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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.