It travels jumping from rooftop to rooftop setting fires to the gold plated spires and mosaics on the Basilica di San Marco before racing to San Giorgio and beyond. As you come closer, La Serenissima reveals that her beauty still exists even in these days beyond the flower of her youth- in fact, she is more beautiful now with her cracked lines and history. You are coming closer, minutes from docking and returning to her heart but for half a minute you wish you could stay in the middle of the ocean forever just at dusk admiring her glistening in the falling light.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Harold Grayson
Harold was not the brightest child to ever walk across Allentown Elementary School's formerly lush lawns. He did, however, posses an imagination of gigantic proportions- far more vast then even the Grand Canyon or what Harold imagined the vastness of the Grand Canyon to be since he had never been outside of Allentown, population 2, 034. Something about the numbers in the population sign always bothered Harold and when his mother drove them into town, he would stare at the numbers as they flashed past and he would imagine that they instead read 1,234 or 2,345. Harold like precision and order. That 0 thrown into the population could end up causing chaos, one never knew. If a psychologist ever stopped to talk to Harold they would be pleasantly perplexed by the presence of both a high trend towards anal retentiveness and an astounding imagination.
Take for example the afternoon two weeks prior in which Harold had been lucky enough to stumble upon a beat up dollar bill twisted and caught up in the chain link surrounding the school's edge. He had been walking the perimeter of the school because it was PE time and Harold was NOT fond of physical energy, exercise, education or any other e that expended effort. That his mother was often found at the sewing machine adding elastic to his pants was a testament to this. The dollar bill was no longer expending energy either. It was twisted and torn and stuck between the chain link and the plywood school administrators had tacked onto the fence to keep predators from looking in. When Harold thought of predators he imagined giant black panthers slowly stalking through the bushes golden eyes flashing on the children of Allentown Elementary like spotlights emerging from giant black depths. These were not the kind of predators school administrators envisioned- not that there were really any predators of the other variety around either as Allentown was rather a safe haven, but one never knew and George Bussey the Principal was fond of late night law dramas.
Harold paused in his shuffling around the field to get down on his hands and knees to secure his prize and as he did a great tearing was heard. Harold shook his head and crawled deeper into the bushes to hide his torn pants from the others. His mother was going to tan his hide for ruining another pair of pants but this didn't really bother him as he had greater things to worry about such as the masked murderer who had escaped from jail. Clearly the man had robbed the local Allentown branch of the Pine Hills Credit Union to secure funding for his escape down to the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico- Harold had watched a travel channel show on Tulum in Quintana Roo and was convinced that all escaped criminals with bank robbing tendencies ended up down there like that accountant who killed his wife in that movie made from that book by that scary author. After robbing the Allentown branch of the Pine Hills Credit Union, the escaped murderer must have dropped this beat up old dollar while making his way to the edge of town where his getaway car and mob daughter girlfriend were waiting for him. Harold breathed a sigh of relief realizing that the murderer was probably already halfway to Tulum and therefore wouldn't really care if Harold pocketed this one beat up dollar bill.
"Harold? Harold Grayson? Where'd you get off to son?" The PE teacher Coach Brown yelled out for Harold while crashing through the bushes. Ellen Jennings had been a looker back in the day and Coach Brown's junior year sweetheart but then that good for nothing Pete Grayson had come into town and a few months later Ellen was barefoot, pregnant and sporting a new last name. Coach Brown shook his head wondering how such a pretty and smart girl like her had ended up with such a bone head good for nothing son just as he stumbled across the aforementioned boy.
"Oh. Harold there you are. Whatcha got there a buck? Well, put it in your pocket son...wait a minute. Harold have you split your pants again? Boy you are going to get a whipping from your mamma! Well...come on, here you can tie my jacket around your waist till after school."
Harold Grayson happily marched after Coach Brown a rather large red and white track jacket drooping from his waist the arms practically dragging alongside his scuffed up sneakers. Harold held his prize in his hand and wondered if there were Credit Unions in Tulum and if so hoped that they closed up shop when they saw the notorious escaped convict murderer who liked to rob banks coming into town.
"Harold come on boy get your head out of the clouds and get over here. I've got other classes to teach."
Harold continued on at the same pace as a man with prison tattoos and cash falling out of his pocket stood with his gal on the beaches of Tulum watching the sun set.
Take for example the afternoon two weeks prior in which Harold had been lucky enough to stumble upon a beat up dollar bill twisted and caught up in the chain link surrounding the school's edge. He had been walking the perimeter of the school because it was PE time and Harold was NOT fond of physical energy, exercise, education or any other e that expended effort. That his mother was often found at the sewing machine adding elastic to his pants was a testament to this. The dollar bill was no longer expending energy either. It was twisted and torn and stuck between the chain link and the plywood school administrators had tacked onto the fence to keep predators from looking in. When Harold thought of predators he imagined giant black panthers slowly stalking through the bushes golden eyes flashing on the children of Allentown Elementary like spotlights emerging from giant black depths. These were not the kind of predators school administrators envisioned- not that there were really any predators of the other variety around either as Allentown was rather a safe haven, but one never knew and George Bussey the Principal was fond of late night law dramas.
Harold paused in his shuffling around the field to get down on his hands and knees to secure his prize and as he did a great tearing was heard. Harold shook his head and crawled deeper into the bushes to hide his torn pants from the others. His mother was going to tan his hide for ruining another pair of pants but this didn't really bother him as he had greater things to worry about such as the masked murderer who had escaped from jail. Clearly the man had robbed the local Allentown branch of the Pine Hills Credit Union to secure funding for his escape down to the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico- Harold had watched a travel channel show on Tulum in Quintana Roo and was convinced that all escaped criminals with bank robbing tendencies ended up down there like that accountant who killed his wife in that movie made from that book by that scary author. After robbing the Allentown branch of the Pine Hills Credit Union, the escaped murderer must have dropped this beat up old dollar while making his way to the edge of town where his getaway car and mob daughter girlfriend were waiting for him. Harold breathed a sigh of relief realizing that the murderer was probably already halfway to Tulum and therefore wouldn't really care if Harold pocketed this one beat up dollar bill.
"Harold? Harold Grayson? Where'd you get off to son?" The PE teacher Coach Brown yelled out for Harold while crashing through the bushes. Ellen Jennings had been a looker back in the day and Coach Brown's junior year sweetheart but then that good for nothing Pete Grayson had come into town and a few months later Ellen was barefoot, pregnant and sporting a new last name. Coach Brown shook his head wondering how such a pretty and smart girl like her had ended up with such a bone head good for nothing son just as he stumbled across the aforementioned boy.
"Oh. Harold there you are. Whatcha got there a buck? Well, put it in your pocket son...wait a minute. Harold have you split your pants again? Boy you are going to get a whipping from your mamma! Well...come on, here you can tie my jacket around your waist till after school."
Harold Grayson happily marched after Coach Brown a rather large red and white track jacket drooping from his waist the arms practically dragging alongside his scuffed up sneakers. Harold held his prize in his hand and wondered if there were Credit Unions in Tulum and if so hoped that they closed up shop when they saw the notorious escaped convict murderer who liked to rob banks coming into town.
"Harold come on boy get your head out of the clouds and get over here. I've got other classes to teach."
Harold continued on at the same pace as a man with prison tattoos and cash falling out of his pocket stood with his gal on the beaches of Tulum watching the sun set.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Trunk Show
"There's a body in that trunk I just know it."
My mother's declaration upon my arrival for lunch was not altogether unusual, she has a history of making outlandish declarations. What was unusual, was the certainty behind her declaration, so certain in fact that I now find myself crouching against the back of the couch with her, face pressed to the glass when I'm not using the binoculars she passes over to me every now and again. The trunk in question belongs to an old rusted hoopty that in a former life was probably a gold cadillac- year uncertain. Mom says that it just appeared there overnight about a week ago. At first, she didn't think much of it but after a few days of it not moving she got curious. She says that people used to hang out on the corner near it but lately there haven't been too many people around it and if there are they move quickly past. She also says that sometimes she see cats and dogs sniffing around and the other day a dog howled while staring at the trunk.
I'm not typically given over to gross speculation but there is something about this beat up old monster that has me intrigued and I can't tear my eyes away from their search for any sign of something unusual and there are plenty of things that seem unusual now that my mom's words are bouncing around in my brain. For one, there does seem to be a strange amount of animal activity. It's two in the afternoon and the middle of August in the city. I can't think of anything- animal or human- that would sanely sit in the sun unless there was going to be a big payoff and there are least five dogs resting in various positions around or near the car, panting. The piece de resistance, however, is the giant raven sitting on the trunk that I first thought was a Buzzard until the sane part of my brain reminded the clearly hallucinating part that there isn't a Buzzard to be found anywhere in the city...short of the zoo.
My mother elbows me sharply in the ribs. "See! I told you! There is a BODY in that trunk!" In my mind, the way my mother says BODY is capped and bolded, perhaps even underlined. I nod at my mother's words, thoughts drifting towards a possible course of action when -quick as lightening- I am resolved to go out there and sniff around, literally and figuratively.
"Mom. I'm going out there."
"I'll go with you." My mom is standing by the door, eyes flashing before her words have even finished traveling through my consciousness. I wonder how many days she has been sitting waiting to find someone to trek down there with.
We creep down the stairwell, foregoing the elevator- elevators don't really paint the picture necessary for murder mysteries I tell myself. The stairwell echoes with the soft ringing of keds on metal. I go first. My mother is not frail, but the image of us tumbling down the steps has me placing myself as a buffer for her. The afternoon sunlight is brutal after being in the darkened building and I blink furiously as I push open the lobby doors. I feel my mother tread my heel as she presses close in anticipation. We both pause and stare at the car. The dogs have heard us and two have cocked their ears in our direction but nothing more- they remain vigilant to their watch. I wonder if my mom is taking the deep breaths that I am, searching for a hint of something foul in the air. The heat is already making my head pound and I'm starting to regret my decision when my mom moves to step around me. I want to throw my arm across her chest and keep her behind me but I'm stopped from following through by the sound of sirens approaching and the blast of air conditioning at my back from the opening lobby doors.
Mrs. Rhodenstein is standing in the entrance way, phone in hand. She begins to talk to my mom in hurried whispers as I watch a patrol car speed around the corner and screech to a stop, not anticipating the proximity of the hoopty to the corner. Despite his best intentions, the patrol man still manages to tap the rear bumper of the car with his cruiser sending startled dogs scattering and my eyebrows skyward as the trunk of the hoopty gently pops open and bounces- not quite open not quite closed. I'm holding my breath.
My mother steps closer to me and reaches for my hand while Mrs. Rhodenstein stands speechless- something that no doubt would have sent her husband in cardiac arrest from shock had he not already kicked the bucket five years ago already. The second patrolman climbs out of the government issued Taurus and nods in our general direction. I hope he's not going to ask us to go back inside because I have no intention of leaving now that we are this close. They are young, probably fresh out of the academy and sent on calls placed by too curious for their own good old ladies. Patrol man A- the one who was driving marches up to the car with authority and reaches out to lift the lid. It flies up with a bang startling all of us- including the cops. Including the raccoon.
My mother squeezes my hand tightly and Mrs. Rhodenstein screams while the cop jumps and the raccoon scrambles even further into the back of the trunk. I have never in my life seen a raccoon in the city and apparently the raccoon has never seen two cops and three nosy women. What if the dogs had still been around? I'm suddenly very disappointed that there wasn't a body in that trunk and as the three of us turn to go back into the air conditioned building leaving the cops to deal with the abandoned raccoon infested car, I listen to my mother and Mrs. Rhodenstein giggle like excited schoolgirls and I wonder why I was so set on seeing a body.
My mother's declaration upon my arrival for lunch was not altogether unusual, she has a history of making outlandish declarations. What was unusual, was the certainty behind her declaration, so certain in fact that I now find myself crouching against the back of the couch with her, face pressed to the glass when I'm not using the binoculars she passes over to me every now and again. The trunk in question belongs to an old rusted hoopty that in a former life was probably a gold cadillac- year uncertain. Mom says that it just appeared there overnight about a week ago. At first, she didn't think much of it but after a few days of it not moving she got curious. She says that people used to hang out on the corner near it but lately there haven't been too many people around it and if there are they move quickly past. She also says that sometimes she see cats and dogs sniffing around and the other day a dog howled while staring at the trunk.
I'm not typically given over to gross speculation but there is something about this beat up old monster that has me intrigued and I can't tear my eyes away from their search for any sign of something unusual and there are plenty of things that seem unusual now that my mom's words are bouncing around in my brain. For one, there does seem to be a strange amount of animal activity. It's two in the afternoon and the middle of August in the city. I can't think of anything- animal or human- that would sanely sit in the sun unless there was going to be a big payoff and there are least five dogs resting in various positions around or near the car, panting. The piece de resistance, however, is the giant raven sitting on the trunk that I first thought was a Buzzard until the sane part of my brain reminded the clearly hallucinating part that there isn't a Buzzard to be found anywhere in the city...short of the zoo.
My mother elbows me sharply in the ribs. "See! I told you! There is a BODY in that trunk!" In my mind, the way my mother says BODY is capped and bolded, perhaps even underlined. I nod at my mother's words, thoughts drifting towards a possible course of action when -quick as lightening- I am resolved to go out there and sniff around, literally and figuratively.
"Mom. I'm going out there."
"I'll go with you." My mom is standing by the door, eyes flashing before her words have even finished traveling through my consciousness. I wonder how many days she has been sitting waiting to find someone to trek down there with.
We creep down the stairwell, foregoing the elevator- elevators don't really paint the picture necessary for murder mysteries I tell myself. The stairwell echoes with the soft ringing of keds on metal. I go first. My mother is not frail, but the image of us tumbling down the steps has me placing myself as a buffer for her. The afternoon sunlight is brutal after being in the darkened building and I blink furiously as I push open the lobby doors. I feel my mother tread my heel as she presses close in anticipation. We both pause and stare at the car. The dogs have heard us and two have cocked their ears in our direction but nothing more- they remain vigilant to their watch. I wonder if my mom is taking the deep breaths that I am, searching for a hint of something foul in the air. The heat is already making my head pound and I'm starting to regret my decision when my mom moves to step around me. I want to throw my arm across her chest and keep her behind me but I'm stopped from following through by the sound of sirens approaching and the blast of air conditioning at my back from the opening lobby doors.
Mrs. Rhodenstein is standing in the entrance way, phone in hand. She begins to talk to my mom in hurried whispers as I watch a patrol car speed around the corner and screech to a stop, not anticipating the proximity of the hoopty to the corner. Despite his best intentions, the patrol man still manages to tap the rear bumper of the car with his cruiser sending startled dogs scattering and my eyebrows skyward as the trunk of the hoopty gently pops open and bounces- not quite open not quite closed. I'm holding my breath.
My mother steps closer to me and reaches for my hand while Mrs. Rhodenstein stands speechless- something that no doubt would have sent her husband in cardiac arrest from shock had he not already kicked the bucket five years ago already. The second patrolman climbs out of the government issued Taurus and nods in our general direction. I hope he's not going to ask us to go back inside because I have no intention of leaving now that we are this close. They are young, probably fresh out of the academy and sent on calls placed by too curious for their own good old ladies. Patrol man A- the one who was driving marches up to the car with authority and reaches out to lift the lid. It flies up with a bang startling all of us- including the cops. Including the raccoon.
My mother squeezes my hand tightly and Mrs. Rhodenstein screams while the cop jumps and the raccoon scrambles even further into the back of the trunk. I have never in my life seen a raccoon in the city and apparently the raccoon has never seen two cops and three nosy women. What if the dogs had still been around? I'm suddenly very disappointed that there wasn't a body in that trunk and as the three of us turn to go back into the air conditioned building leaving the cops to deal with the abandoned raccoon infested car, I listen to my mother and Mrs. Rhodenstein giggle like excited schoolgirls and I wonder why I was so set on seeing a body.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
White Converse
Tom Matheson's big blue truck roared past on dusty Neil Lane, spraying dirt and rocks in it's wake. Jimmy Rogan leaned out the passenger side window and yelled back into the dust cloud "Hey TT wanna polish my chrome for me?" The insipid laughter of 16-year-old boys with their daddy's trucks echoed around her as Jenny 's eyes watered and she coughed, cursing the shithead boys and their stupid nickname TT, she didn't even have tiny tits anyways. Stupid dickwads.
Jenny angrily kicked at a pebble in the road scuffing up her new converse and pissing her off even more. It was not a good day. The afternoon sun fell around her lighting a fiery sunset in her hair. She was beautiful and there would come a day when boys would trip over themselves for her and the taunting of high school youth would reveal itself as nothing more but the unschooled and insecure precursors to suave courtship. Her mother knew this as did most of the middle-aged men in Yelida but Jenny just thought that boys her age were assholes who only thought with their pricks. The only boy that was remotely tolerable was her second cousin Barcley, whose mom ran the Dairy Queen on 3rd and whose daddy had left them a long time ago, even before Jenny's dad.
Barcley was supposed to wait for Jenny on Wednesday afternoons so they could study together in his mom's shop, but she hadn't found him waiting in the usual spot and so she'd started out alone. Stupid prick. She was mumbling to herself that they were all stupid pricks when a murder of crows was startled out of the bush just ahead causing Jenny to throw her hands up around her head, books landing with heavy clumps at her feet. Heart still beating a furious rhythm she reached down to pick up her books nervously glancing around for whatever had spooked the crows. She didn't have to wait long for the culprit to reveal himself- themselves.
Coming out of the bushes just a few feet away were Barcley and Aaron Wells. Jenny crouched down even lower against the ground hidden by nothing more then their inattention. Aaron Wells was a senior pitcher for the baseball team, Jenny couldn't imagine how Barcley and him had even come to know each other much less hang out after school. As she watched Aaron casually bumped into Barcley laughing a little when when the smaller boy stumbled. Barcley punched Aaron on the shoulder in mock anger and then reached down and grabbed Aaron's hand, gently rubbing his thumb against Aaron's. They walked a few steps like this when Jenny finally unfroze, unconsciously uttering a surprised gasp before quickly returning to the task of picking up her books before the boys could turn and see her gaping at them like a wide-mouth fish. She cursed under her breath.
"Jen? You ok?"
Jenny continued rooting around in the dirt trying to school her face as she heard two pairs of sneakers stop followed by rushed whispers that ended with one pair continuing on it's way while the other came closer to her.
"Jen...uh here let me help you."
Between the two of them all of the books were returned to the bag which Barcley placed over his shoulder as he turned to continue walking up the road. Jenny stood rooted to the spot shuffling the toe of her shoe in the dirt. Barcley stopped, but didn't turn around. Jenny could feel him gathering his voice from where she stood.
"Jen, I just...uh what I mean is that...uh..."
Jenny looked up as Barcley trailed off. She stared at his drooped shoulders and thought that he looked defeated. She didn't like defeat on Barcley. He turned around to face her and shrugged wearing a slight, worried half smile while raising his hands palm up towards her. Jenny sighed and looked at the ground again before nodding slightly.
"So...are we going to study now?" Jenny asked finally looking up at Barcley with an arched eyebrow. The smile that burst across his face was like the sunrise and it sent warmth throughout her chest. Barcley nodded and turned to head up the road again waiting for her to catch up this time. They walked in silence for a few steps before Jenny reached over and lightly cuffed Barcley on the back of the head.
"My new shoes are dirty you know, and it's partly your fault!"
Barcley sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward but he was grinning when he said 'Yeah, Jen I know. It's always my fault." They walked on in companionable silence, shoes kicking up small dust clouds that settled in their wake.
Jenny angrily kicked at a pebble in the road scuffing up her new converse and pissing her off even more. It was not a good day. The afternoon sun fell around her lighting a fiery sunset in her hair. She was beautiful and there would come a day when boys would trip over themselves for her and the taunting of high school youth would reveal itself as nothing more but the unschooled and insecure precursors to suave courtship. Her mother knew this as did most of the middle-aged men in Yelida but Jenny just thought that boys her age were assholes who only thought with their pricks. The only boy that was remotely tolerable was her second cousin Barcley, whose mom ran the Dairy Queen on 3rd and whose daddy had left them a long time ago, even before Jenny's dad.
Barcley was supposed to wait for Jenny on Wednesday afternoons so they could study together in his mom's shop, but she hadn't found him waiting in the usual spot and so she'd started out alone. Stupid prick. She was mumbling to herself that they were all stupid pricks when a murder of crows was startled out of the bush just ahead causing Jenny to throw her hands up around her head, books landing with heavy clumps at her feet. Heart still beating a furious rhythm she reached down to pick up her books nervously glancing around for whatever had spooked the crows. She didn't have to wait long for the culprit to reveal himself- themselves.
Coming out of the bushes just a few feet away were Barcley and Aaron Wells. Jenny crouched down even lower against the ground hidden by nothing more then their inattention. Aaron Wells was a senior pitcher for the baseball team, Jenny couldn't imagine how Barcley and him had even come to know each other much less hang out after school. As she watched Aaron casually bumped into Barcley laughing a little when when the smaller boy stumbled. Barcley punched Aaron on the shoulder in mock anger and then reached down and grabbed Aaron's hand, gently rubbing his thumb against Aaron's. They walked a few steps like this when Jenny finally unfroze, unconsciously uttering a surprised gasp before quickly returning to the task of picking up her books before the boys could turn and see her gaping at them like a wide-mouth fish. She cursed under her breath.
"Jen? You ok?"
Jenny continued rooting around in the dirt trying to school her face as she heard two pairs of sneakers stop followed by rushed whispers that ended with one pair continuing on it's way while the other came closer to her.
"Jen...uh here let me help you."
Between the two of them all of the books were returned to the bag which Barcley placed over his shoulder as he turned to continue walking up the road. Jenny stood rooted to the spot shuffling the toe of her shoe in the dirt. Barcley stopped, but didn't turn around. Jenny could feel him gathering his voice from where she stood.
"Jen, I just...uh what I mean is that...uh..."
Jenny looked up as Barcley trailed off. She stared at his drooped shoulders and thought that he looked defeated. She didn't like defeat on Barcley. He turned around to face her and shrugged wearing a slight, worried half smile while raising his hands palm up towards her. Jenny sighed and looked at the ground again before nodding slightly.
"So...are we going to study now?" Jenny asked finally looking up at Barcley with an arched eyebrow. The smile that burst across his face was like the sunrise and it sent warmth throughout her chest. Barcley nodded and turned to head up the road again waiting for her to catch up this time. They walked in silence for a few steps before Jenny reached over and lightly cuffed Barcley on the back of the head.
"My new shoes are dirty you know, and it's partly your fault!"
Barcley sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward but he was grinning when he said 'Yeah, Jen I know. It's always my fault." They walked on in companionable silence, shoes kicking up small dust clouds that settled in their wake.
Friday, April 4, 2008
The writer
The teddy bear was laying sideways on the shelf. It was easy to see why he'd been picked over and left behind with one eye dangling by a thread and his oddly tufted fur. Elaine went straight to him tugged by the same urge that had been the salvation of many an unwanted beast throughout the years. She would name him Bobby and with the naming, she cuddled him tucked under one arm close to her breast and marched towards the cashier daring anyone to judge a single woman in middle age hugging a teddy bear. Those who sought to say anything- even with a glance- were quelled by her fierce stare. She had always been a warrior.
A bumpy ride up five miles of dirt road and a needle and thread later, found Bobby sitting comfortably between two pillows on a well broken in sofa- both eyes properly in place. Elaine, rescuer of teddy bears, puttered around the kitchen her mother's teapot in hand. She stopped to take in the view from the kitchen window while the pot filled. Roughly 25 acres all to herself and if she turned north, south, east or west she could find peace in all of that space. Besides being a white knight to teddy bears, she had recently welcomed one rather large and prissy pig named Petunia. There was once another unwanted character named Joe. Elaine had wanted Joe but all her space was still not enough and he'd left. He'd been a warrior too.
The water started to run over the side of the kettle and Elaine hummed a little tune as she fixed the tea, occasionally glancing over at Bobby and smiling in contentment. She'd write a good story for Bobby. Since Joe had left, she found herself writing sad tales of love and loss that nauseated her and she didn't want to write whiningly anymore. Nope, it was time for some hope- perhaps a tale starring Bobby and Petunia.
A pig who slept with a teddy bear? Naw, nobody'd believe it.
A bumpy ride up five miles of dirt road and a needle and thread later, found Bobby sitting comfortably between two pillows on a well broken in sofa- both eyes properly in place. Elaine, rescuer of teddy bears, puttered around the kitchen her mother's teapot in hand. She stopped to take in the view from the kitchen window while the pot filled. Roughly 25 acres all to herself and if she turned north, south, east or west she could find peace in all of that space. Besides being a white knight to teddy bears, she had recently welcomed one rather large and prissy pig named Petunia. There was once another unwanted character named Joe. Elaine had wanted Joe but all her space was still not enough and he'd left. He'd been a warrior too.
The water started to run over the side of the kettle and Elaine hummed a little tune as she fixed the tea, occasionally glancing over at Bobby and smiling in contentment. She'd write a good story for Bobby. Since Joe had left, she found herself writing sad tales of love and loss that nauseated her and she didn't want to write whiningly anymore. Nope, it was time for some hope- perhaps a tale starring Bobby and Petunia.
A pig who slept with a teddy bear? Naw, nobody'd believe it.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Corfu
My head is pounding and when my eyes close the world spins round making me swallow nervously to quell the rising bile from last night's overindulgence, but the breeze feels good across my fevered skin and the ocean air calms my beating heart. I have come here to these Grecian shores to recover, to gain some peace and clarity and instead I find myself drowning. I am drowning, not in the exquisite turquoise waters but in Ouzo and wine, in Greek eyes and plundering mouths soaked in olive oil and tasting of the Mediterranean. At night there is always a sun kissed body to warm myself with and I am indiscriminate- man, woman, Greek, Italian, Turk, tourist...the only thing that matters is that they don't remind me of him with his ice blue eyes and pale pale skin. I came here to heal but I have lost myself to a numbing cloud of hedonism from which I may never return. Sometimes, I'm not sure that I want to.
This morning, however, I awoke early with the rosy fingers of the dawn and despite the hammering in my head, a moment of clarity has brought me from next to yet another nameless lover to heaven, here on the bluffs above Limanaki Beach. It is early yet, which may account for the lack of others, but I have come to one of the more remote spots on the Island and I relish the tranquility. The coastline is spectacular here at this cliffside bar. They are not yet open for business but the boy who is preparing for the day allows me to sit on one of the lounge chairs contemplating the morning beauty. He is respectful of my quietude and conducts himself much as I imagine the monks of the monastery high above our heads. His one concession to breaking the stillness is to place a cup of thick coffee next to me as well as a bottle of sparkling water. I am grateful.
Movement along the side of the bluffs catch my attention and if I squint my eyes just so I can see the two figures making their way down the long seemingly unending cliffside steps towards the beach and the rocks below. He is blond and pale and she a brunette with just the hint of a tan. I start. From here they could be he and I just last year making our way down the same path, tracing the footsteps of the Venetians that had ruled here so long ago. It was our work, our studies that had brought us both together on this Island so long ago. We had made it a point over the years to always come back at least once every summer. It was on those very steps that he had paused- to ask for my hand I had thought, to tell me of his infidelity he had planned. I remember thinking that he should have waited until we reached the bottom that he had underestimated my rage and despair at his betrayal. I remember thinking that I should push him as he turned his back to continue his decent leaving me standing alone above him. I thought it, my fingers even twitched by my sides in a phantom act, but I couldn't bring myself to it. Instead, I returned home and tried to forget about Corfu, to forget about him, but the summer came and with it the urge to return to the Island. It seems I am one Pavlov's dogs.
I tell myself as I sit here overlooking the bluff- this particular bluff- that I have returned to reclaim the land that I have loved. To reclaim something that he has stolen along with my easy smile and my laughter. But I have made a grave error. This place is no longer welcome to me as I am no longer welcome to it and no amount of pleasure - be it drink or flesh- will change that. It is time for me to go home. It is time for me to start again. I leave a large tip for the boy who has so peacefully allowed me the time to come to this realization. I am leaving the Island now. I am ready to move on.
This morning, however, I awoke early with the rosy fingers of the dawn and despite the hammering in my head, a moment of clarity has brought me from next to yet another nameless lover to heaven, here on the bluffs above Limanaki Beach. It is early yet, which may account for the lack of others, but I have come to one of the more remote spots on the Island and I relish the tranquility. The coastline is spectacular here at this cliffside bar. They are not yet open for business but the boy who is preparing for the day allows me to sit on one of the lounge chairs contemplating the morning beauty. He is respectful of my quietude and conducts himself much as I imagine the monks of the monastery high above our heads. His one concession to breaking the stillness is to place a cup of thick coffee next to me as well as a bottle of sparkling water. I am grateful.
Movement along the side of the bluffs catch my attention and if I squint my eyes just so I can see the two figures making their way down the long seemingly unending cliffside steps towards the beach and the rocks below. He is blond and pale and she a brunette with just the hint of a tan. I start. From here they could be he and I just last year making our way down the same path, tracing the footsteps of the Venetians that had ruled here so long ago. It was our work, our studies that had brought us both together on this Island so long ago. We had made it a point over the years to always come back at least once every summer. It was on those very steps that he had paused- to ask for my hand I had thought, to tell me of his infidelity he had planned. I remember thinking that he should have waited until we reached the bottom that he had underestimated my rage and despair at his betrayal. I remember thinking that I should push him as he turned his back to continue his decent leaving me standing alone above him. I thought it, my fingers even twitched by my sides in a phantom act, but I couldn't bring myself to it. Instead, I returned home and tried to forget about Corfu, to forget about him, but the summer came and with it the urge to return to the Island. It seems I am one Pavlov's dogs.
I tell myself as I sit here overlooking the bluff- this particular bluff- that I have returned to reclaim the land that I have loved. To reclaim something that he has stolen along with my easy smile and my laughter. But I have made a grave error. This place is no longer welcome to me as I am no longer welcome to it and no amount of pleasure - be it drink or flesh- will change that. It is time for me to go home. It is time for me to start again. I leave a large tip for the boy who has so peacefully allowed me the time to come to this realization. I am leaving the Island now. I am ready to move on.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
El Jefe
She could see herself in the reflection of his wedding ring. It was golden, scratched up with age but thick and strong- how she imagined his marriage. It wasn't that she stared at his ring or his hands often but today she found herself drifting from his under breath muttering as he typed an email and instead paused to ponder the neat, recently cut nails and the solidness of the ring on his finger.
He was most definitely the marrying kind. Not perfect really, but just right for loving, fighting, teasing, laughing...caring about. He was the kind of man she wanted to find for herself. She would own up to a sense of attraction to him if asked directly, but she didn't want this man, to steal him from his wife. Instead, she wanted one like him but suited for her. One with the same gleeful look in the back of his eyes hinting at a misspent youth. A sense of adventure that would have him talking her into a spur of the moment weekend rendevous hiking in the dead of winter even though neither he nor she particularly liked the snow. She wanted a man like him that knocks back a few drinks with her and gets roaringly drunk and giggly long after they are past those days yet will still be an adoring father to her children.
She wants a man like her boss.
He was most definitely the marrying kind. Not perfect really, but just right for loving, fighting, teasing, laughing...caring about. He was the kind of man she wanted to find for herself. She would own up to a sense of attraction to him if asked directly, but she didn't want this man, to steal him from his wife. Instead, she wanted one like him but suited for her. One with the same gleeful look in the back of his eyes hinting at a misspent youth. A sense of adventure that would have him talking her into a spur of the moment weekend rendevous hiking in the dead of winter even though neither he nor she particularly liked the snow. She wanted a man like him that knocks back a few drinks with her and gets roaringly drunk and giggly long after they are past those days yet will still be an adoring father to her children.
She wants a man like her boss.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Tulum
Tulum. The world is heavy, weighing her tongue down with possibility. It tastes salty like the sea and the salt on the tip of a margarita glass that's been hand blown and ponderous. It tastes of mosquito netting and hammocks on the sand. Tulum.
Richard hadn't been able to pronounce it, shortening the vowel like in the word dumb. It wasn't heavy when Richard said it, there was no promise only a sarcastic sneer. Richard did not lick margarita salt off of a glass, he was a whiskey man like his father and his father's father and his father's father's father before him. Real salt of the earth kind of guy. She hated whiskey.
Jimmy liked salt. Liked to lick her salty flesh after a frantic coupling in the back room when they should have been boxing books up instead. He'd suck on her pulse points until she was terrified yet hopeful he'd leave a mark. He'd been hired on only a few short months ago but he'd come up behind her reading a travel guide to the Yucatan while on her break one day and he'd leaned in close enough to stir the hairs on the back of her neck. "When are we going?" They'd been at it like bunnies in heat since.
Jimmy was light and laughter, adventure and seduction all rolled into one. He was temptation and she was tempted. Richard was staid and patient, kind but stubborn and had no desire for anything more than what he already had. And she...she was unsure. For Richard she had stayed. For Richard she had married young. And for Richard she had put her dreams on hold. For Jimmy she would do just about anything. For Jimmy she finds herself sitting on a plane watching the scenery fly by and as the tarmac falls away she mouths the word Tulum. The heaviness feels good in mouth as she feels Jimmy's hand slip into her own. Tulum. It tastes like freedom.
Richard hadn't been able to pronounce it, shortening the vowel like in the word dumb. It wasn't heavy when Richard said it, there was no promise only a sarcastic sneer. Richard did not lick margarita salt off of a glass, he was a whiskey man like his father and his father's father and his father's father's father before him. Real salt of the earth kind of guy. She hated whiskey.
Jimmy liked salt. Liked to lick her salty flesh after a frantic coupling in the back room when they should have been boxing books up instead. He'd suck on her pulse points until she was terrified yet hopeful he'd leave a mark. He'd been hired on only a few short months ago but he'd come up behind her reading a travel guide to the Yucatan while on her break one day and he'd leaned in close enough to stir the hairs on the back of her neck. "When are we going?" They'd been at it like bunnies in heat since.
Jimmy was light and laughter, adventure and seduction all rolled into one. He was temptation and she was tempted. Richard was staid and patient, kind but stubborn and had no desire for anything more than what he already had. And she...she was unsure. For Richard she had stayed. For Richard she had married young. And for Richard she had put her dreams on hold. For Jimmy she would do just about anything. For Jimmy she finds herself sitting on a plane watching the scenery fly by and as the tarmac falls away she mouths the word Tulum. The heaviness feels good in mouth as she feels Jimmy's hand slip into her own. Tulum. It tastes like freedom.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Treno
Her fingernails are painted a deep red. Blood red, seduction red. She is not the kind of girl who paints her nails blood red, yet here she sits aimlessly running one of her perfectly manicured red nails around the rim of a water glass while looking away from me out the window. I have a nail fetish. She knows this but she never indulged my desires, content to keep clear polish on them if anything at all and to chew them down to the nub when thinking. I take a sip of my wine and ponder the meaning behind this. On one hand, it could be a tactical maneuver. We have tired of the lawyers and moved on to solving things between the two of us. She wants certain things. I don't want to give up certain things. Hence, the red seduction. Or, option number 2- and the option I least appreciate- is that they are for someone else.
"Your nails look nice."
Her head snaps back towards mine as her wandering finger freezes over the glass. Quickly, smoothly she sits up straighter- all business now- and pulls her hands in to clasp them in front of her hiding the blood red from my sight. Not for me then. Now it's my turn to sigh and look out the window. It's one of those days that falls in March, not quite Winter anymore but definitely not yet Spring. The fog has rolled in from the beach and I can barely make out the planes winging in from parts unknown. It was my choice to come here, to this airport hotel bar. I love airports- ever since childhood- but today the sight of people coming and going, living out of their suitcases depresses me. Uncertainty is no longer the great adventure of my youth.
She's made some barely discernible movement that distracts me from my gazing. I glance over to find her intently following the descent of a 747 flying the All'Italia colors. They are being bought out by Air France but I doubt she knows or cares. We met in Italy. Standing by the baggage carousel at Fiumicino, I remember looking around desperately for a sign that said "treno" one of the few words I'd learned in Italian prior to departure. The Study Abroad coordinator had left me with the deceptively simple instructions to board the train from Fiumicino to Termini and to look for the big group of students with the sign that would be meeting there. I clung desperately to the hope of the sign.
The 747 lands, a plume of smoke and a screech of giant brakes heralding it's arrival. I wonder if she wonders if I intentionally chose an airport. If I brought her here to this airport, to finish what we started in that airport. I didn't, but it wouldn't be a bad guess. Her phone rings and I remember the ponytailed girl she was, backpack slung over one shoulder, her left hand resting on a beat up suitcase and cursing in English under her breath. Now she is quietly speaking in Italian. "Treno" is still one of the only words I know in Italian. She became fluent. As I watch her quietly speaking into the receiver, almost hunched in an attempt to make the call as private as possible, I have an idea who those red nails are for.
"Your nails look nice."
Her head snaps back towards mine as her wandering finger freezes over the glass. Quickly, smoothly she sits up straighter- all business now- and pulls her hands in to clasp them in front of her hiding the blood red from my sight. Not for me then. Now it's my turn to sigh and look out the window. It's one of those days that falls in March, not quite Winter anymore but definitely not yet Spring. The fog has rolled in from the beach and I can barely make out the planes winging in from parts unknown. It was my choice to come here, to this airport hotel bar. I love airports- ever since childhood- but today the sight of people coming and going, living out of their suitcases depresses me. Uncertainty is no longer the great adventure of my youth.
She's made some barely discernible movement that distracts me from my gazing. I glance over to find her intently following the descent of a 747 flying the All'Italia colors. They are being bought out by Air France but I doubt she knows or cares. We met in Italy. Standing by the baggage carousel at Fiumicino, I remember looking around desperately for a sign that said "treno" one of the few words I'd learned in Italian prior to departure. The Study Abroad coordinator had left me with the deceptively simple instructions to board the train from Fiumicino to Termini and to look for the big group of students with the sign that would be meeting there. I clung desperately to the hope of the sign.
The 747 lands, a plume of smoke and a screech of giant brakes heralding it's arrival. I wonder if she wonders if I intentionally chose an airport. If I brought her here to this airport, to finish what we started in that airport. I didn't, but it wouldn't be a bad guess. Her phone rings and I remember the ponytailed girl she was, backpack slung over one shoulder, her left hand resting on a beat up suitcase and cursing in English under her breath. Now she is quietly speaking in Italian. "Treno" is still one of the only words I know in Italian. She became fluent. As I watch her quietly speaking into the receiver, almost hunched in an attempt to make the call as private as possible, I have an idea who those red nails are for.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Pink
The tea is called passion. It's bitter. And pink. The directions on the box say that "for each lusty, hot cup of Tazo Passion, use one bag and allow to steep for five minutes." She doesn't know how "lusty" the tea is but she smirks at the bitter part. She wonders when the color pink came to represent passion...love...lust. The way she sees it when a heart bleeds it bleeds dark red. Perhaps that's where the pink comes from- a bleeding heart. Clearly the deep rich blood has been filtered with something lighter, fluffier and safer for public consumption. Something like cotton candy. Love is not cotton candy sweet to her, it is dark crimson that comes gushing out of a jagged cut that a surgeon couldn't stitch up fast enough...though one had tried.
Joshua Collins was everything a woman is supposed to want. He had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard, had his doctorate from Johns Hopkins and was a renown cardiologist by 40. He had a pretty face and a prettier body but that wasn't the sum of his parts he also spent his vacations donating his medical expertise. In short, a modern day saint and to top even that off he'd had the ideal childhood and perfect parents that are the stuff of fairy tales in this modern age. What he'd seen in her she still didn't know. What she did know was that he was perfect and for a brief moment she was perfect with him. The problem with perfect is that when it's taken away from you there is nothing left to aspire to.
She looks down at her tea again and thinks that love is not the only thing that is dark crimson. Perfection is as well, as it pours out of a terrible gash in the neck of your lover while you lay amongst the remnants of your car. It is the color of the sirens and the flashing red lights, of the flares and the firefighters, of the ambulance that speeds along but can't possibly move fast enough and finally the color of the sheets surrounding your love after the doctors and the nurses have gone and it's just you and him in the silence and your brain struggling through the fog to understand.
She pushes away her pink "lusty" tea and struggles to her feet- her ever expanding belly making it more difficult to sit and stand these days. She rests a hand on the swell of her stomach and stares out the window.
Joshua Collins was everything a woman is supposed to want. He had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard, had his doctorate from Johns Hopkins and was a renown cardiologist by 40. He had a pretty face and a prettier body but that wasn't the sum of his parts he also spent his vacations donating his medical expertise. In short, a modern day saint and to top even that off he'd had the ideal childhood and perfect parents that are the stuff of fairy tales in this modern age. What he'd seen in her she still didn't know. What she did know was that he was perfect and for a brief moment she was perfect with him. The problem with perfect is that when it's taken away from you there is nothing left to aspire to.
She looks down at her tea again and thinks that love is not the only thing that is dark crimson. Perfection is as well, as it pours out of a terrible gash in the neck of your lover while you lay amongst the remnants of your car. It is the color of the sirens and the flashing red lights, of the flares and the firefighters, of the ambulance that speeds along but can't possibly move fast enough and finally the color of the sheets surrounding your love after the doctors and the nurses have gone and it's just you and him in the silence and your brain struggling through the fog to understand.
She pushes away her pink "lusty" tea and struggles to her feet- her ever expanding belly making it more difficult to sit and stand these days. She rests a hand on the swell of her stomach and stares out the window.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Of Bra Straps and Bare Shoulders
I've been sitting on the couch for hours reading, staring, thinking. Somewhere in the afternoon- an hour ago or a minute ago, I don't know- the straps on my tank top and my bra have slipped off my shoulders hanging loosely against my arms. This often happens during the day and I can be found at any given time pulling them back in place. But tonight I let them lie. They feel mildly sexy laying there with my hair brushing against my bare shoulders. The layers have finally grown long enough to brush my chin at their shortest and my shoulders at their longest. You would be pleased. I know you hated it when I cut my hair.
You are the reason I don't fix my straps. Sitting here like this with my dangling straps and hair in my face reminds me of that day we spent at the beach. I wore that sundress you loved so with the little yellow sunflowers. I could never get over how much you loved that dress. I don't think it was the print so much that appealed to you as it was the novelty that I was wearing a dress. Me, whose standard uniform is jeans, was wearing a yellow sunflower sundress for you. I loved you then.
We were at the beach and I was laughing at you laughing at me fighting with my hair in the wind. It was long then and the seabreeze wrapped it around face and neck like a wild thing. Every time I tried to pull it off my face and trap it behind my ears the wind would catch it again and whip it back into my face. I didn't have my customary hair tie on my wrist because you'd held my sweaty, flush body against yours that morning and begged me to leave my hair down for the day. I could no more say no to you then to stop my tap dancing heart after our rushed loving.
I remember while fighting with my hair that the straps from the dress had fallen off my shoulders. I heaved a frustrated sigh and held my hair back with one hand while reaching with the other to pull the straps back up. I froze though at your whispered "stop". The look in your eyes had me instantly wet and you sheltered me from the wind and sun as you leaned into me licking the salt from my bared shoulder. Nothing mattered after that, not the sun or wind or the people around us on that blustery April day, just you and me laying together in the sand with your head cradled in the salty groove between my neck and my shoulder and the straps of my dress hanging down my arms.
It's been a long while since that day. My hair has only recently grown long enough to dance wildly in a breeze again and the yellow sunflower dress is somewhere in my closet. It could be hanging or it could be on the floor behind a box or a suitcase. I haven't thought of it in ages. I never really was a dresses girl though you know. I was only that for you and you alone and you are long gone, but tonight, with my straps hanging down I could almost be that girl again. I could almost be yours again.
You are the reason I don't fix my straps. Sitting here like this with my dangling straps and hair in my face reminds me of that day we spent at the beach. I wore that sundress you loved so with the little yellow sunflowers. I could never get over how much you loved that dress. I don't think it was the print so much that appealed to you as it was the novelty that I was wearing a dress. Me, whose standard uniform is jeans, was wearing a yellow sunflower sundress for you. I loved you then.
We were at the beach and I was laughing at you laughing at me fighting with my hair in the wind. It was long then and the seabreeze wrapped it around face and neck like a wild thing. Every time I tried to pull it off my face and trap it behind my ears the wind would catch it again and whip it back into my face. I didn't have my customary hair tie on my wrist because you'd held my sweaty, flush body against yours that morning and begged me to leave my hair down for the day. I could no more say no to you then to stop my tap dancing heart after our rushed loving.
I remember while fighting with my hair that the straps from the dress had fallen off my shoulders. I heaved a frustrated sigh and held my hair back with one hand while reaching with the other to pull the straps back up. I froze though at your whispered "stop". The look in your eyes had me instantly wet and you sheltered me from the wind and sun as you leaned into me licking the salt from my bared shoulder. Nothing mattered after that, not the sun or wind or the people around us on that blustery April day, just you and me laying together in the sand with your head cradled in the salty groove between my neck and my shoulder and the straps of my dress hanging down my arms.
It's been a long while since that day. My hair has only recently grown long enough to dance wildly in a breeze again and the yellow sunflower dress is somewhere in my closet. It could be hanging or it could be on the floor behind a box or a suitcase. I haven't thought of it in ages. I never really was a dresses girl though you know. I was only that for you and you alone and you are long gone, but tonight, with my straps hanging down I could almost be that girl again. I could almost be yours again.
Random dribble on a Sunday night
She had good feet she decided. It wasn't that she often pondered her feet it was just that tonight while watching tv from her well worn groove in the couch with her feet up on the coffee table, the light had seemed to catch her feet just right for noticing. They were young. Younger than her hands. Her Abuelo used to tell her that she could be a hand model. It's true that she had long fingers with nails that could be kept short or grown long at her whim, but lines and wrinkles were starting to appear under her mother's and grandmother's rings. There were freckles and scars now and fingers that swelled when it was too hot and shrunk when it was too cold. The callouses had never left though. She had thought with age and years removed from shoveling horse crap they would disappear, but they remained, eternal reminders of a childhood spent around big animals and wheel barrows.
Her feet were cold and she rubbed them together in the light cast from the tv. She wiggled and squeezed her toes together this way and that admiring the tendons and popping joints in her toes. They were good feet with long toes that she used to pick things up when she was too lazy or too stiff to bend over and grab. She liked her useful monkey toes. She remembered when she had to do her chores on weekends and would walk around picking up the living room using just her toes. She much preferred using her feet to her hands, which perhaps made the seeming youth of her feet that much more surprising.
All these years and they were still smooth and pale not showing the lines that should be there from the summer she lived and studied in Hawaii when she lived in flip flops and burned the tops of her feet so badly that she thought the lines from her shoes had been tattooed in UV. The colors had eventually faded but she was left with a perfectly round, tiny brown freckle right between her second and third toes on her left foot. Aaron had liked to kiss that spot. One day while he had been tickling her there with his tongue she had scoffed at him for kissing her future cancer spot. He had smacked her lightly and resumed his attentions saying that it was his spot - that he was claiming it - and that it was perfectly adorable and not malignant in the least. He had named it Dorothy. She smiled and spread out her toes making Dorothy dance. She missed Aaron. She had never had another man claim a spot on her body. The fleeting thought that perhaps he might come to collect Dorothy someday crossed her mind. What a crazy thing to think, she thought.
With a final glance at her feet she went back to watching tv. Yes, they were good feet.
Her feet were cold and she rubbed them together in the light cast from the tv. She wiggled and squeezed her toes together this way and that admiring the tendons and popping joints in her toes. They were good feet with long toes that she used to pick things up when she was too lazy or too stiff to bend over and grab. She liked her useful monkey toes. She remembered when she had to do her chores on weekends and would walk around picking up the living room using just her toes. She much preferred using her feet to her hands, which perhaps made the seeming youth of her feet that much more surprising.
All these years and they were still smooth and pale not showing the lines that should be there from the summer she lived and studied in Hawaii when she lived in flip flops and burned the tops of her feet so badly that she thought the lines from her shoes had been tattooed in UV. The colors had eventually faded but she was left with a perfectly round, tiny brown freckle right between her second and third toes on her left foot. Aaron had liked to kiss that spot. One day while he had been tickling her there with his tongue she had scoffed at him for kissing her future cancer spot. He had smacked her lightly and resumed his attentions saying that it was his spot - that he was claiming it - and that it was perfectly adorable and not malignant in the least. He had named it Dorothy. She smiled and spread out her toes making Dorothy dance. She missed Aaron. She had never had another man claim a spot on her body. The fleeting thought that perhaps he might come to collect Dorothy someday crossed her mind. What a crazy thing to think, she thought.
With a final glance at her feet she went back to watching tv. Yes, they were good feet.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Publishers Clearing House
The TV set was on and Charli Gibbons was wearing her favorite jersey with her lucky hat. Her husband, Ben, was out back lighting the grill and their 6-year-old daughter Daisy was running around with mini pom-poms and a greasy handful of potato chips. It was the Super Bowl and Charli's mamma was in the bathroom putting on her face.
Charli's mamma didn't wear make-up. In fact, when she'd moved in with them a few months back there had only been a handful of suitcases carrying precious keepsakes and some clothes. Charli hadn't seen so much as a lip gloss while sitting on the bed watching her mom unpack. She remembered feeling like a little girl again-sitting, watching her mother go about her business.
"Mamma...what are you doing? It's only a football game for god's sake!"
"I'm putting on my face in case the cameras come", Charli's mamma hollered back from the bathroom.
Charli thought to herself that perhaps her mother had finally succumbed to some sort of mental problem. "Cameras! What are you talking about Mamma?"
"You know. The Publisher's Clearing House people. I've got a feeling about this one today!"
Charli rolled her eyes heavenward. Her mamma had been entering the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes for as long as she could remember. She'd spent many hours watching her meticulously place all those stamps on the entry form. She'd argue about what a rip-off it was and she was spending all this money on magazines for nothing. Charli's mamma would continue licking and sticking stamps while telling Charli that it didn't matter if she won or not and that she enjoyed all those magazines that she was wasting money on thank you very much and didn't Charli herself read those very same magazines when she came over to visit!
At half-time Charli found herself draining her second beer and frowning over her team's crappy showing. She found herself in a right depression but couldn't bare to turn it off- there might be hope yet. Daisy was playing with her ponies on the coffee table and her mother and Ben were discussing the half-time show. Charli laid back on the couch and closed her eyes trying to drone out the chatter for a moment. The doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" yelled Daisy as she made a beeline for the door. Charli was off the couch in a flash. She didn't like the idea of Daisy talking to strangers and she didn't know who was at the door.
"No, baby let me get it." But it was too late the door was opening and Charli was suddenly blinded by flashbulbs from seemingly every direction. She stood dumbfounded while Daisy hid behind her peeking out from around her legs. It wasn't until she saw the giant check with Publisher's Clearing House written across it in bold letters that she snapped out of her shock and started screaming.
"Mamma! Mamma! Get out here now! Oh my gawd Mamma! Get out here right now!
Charli felt her mother and Ben crowd into the doorway behind her. The man holding the check held out his hand. "Excuse me are you Mrs. Charli Gibbons?" Charli looked at his extended hand in confusion. "Um...yes, I am but why are you asking for me?"
The man grinned at Charli. "Well, mam, because you've won the Publisher's Clearing House $10 million dollar sweepstakes!"
Daisy pulled at the bottom of Charli's shirt. Charli shook her head. "No, you must be looking for my mamma." Daisy pulled again. Charli brushed her away. "Not now baby." "No, sir, really you mean Darla Jennings- my mother." Daisy pulled at her again.
It was the man's turn to shake his head. "No, mam says right here Charli Gibbons." He made to shake her hand again as a few more flashbulbs went off.
Daisy pulled at her again. Charli looked down at her daughter, shell shocked. "Daisy, what is it?"
"I put the stamps on mamma. There were two- one for you and one for Gramma and she said I could do one like her." Daisy looked up at smiling. Charli stared back down at her not really seeing anything until she heard the thump behind her and jumped a little.
Charli's mamma had fainted.
Charli's mamma didn't wear make-up. In fact, when she'd moved in with them a few months back there had only been a handful of suitcases carrying precious keepsakes and some clothes. Charli hadn't seen so much as a lip gloss while sitting on the bed watching her mom unpack. She remembered feeling like a little girl again-sitting, watching her mother go about her business.
"Mamma...what are you doing? It's only a football game for god's sake!"
"I'm putting on my face in case the cameras come", Charli's mamma hollered back from the bathroom.
Charli thought to herself that perhaps her mother had finally succumbed to some sort of mental problem. "Cameras! What are you talking about Mamma?"
"You know. The Publisher's Clearing House people. I've got a feeling about this one today!"
Charli rolled her eyes heavenward. Her mamma had been entering the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes for as long as she could remember. She'd spent many hours watching her meticulously place all those stamps on the entry form. She'd argue about what a rip-off it was and she was spending all this money on magazines for nothing. Charli's mamma would continue licking and sticking stamps while telling Charli that it didn't matter if she won or not and that she enjoyed all those magazines that she was wasting money on thank you very much and didn't Charli herself read those very same magazines when she came over to visit!
At half-time Charli found herself draining her second beer and frowning over her team's crappy showing. She found herself in a right depression but couldn't bare to turn it off- there might be hope yet. Daisy was playing with her ponies on the coffee table and her mother and Ben were discussing the half-time show. Charli laid back on the couch and closed her eyes trying to drone out the chatter for a moment. The doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" yelled Daisy as she made a beeline for the door. Charli was off the couch in a flash. She didn't like the idea of Daisy talking to strangers and she didn't know who was at the door.
"No, baby let me get it." But it was too late the door was opening and Charli was suddenly blinded by flashbulbs from seemingly every direction. She stood dumbfounded while Daisy hid behind her peeking out from around her legs. It wasn't until she saw the giant check with Publisher's Clearing House written across it in bold letters that she snapped out of her shock and started screaming.
"Mamma! Mamma! Get out here now! Oh my gawd Mamma! Get out here right now!
Charli felt her mother and Ben crowd into the doorway behind her. The man holding the check held out his hand. "Excuse me are you Mrs. Charli Gibbons?" Charli looked at his extended hand in confusion. "Um...yes, I am but why are you asking for me?"
The man grinned at Charli. "Well, mam, because you've won the Publisher's Clearing House $10 million dollar sweepstakes!"
Daisy pulled at the bottom of Charli's shirt. Charli shook her head. "No, you must be looking for my mamma." Daisy pulled again. Charli brushed her away. "Not now baby." "No, sir, really you mean Darla Jennings- my mother." Daisy pulled at her again.
It was the man's turn to shake his head. "No, mam says right here Charli Gibbons." He made to shake her hand again as a few more flashbulbs went off.
Daisy pulled at her again. Charli looked down at her daughter, shell shocked. "Daisy, what is it?"
"I put the stamps on mamma. There were two- one for you and one for Gramma and she said I could do one like her." Daisy looked up at smiling. Charli stared back down at her not really seeing anything until she heard the thump behind her and jumped a little.
Charli's mamma had fainted.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Calendar
Cheryl was a meticulous note taker. There was a proper place for everything in her life and she liked nothing more than to glance at her calendar and see her precise penmanship filling up the little white boxes. As a child she had practiced her letters endlessly, fascinated by the curves and straight lines, crossed T's and dotted I's. She had also enjoyed lining up her stuffed animals. The smallest would sit in the front with each row back standing taller and taller like her classmates in the group photos they took at school. She always sat in the front row. Not because she was short for her age, but because she had skipped two grades.
The calendars had become vital to organizing her life in college. As a freshman she'd taken a job in the English department as an assistant to the departmental secretary. She had a cubicle with perfectly stacked file folders, neatly aligned pens and a desktop calendar. At first, the large white spaces had mocked her, the potential uses for that space racing through her mind. Eventually the spaces became filled with due dates for work and class, appointments, dates, birthdays even for noting the time of month she was on her period. For this she used the red pen and made the tiniest of dots in the bottom right corner of the daily box. It was likely that people knew what the dots meant if they thought about it long enough- particularly other women, but Cheryl didn't mind. She liked keeping track of everything.
It was a Thursday. On Thursday, May 15th to be exact, Cheryl sat staring at her calendar, forehead crinkled in thought and worry. She hadn't used her red pen in the month of May. She should have used the pen already. She flipped the calendar back to April. Saturday, April 26th dinner at D'alessio with Tom 8:30pm. Wednesday, April 16th Italian Film Festival at McGovern Hall with Tom 6:00pm. Friday, April 4th Lunch with Sarah, Brady and Tom 12:30 at Jerry's. No little red dots anywhere in April. Cheryl flipped the page back to March tearing it accidentally in her haste.
There! In the right hand corner of Tuesday, March 4th she spotted her little red dot. It continued through the 8th and ended. Her eye dropped to Friday, March 21st Dinner and drinks with Tom from English 120B at O'Malley's Pub. Cheryl's face turned as white as the calendar as she lifted one hand to cover her mouth and lowered the other to gently sit over her stomach.
"Oh fuck."
The calendars had become vital to organizing her life in college. As a freshman she'd taken a job in the English department as an assistant to the departmental secretary. She had a cubicle with perfectly stacked file folders, neatly aligned pens and a desktop calendar. At first, the large white spaces had mocked her, the potential uses for that space racing through her mind. Eventually the spaces became filled with due dates for work and class, appointments, dates, birthdays even for noting the time of month she was on her period. For this she used the red pen and made the tiniest of dots in the bottom right corner of the daily box. It was likely that people knew what the dots meant if they thought about it long enough- particularly other women, but Cheryl didn't mind. She liked keeping track of everything.
It was a Thursday. On Thursday, May 15th to be exact, Cheryl sat staring at her calendar, forehead crinkled in thought and worry. She hadn't used her red pen in the month of May. She should have used the pen already. She flipped the calendar back to April. Saturday, April 26th dinner at D'alessio with Tom 8:30pm. Wednesday, April 16th Italian Film Festival at McGovern Hall with Tom 6:00pm. Friday, April 4th Lunch with Sarah, Brady and Tom 12:30 at Jerry's. No little red dots anywhere in April. Cheryl flipped the page back to March tearing it accidentally in her haste.
There! In the right hand corner of Tuesday, March 4th she spotted her little red dot. It continued through the 8th and ended. Her eye dropped to Friday, March 21st Dinner and drinks with Tom from English 120B at O'Malley's Pub. Cheryl's face turned as white as the calendar as she lifted one hand to cover her mouth and lowered the other to gently sit over her stomach.
"Oh fuck."
Monday, March 3, 2008
Pay By the Hour
It was an email that started it. They'd been together for about three years now. The honeymoon stage had long passed and they had settled into the complacency of the long married. The sex had become perfunctory- a weekly appointment to be kept. Every Friday at precisely 10:30pm Harold would tilt his head back swallowing the last of his luke warm beer. He'd place the bottle carefully on the coffee table with one hand while clicking off the tv set in the other. Suzy would already be standing by the time the tv was off and headed down the hall towards the bedroom. The lights were always turned off, Suzy was always on top and Harold would stare up at her with his half lidded gaze until he'd come. Sometimes she came too but whether she did or didn't they always both went to sleep immediately after. There was a comfort in this routine, which is why Suzy was so surprised to find herself bent over a rickety desk in a sleaze bag motel at the edge of town. With every snap of Harold's hips, the creaky desk seemed to wheeze under her.
She'd received the first email at 9:30am. Suzy did the books for the local optometrist. She had worked there since everything had to be written down which really wasn't that long ago but it seemed like forever to Suzy. She still did her job efficiently and quickly but now she could at least browse the internet when the day dragged on. The email was from Harold and it said "Do you remember the last time we fucked in the back of my truck?" Suzy's pulse had quickened just a bit and she remembered glancing around to make sure no one could see what she was reading. It was pointless really seeing as no one was in the office but Dr. McAdam and Seth, Monica Potter's son who'd been wearing glasses since he was three and looked like an owl when he stared at you sometimes. They were in the examining room.
The second email from Harold came before she could even respond. "Do you remember the last time we fucked outside in the fields behind Grady Samuels farm? It was about noon and the sun was so hot on my back. Afterwards your nose was burnt red like a lobster and I laughed at you until you smacked me on the back and I jumped from the sting of my own sunburn. Later on we fucked again but it was cool from the aloe you'd just put on me."
Suzy had felt like her heart was about to jump out of her chest and she was sure her face was flush after she read the second email. She wasn't sure what was happening but once again- before she could answer him- there was another email from Harold in her box. "Do you remember the Rode Side Inn of off the 90? Meet me there on your lunch break." And she did.
The desk under her wobbled and creaked and she felt the smooth surface under her cheek. She couldn't help imagining how old it was to have such a smooth feel to it without any varnish. She found herself picturing an elderly gentleman and his wife who had presented the desk to him on his 65th birthday so that he could finally sit down and write the book he'd always wanted to. She pictured him writing away on it until one day when he just up and died. Then the desk was passed on and on until it ended up for sale and then spending the rest of it's days here in this pay-by-the-hour hotel on the side of a forgotten highway. Suzy moaned as Harold panted in her ear pushing her down onto the desk harder and harder. She closed her eyes and let go as he emptied into her with two final frantic thrusts. Suzy lay there trapped between Harold and the desk trying to still her rapidly drumming heart listening to Harold doing the same.
"Harold?"
He grunted something vaguely resembling "yeah".
"I want a divorce."
She'd received the first email at 9:30am. Suzy did the books for the local optometrist. She had worked there since everything had to be written down which really wasn't that long ago but it seemed like forever to Suzy. She still did her job efficiently and quickly but now she could at least browse the internet when the day dragged on. The email was from Harold and it said "Do you remember the last time we fucked in the back of my truck?" Suzy's pulse had quickened just a bit and she remembered glancing around to make sure no one could see what she was reading. It was pointless really seeing as no one was in the office but Dr. McAdam and Seth, Monica Potter's son who'd been wearing glasses since he was three and looked like an owl when he stared at you sometimes. They were in the examining room.
The second email from Harold came before she could even respond. "Do you remember the last time we fucked outside in the fields behind Grady Samuels farm? It was about noon and the sun was so hot on my back. Afterwards your nose was burnt red like a lobster and I laughed at you until you smacked me on the back and I jumped from the sting of my own sunburn. Later on we fucked again but it was cool from the aloe you'd just put on me."
Suzy had felt like her heart was about to jump out of her chest and she was sure her face was flush after she read the second email. She wasn't sure what was happening but once again- before she could answer him- there was another email from Harold in her box. "Do you remember the Rode Side Inn of off the 90? Meet me there on your lunch break." And she did.
The desk under her wobbled and creaked and she felt the smooth surface under her cheek. She couldn't help imagining how old it was to have such a smooth feel to it without any varnish. She found herself picturing an elderly gentleman and his wife who had presented the desk to him on his 65th birthday so that he could finally sit down and write the book he'd always wanted to. She pictured him writing away on it until one day when he just up and died. Then the desk was passed on and on until it ended up for sale and then spending the rest of it's days here in this pay-by-the-hour hotel on the side of a forgotten highway. Suzy moaned as Harold panted in her ear pushing her down onto the desk harder and harder. She closed her eyes and let go as he emptied into her with two final frantic thrusts. Suzy lay there trapped between Harold and the desk trying to still her rapidly drumming heart listening to Harold doing the same.
"Harold?"
He grunted something vaguely resembling "yeah".
"I want a divorce."
Friday, February 29, 2008
Call Me
The room was quiet, still. She sat unmoving on his bed watching the dust particles moving slowly through the few shafts of light entering the broken slats of the blinds. She'd nagged him about those blinds time and time again. He just smiled at her irritation and explained that it didn't bother him, that there were other more important things he wanted to spend his money on. After a while she'd dropped it recognizing a lost cause. The broken slats were oddly comforting to her now.
He was a collector. Not books or records, old wines or flashy cars. He collected kids meal toys. McDonalds and Burger King were his preferred stomping grounds but he wasn't a snob, there were representatives from Wendy's and Jack and sometimes even the occasional cereal box toy. The fact that these collections were actually worth a pretty penny never failed to amaze her. His pastime of choice was wheeling and dealing on ebay and she had often sat next to him slack jawed at this new and alien world.
Barney, Homer's perpetually drunk friend, was their favorite. He didn't have much value associated to him yet and the collection was incomplete but Barney was not for sale. Her blood sugar dropping rapidly one day, she found herself eating a Whopper Jr. with cheese at a Burger King just down the road from her apartment. The guy next to her had a kids meal and was gleefully unwrapping the toy. She tried not to stare. He caught her anyway. The toy was a talking Barney and before she could blush at being caught staring, the guy grinned, winked and held Barney up.
"Call me." followed by a loud belch.
Inevitably, she had called him.
She smiled for the first time in a week sitting on his bed watching the dust settle. She'd come to sit amongst his collections hoping to wrap enough of him around her to get through saying goodbye. She'd come for Barney. The toy's slurring voice echoed in the stillness. "Call me." She wished she could.
He was a collector. Not books or records, old wines or flashy cars. He collected kids meal toys. McDonalds and Burger King were his preferred stomping grounds but he wasn't a snob, there were representatives from Wendy's and Jack and sometimes even the occasional cereal box toy. The fact that these collections were actually worth a pretty penny never failed to amaze her. His pastime of choice was wheeling and dealing on ebay and she had often sat next to him slack jawed at this new and alien world.
Barney, Homer's perpetually drunk friend, was their favorite. He didn't have much value associated to him yet and the collection was incomplete but Barney was not for sale. Her blood sugar dropping rapidly one day, she found herself eating a Whopper Jr. with cheese at a Burger King just down the road from her apartment. The guy next to her had a kids meal and was gleefully unwrapping the toy. She tried not to stare. He caught her anyway. The toy was a talking Barney and before she could blush at being caught staring, the guy grinned, winked and held Barney up.
"Call me." followed by a loud belch.
Inevitably, she had called him.
She smiled for the first time in a week sitting on his bed watching the dust settle. She'd come to sit amongst his collections hoping to wrap enough of him around her to get through saying goodbye. She'd come for Barney. The toy's slurring voice echoed in the stillness. "Call me." She wished she could.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
15 Seconds
It's one of those days where you can fry an egg on a rock. In fact, if I think hard enough I can already hear the sizzling. They've recently laid asphalt on this stretch of road and my converse sink slightly into the overheated ground. It's spongy. I feel the sweat sliding down my chest. I would say sliding between my cleavage but I'm not exactly a cleavage kind of girl. I take one step after another staring at the hole in my left shoe. If I look up all I will see is the horizon shimmering out in front of me and I want no reminder of how far from home I still am. I look anyway, I'm approaching an intersection.
Two weeks ago Lynn came to visit. The heat had recently become insufferable and we sat out on the porch drinking PBR I'd snuck from my dad's stash. We waited for a breeze and I watched the fine hairs curl on Lynn's neck while she told me about the dream she'd had. She had been standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, but when the crosswalk sign told her to go she couldn't move. She stood at that corner and watched the crosswalk count down and in slow motion - for every second counted down- she saw flashes of her life go by. Her father swinging her over his head laughing, her mother braiding her long brown hair in the bathroom, winning the third grade spelling bee, her brother leaving for the army. She woke up before the countdown finished.
I think of this as I approach the corner. My head pounds from the heat and I think it might be fun to see if I can make my life pass before my eyes on a street corner. I hear the hum of a diesel engine slow down and come to a rest beside me as the light changes color.
15. Lynn smiling as she finishes her story. 14. The profile of her nose as she stares into the distance. 13. The line of her jaw as she tilts her head to swallow the beer. 12. My fingers reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 11. Her eyes - curious, questioning. 10. Her face so much closer, right in front of me. 9. The freckles that crisscross her nose. 8. The shape of her lips- thin and chapped from the heat. 7. The back of my eyelids as I lean in and kiss her. 6. The stiff set of her jaw. 5. The hesitation and confusion in her eyes. 4. Shaking her head while refusing my gaze. 3. The clench of her hand around the beer. 2. The screen door slamming. 1. Staring at the hole in my converse through hot tears.
I don't wake up from a dream. The diesel rumbles off into the distance. I wait for the light to change.
Two weeks ago Lynn came to visit. The heat had recently become insufferable and we sat out on the porch drinking PBR I'd snuck from my dad's stash. We waited for a breeze and I watched the fine hairs curl on Lynn's neck while she told me about the dream she'd had. She had been standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, but when the crosswalk sign told her to go she couldn't move. She stood at that corner and watched the crosswalk count down and in slow motion - for every second counted down- she saw flashes of her life go by. Her father swinging her over his head laughing, her mother braiding her long brown hair in the bathroom, winning the third grade spelling bee, her brother leaving for the army. She woke up before the countdown finished.
I think of this as I approach the corner. My head pounds from the heat and I think it might be fun to see if I can make my life pass before my eyes on a street corner. I hear the hum of a diesel engine slow down and come to a rest beside me as the light changes color.
15. Lynn smiling as she finishes her story. 14. The profile of her nose as she stares into the distance. 13. The line of her jaw as she tilts her head to swallow the beer. 12. My fingers reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 11. Her eyes - curious, questioning. 10. Her face so much closer, right in front of me. 9. The freckles that crisscross her nose. 8. The shape of her lips- thin and chapped from the heat. 7. The back of my eyelids as I lean in and kiss her. 6. The stiff set of her jaw. 5. The hesitation and confusion in her eyes. 4. Shaking her head while refusing my gaze. 3. The clench of her hand around the beer. 2. The screen door slamming. 1. Staring at the hole in my converse through hot tears.
I don't wake up from a dream. The diesel rumbles off into the distance. I wait for the light to change.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
For Niko
"You know, in some cultures touching a person's foot is a sign of respect and devotion."
I look over the top of my magazine to see Justin cutting his toenails on the coffee table. Every morning I put my coffee and bagel in that exact spot. A shudder runs down the small of my back. "Is that so?" I mutter back. Justin nods at me and the snic of the clippers sends Freddy Mercury flying into my head singing another one bites the dust. I smirk.
"Yes. In certain Indian beliefs- the tantric in particular, I think- the human and the divine intersect in the foot. By touching someones foot you are paying respect to the divine in that person. By letting you touch their foot, that person is giving you the honor of communing with their divine."
I let his words hang in the air for a long moment before sending an acknowledging grunt in his general direction and disappearing behind my magazine. Britney Spears is walking barefoot into a public restroom. Spectacular, the universe and Justin are conspiring against me.
"You know, I don't know what your problem is with feet." Snic. Another one bites the dust. Smirk. "You have lovely feet when you finally pry off that Manolo armor you wear all the time."
I heave a big sigh and flip the magazine page. Why he insists on discussing feet when he knows I hate it... Another sigh, another flip of the magazine. Snic.
"All right, all right I give up. The white flag is raised. It's just that I wanted to show my respect and devotion to your divine spirit but if you don't consider me worthy enough then it's ok. I get it. I'll just be over here-weeping- in the corner."
I roll my eyes heavenward at the hang dog look he's giving me. "You are so full of shit" I tell him. I can't help grinning though as I say it. This cheeseball boy who drives me up the wall has also curled up in a tiny ball in my heart and I can deny him nothing. "You know what Justin?"
"What?"
"I'd totally take my shoes off for you."
I look over the top of my magazine to see Justin cutting his toenails on the coffee table. Every morning I put my coffee and bagel in that exact spot. A shudder runs down the small of my back. "Is that so?" I mutter back. Justin nods at me and the snic of the clippers sends Freddy Mercury flying into my head singing another one bites the dust. I smirk.
"Yes. In certain Indian beliefs- the tantric in particular, I think- the human and the divine intersect in the foot. By touching someones foot you are paying respect to the divine in that person. By letting you touch their foot, that person is giving you the honor of communing with their divine."
I let his words hang in the air for a long moment before sending an acknowledging grunt in his general direction and disappearing behind my magazine. Britney Spears is walking barefoot into a public restroom. Spectacular, the universe and Justin are conspiring against me.
"You know, I don't know what your problem is with feet." Snic. Another one bites the dust. Smirk. "You have lovely feet when you finally pry off that Manolo armor you wear all the time."
I heave a big sigh and flip the magazine page. Why he insists on discussing feet when he knows I hate it... Another sigh, another flip of the magazine. Snic.
"All right, all right I give up. The white flag is raised. It's just that I wanted to show my respect and devotion to your divine spirit but if you don't consider me worthy enough then it's ok. I get it. I'll just be over here-weeping- in the corner."
I roll my eyes heavenward at the hang dog look he's giving me. "You are so full of shit" I tell him. I can't help grinning though as I say it. This cheeseball boy who drives me up the wall has also curled up in a tiny ball in my heart and I can deny him nothing. "You know what Justin?"
"What?"
"I'd totally take my shoes off for you."
Spank Bank
"I'm going to have to use that one for my spank bank." The fact that Paul was no longer at her side registered before the words. Gina turned back. The pin-up on the wall probably played peek-a-boo over her shoulder to hundreds of Pauls a day.
"I'm sorry, you are going to have to use that for your what?"
"My spank bank." Gina blinked at him. "You've never heard the term spank bank?" Gina raised an eyebrow waiting. "Ok. A spank bank is like a virtual spot in your mind where you make deposits- of the sexual kind." Another blink, the eyebrow raised higher. "You know. Like when you see something that turns you on, you file it away for later use. When you wanna jack off."
Brad Pitt's fine ass in Troy. The look in Jen's eyes that night at dinner. Sam breathing roughly against her ear, his stubble leaving red reminders for the morning. Any film with Catherine Denueve. That delicious spot on a man where his hip bones lead the eye straight down. A slideshow of images ran across Gina's mind.
"See. You have one too." Paul chuckled as he turned to look at the pin-up one last time.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't do those kinds of things." Gina glared and turned, a petulant sway to her hips.
"That I'm definitely putting in the bank!" Gina smiled to herself. The pin-up was already forgotten.
"I'm sorry, you are going to have to use that for your what?"
"My spank bank." Gina blinked at him. "You've never heard the term spank bank?" Gina raised an eyebrow waiting. "Ok. A spank bank is like a virtual spot in your mind where you make deposits- of the sexual kind." Another blink, the eyebrow raised higher. "You know. Like when you see something that turns you on, you file it away for later use. When you wanna jack off."
Brad Pitt's fine ass in Troy. The look in Jen's eyes that night at dinner. Sam breathing roughly against her ear, his stubble leaving red reminders for the morning. Any film with Catherine Denueve. That delicious spot on a man where his hip bones lead the eye straight down. A slideshow of images ran across Gina's mind.
"See. You have one too." Paul chuckled as he turned to look at the pin-up one last time.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't do those kinds of things." Gina glared and turned, a petulant sway to her hips.
"That I'm definitely putting in the bank!" Gina smiled to herself. The pin-up was already forgotten.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Fear
What if my lot in life is that of a gypsy? What if I never settle?
Then it is.
What do I do when he proposes and the room begins to crash down until I can no longer breath and I'm furiously blinking trying to stem the tidal wave of tears from crashing?
Then you breath and you make a decision.
What if I can't?
You will. And you might agonize over it for years to come but you should never doubt it because in the end only you truly know what is best for you.
How do you know that? How can you be sure?
Because I know you.
Then it is.
What do I do when he proposes and the room begins to crash down until I can no longer breath and I'm furiously blinking trying to stem the tidal wave of tears from crashing?
Then you breath and you make a decision.
What if I can't?
You will. And you might agonize over it for years to come but you should never doubt it because in the end only you truly know what is best for you.
How do you know that? How can you be sure?
Because I know you.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Comfort
The sounds are the first to penetrate the fog of her sleepy mind. It is warm in her cocoon of blankets and she can hear the rain as it pounds outside the window. He is making something in the kitchen and the banging of the pots combines with the rain to lull her in her warm daze. On the tv Michigan is playing Ohio. The whistle from the referee joins in the chorus. The smell of the sauce reaches her and she snuggles happily deeper into the blankets. All of this before she even opens her eyes. She smiles and dozes on.
Coffee
When he finds her she is still, staring intently into the mug clasped between both hands. The thought floats through that she is reading her tea leaves, but he knows that she does not drink tea. Instead, it is probably the dark, overly sweetened brew that she needs to start her day. Coffee drinkers. He huffs mildly in amusement and shakes his head. The grin falters however as he continues to watch her. The knowledge that he really has no idea what she might be thinking disturbs him. He who is supposed to know all her secrets.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Teacher - Part 3 The Story in the River
The water in the river could speak. Every lap from a lapping wave along the edge, every gurgle from a bubbling brook, every splash from a crash against a rock or a tree's root were words. The water called out to her love in the sea. Having been separated, she spent her days rushing through mountain streams, down waterfalls into churning pools and sent along aqueducts to be captured by dams. Through it all she cried out for her love, lamenting the hardships she endured and yearning to meet once again to mingle salt with fresh...to be whole once again.
Teacher - Part 2
"But how can they come from everywhere? That's not an answer...there must be a special place where they are from."
The boy wanted to stamp his foot in frustration as when he was a small child but knew he should not. He did not understand why adults always seemed to talk in circles. How could something come from everywhere?
The man, pipe in mouth, turned his gaze towards the rivers edge. He watched the fallen leaves float by and listened to the gurgle of the water brushing along the pebbles.
"In this moment the story comes from the river...from the water."
The boy wanted to stamp his foot in frustration as when he was a small child but knew he should not. He did not understand why adults always seemed to talk in circles. How could something come from everywhere?
The man, pipe in mouth, turned his gaze towards the rivers edge. He watched the fallen leaves float by and listened to the gurgle of the water brushing along the pebbles.
"In this moment the story comes from the river...from the water."
Teacher- Part 1
"Where do they come from? The stories I mean."
The man sitting under the peach tree smoked his pipe giving no indication of hearing the question. The young boy fidgeted, reaching up to scratch an itch on his nose that had slowly been driving him mad in his attempts to ignore it.
"The stories come from everywhere."
The quietly spoken words startled the boy, itch forgotten. The man continued to smoke his pipe in a thoughtful manner as if the stories would come from his very pipe if he were still enough, thoughtful enough. At least, this is how it appeared to the boy. The man was simply enjoying his smoke.
The man sitting under the peach tree smoked his pipe giving no indication of hearing the question. The young boy fidgeted, reaching up to scratch an itch on his nose that had slowly been driving him mad in his attempts to ignore it.
"The stories come from everywhere."
The quietly spoken words startled the boy, itch forgotten. The man continued to smoke his pipe in a thoughtful manner as if the stories would come from his very pipe if he were still enough, thoughtful enough. At least, this is how it appeared to the boy. The man was simply enjoying his smoke.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The bitch is back
The page stretches white before me. A sea of white that goes on and on mocking me with it's lack of arial font. Writers Block, that bitch, has struck and the images that once ran across my mind's eye in 3-D and technicolor now only whisper from the wings in black, white and shades of gray. The lover's words refuse to come. The children do not play in the back alleys and dirt roads. The magic has disappeared from my fingertips. Where does it come from? And why does it leave me feeling so barren when it is gone...
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Walls
"You have walls," said her mother. "You have walls so high you'll never be able to tear them down."
She protested vehemently, but as she lays in his embrace curled tightly in a fetal position she idly wonders if maybe her mother wasn't right. This man, whose face was intimately pressed between her thighs not minutes before, whose wicked tongue sent her pulse racing and fists clenching...this man was now being forcibly distanced from her.
"Can you move your knees? I want to hold you closer."
She curls closer into his chest wanting his warmth but tightens her fetal ball refusing his request.
She protested vehemently, but as she lays in his embrace curled tightly in a fetal position she idly wonders if maybe her mother wasn't right. This man, whose face was intimately pressed between her thighs not minutes before, whose wicked tongue sent her pulse racing and fists clenching...this man was now being forcibly distanced from her.
"Can you move your knees? I want to hold you closer."
She curls closer into his chest wanting his warmth but tightens her fetal ball refusing his request.
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