fortyfour

The old fence started at the house and went on for miles, and my hand met every inch of it that day. Its white paint was splintered with the wood. I think I picked a splinter out with every third step.

The house, I had found it that way. The dress, the one-legged teddy bear, the flintlock that hadn't been fired since before the Civil War. I was twelve.

And all the stories I'd told before and all the ones I've told since aren't enough to explain why I had to leave that morning.

#118

I had a broken heart once. Piece by piece I worked to place it back together. A potent and flammable mix of crazy glue and sheer will. I thought, just maybe, it could be the heart it was before tragedy and loneliness.
You tried to tuck some stray hair behind my ear and for a split second it stayed, then wiggled loose, falling forward and poking in all directions. “You should grow it long.” My hair hangs past my shoulder blades now.
If the adage is true that home is where the heart is, I will be at home no matter where I go. My poor little heart. Krazy glue and all, it has shattered all over. Since you left, I’ve tried to meet new people. Some have asked me to dinner. I accepted a few offers, but found a way out before the first kiss. Maybe it’s better this way. Why give away something that’s in pieces?

#117 (in rare form)

During zombie movie night I told you to never hold my hand while running when zombies attack in real life. It’ll slow us down! I said. You smiled and agreed and offered to make more popcorn. The microwave dinged and I heard you rustling in the kitchen.
Bowls are in the top left cupboard! I yelled.
You stumbled down the steps and dropped the whole bowl, scattering popcorn on the floor. You looked down, sort-of shrugged, and chomped my brains instead.

#116

When you come back to life (in your next life, of course), you will come back brilliant. Not in the way that Einstein was a genius inventor, or that Neruda was a captivating poet, but more in the way that those men were inspired. When a star is born with a raging fire and sheds its light over everything, it ends in a flash of bright white and whispered wishes.

#115

It was a bad day in suburbia.
My politician father left my perfectly permed mother hanging for their dinner date. Under my mattress hid my D-ridden report card and I slipped into a new dress. You took me to dinner and I spilled cheese and diet coke in my lap, and my brother saw me and smiled deviously because he knew I was grounded. We went bowling and you put the bumpers up so I could avoid every gutter ball. When the tenth frame came, my score was only 52.
Sometimes losing feels a little better when you haven’t been set up to win.

#114

“You ought to water your chrysanthemums more.” He tells me. “Before they wither up completely.”
“You can call them ‘mums’” I say. “No need to be so formal.” But I get a leftover Thornton’s Big Gulp cup full of tap water, and I slowly pour the water through the dried out potting soil. Sure enough, the next day, the flowers have a little more color, they are perky before I finish my morning coffee. Today, I brew extra and have it ready in his favorite mug.

When he talks about these things, I know he's really talking about us.

#113

Maybe the loch ness monster is real. I never told you, but Nessie is one of my favorite would-be, may-be myths. I’ve never set foot in Scotland, and I have more Haitian blood in me than anything. Freckles have never really been in the cards for me.

But if it’s real, I love this ancient monster, this asexual loner, who is both elusive and captivating, and has managed to evade every crazed medicine man and money hungry hunter. And why can’t it be real? Scientists discover new species of fish, of bugs and birds, and even rediscover once-declared-extinct species all the time! (All the time- a relative and useful phrase.)

If it’s not real, what a beautiful hoax! So innocent! So thorough that even the Scottish government has ordered that this apparition not be harmed! The giddy excitement of grown men, respected and accomplished in their professions, when face-to-face with the suggestion that this goose chase could indeed be fruitful!

I told you this, finally, and you told me about the plesiosaurus bath toy you had as a child and I caught you smiling patronizingly to me all night. But I will hold this thought and keep it, and strive to never lose wonderment at all the possibilities in this world.

fortythree

The sunshine makes sparks in the road and ghosts on the windshield. The pavement's low roar and the trees casting shadows, shorter by the hour. Fields and ponds and fences and everywhere we've been. Every time we look at the pictures, we see the same places but different things. Always, different things.

"You've been awfully quiet," she says.

"Yeah," I say.

#112

the hospital was dark. not how i expected. i held her hand, telling her she would get better.
"i don't think so. not this time." and she let out a slow sigh, not of defeat, but of understanding.
"i'll miss you so much."
"you'll be okay. you are strong, and you will laugh and love and show compassion. you will go on and have a full life."
"what if i can't?"
"i don't know." she paused, looked up at me with tired and glassy hazel eyes. "what if you can?"

#111

everybody knows you're not supposed to. it's illegal. and it's illegal because it's dangerous, and that's the only reason we don't pick up hitchhikers anymore.
it might be one of the only times that pity overcomes self-preservation in the human condition.

and now he's beside me, alternating the sharp blade from my neck to my ribcage, the mud from his justin brand boots is all over the passenger side of my car, and i guess i'm fairly attractive, so when they find my body, i'll probably become famous. the newest poster child for safety. maybe my parents will tour the country, looking wholesome and sad, telling little kids and teenagers to stay off drugs and never talk to strangers.

maybe their teachers will hold class discussions afterwards. "such a shame," they'll say, looking at my picture and shaking their heads. "if only she had known better".

#110

Even in the heat of summer, Grandpa always wore long sleeves. I surprised him one morning as he finished shaving, a 6-year-old dinosaur with a surprise in store. “Roar!” I jumped up at him and he caught me in the air, pulling me in for a hug. As he set me back on the floor, I saw a flash of scrawling black numbers on his right arm, before he quickly rolled his sleeves down.
“Grandpa, what was that?” and I pointed. He let out a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh, and said “nothing” and I questioned him again, so he pulled up his sleeve to show me nothing but smooth skin freckled with age spots and nothing else. He had shown me his left arm.

One morning I found an old crumbling book. It was full of names like Heinrich, Yehuda, Ludovic, Eva. “Grandpa, how do you say these names?” He pronounced each one deliberately, slowly, suddenly with a full accent I’d never heard before.
“That is not a book for a little girl” he said, and he held the morning paper in front of him, though I doubt he could read it through the mist in his eyes.

Grandmother taught me how to play hopscotch, and I knew she was happy that day, though I never heard her laugh. I saw crude black figures on her forearm and they drew me in; I stared and stared. I never asked and she never told.

Their house was always quiet, and simple. And later, I realized, maybe that was enough.

fortytwo

(part two)

He is not alone. The woman he’s with is tall, frail-looking, and short white hair. Not from age, though, at least I don’t think. She stands near the door, which is near the counter with the cash register, and watches me closely. 

He walks with deliberate pace, each stride precisely as long as the last. He doesn’t blink. I do.

As he sits, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and it makes a slap as it falls to the table. He motions toward them, but I decline. As soon as he pulls a smoke from the pack, the waitress tells him there is no smoking. She tells him this as she is pouring coffee in the empty cup in front of me. 

He never takes his eyes off me.

He lights the cigarette.

The waitress pours coffee into the empty cup in front of him.

She pulls the cigarette from his lips and drops it in the coffee cup in front of him. She is proud of the hissing sound. He looks down at the soaked cigarette and ruined coffee, and then looks up at the waitress. He still hasn’t blinked. He tells her that his friend by the door may like a slice of pie. As the waitress walks away towards the front door, he removes another cigarette from the pack, lights it, and inhales deeply.

His partner talks to the waitress. She seems very imposing. I have not met her, but I am afraid of her. She stares deeply into the waitress’s eyes for what couldn’t have been more than seconds.

He blows smoke in my face as he stares at me. I do not cough.

The waitress returns, and I can see that her left eye is painted red, like all the blood vessels in it burst all at once. She looks at my guest, and looks at me, and asks us if we would like more coffee.

fortyone

(part one)

I’m not real. I don’t think I exist.

He didn’t ask me why I wanted to meet at this diner. He just said he would be here at ten. I’m early, because I’m always early. I’m like clockwork.

Everyone here is real, I think. The waitress is the same one who serves me three cups of coffee and a slice of cherry pie with whipped cream every Wednesday night, the only night I come here. I’m sure she’s real. There have been a few times where I’ve seen people who I didn’t think were real. They’d come by once or twice, and then never again.

The ceiling tiles have stains of yellow and brown from when smoking was allowed in here. It’s been long enough, someone should change those. Everyone is eating as they should, talking as they should, being how they should. Everything in order.

I feel nervous. I know I should be slightly sweating. It’s a Thursday. It is ten. A man with a fedora walks into the diner. He’s here to see me.

He exists.

#109

We met for a date in the park. You brought sandwiches, not knowing what I would like, but you had a beef n cheddar and a jamocha shake and I knew right then you were not like all the others. I was already breathless with happiness by the time the storm started, and we climbed down from the tree it’s perfect for climbing you said, waiting to see my reaction. We made sandcastles under a lightning sky and laughed till we cried and I didn’t know then that laughter and tears would be our lives.

#108

it's been years, she thought. years! maybe it's unconventional, but is it conventional that he's really the only person i want to talk to lately?
she typed out a letter. it was short, funny but not overwhelmingly. she didn't edit a word. pretense never escaped him anyway. no explicit, "how are you, what are you up to lately, we haven't talked in so long". just the conversation, where they left it off that night when she desperately threw her arms around his neck and his arms hung decidedly, achingly, unwaveringly at his sides.
she had asked him that night if he was still even a little bit in love with her.
three long strides toward the door and then he turned. "call anytime."

forty

She grinned as she continued, "I know that isn't the case with you, I feel like I know you well enough to know that."

"No," I said. "You really don't."

And that was the last time our eyes met.

And that was the last thing I ever said to her.

thirtyninepointfive

(this one doesn't count, but I've had a couple people ask about it lately, so I figured I'd put it somewhere...)

Remember when you said 'la la la' and I said that was my favorite song, for ever and never, and you said you hated the smell of aqua velva and i said good, because i'd never buy that swill, and I wish I never left you and I wish I never loved you, and we gave hubris a name and that name is Louis, only the English spelling instead, and you realized that the colors of your flag were also the colors of a beaten corpse, and you kept a journal of all your failings and it was a page longer than the journal of your success because the pen ran out of ink, and another awkward moment passes, and 'goodbye' is written backwards on the bathroom mirror, and good old Hank reminded us that "the southwest is full of sadness", and the folk singers lost their fingertips to their centuries of steel strings and muzzle-loaded love letters, and we cherished every minute of our empty picture frames, and we agreed that we hated the word "sucess" almost as much as we hated the word "hate". almost as much as we hated each other.

thirtynine

She sang at imperfect pitch but splendid meter about her dreams and about her loves and about how they were often not the same things, and that nothing is. And her new coal-eyed song without sound is the most telling of all, and all I wanted was to be told.