fortynine

"So are you going to try to sleep with her?"

"I'll probably just throw coffee on her."

#151

i watched you the whole ride. i would like say that it was not in the creepy, stalkerish way, because i promise that my intentions are good. in hindsight though, i'm sure you would have been uncomfortable. the whole ride, your dark hands laid carefully in your lap, tugging every now and then at the cotton/poly blend of your blue skirt. there was not a moment that your eyes met mine (or anyone's, for that matter) but i did see you smile lightly to yourself, perhaps rehearsing old stories to tell your family? are you going home? are you leaving home? home. is that something you even know about?
each foot stretched out in front of you and i could see the relief in your eyes. i imagined you without the constraints of winter, sweaty and free and barefoot.
you seem so worth discovery.

#150

I hate red, and he gave me a gift wrapped up in crimson ribbon. I thanked him and smiled politely, and braided my hair instead of leaving it long and flowing. It was a picture I painted. He said it was beautiful and I left him the next day because that canvas always represented anger.

Yesterday I saw my father for the first time in years. His homecoming was announced by a sarcastic cabbie yelling ‘hey thanks for the tip’ and squealing off. I didn’t even know he was back in the country. His new American name is Don. Because of his accent, it sounds more like “Dong.”

When he left years ago, my brother did too, and I painted it all down in red on the walls of the basement. Aunt Jada took me in, and that’s when I stopped visiting you. Said she couldn’t bear to have the church folk see her driving to the penitentiary once a week. My sullen face was punishment enough for her.

I’m stable now though. I could have been Van Gogh if it weren’t for Zoloft.

#149

almost. i almost saw her face. long, dark hair. not black or brown or anything. she did not have a color of hair. two braids, clasped in the back, off center, three bobby pins sticking in haphazard angles, unsure of their function. the braids, lying childishly on top of swirling and straight hair, unkempt with the illusion of sophistication. the wind caught her ocean of hair up in a single gust and she stepped sideways, looked up at the sky in the direction of the wind. was she smiling? of course, of course, she must be. i was mesmerized by this woman. by her hair, by what she might mean to me and i thought, are you waiting for Someone? i, too, try to fit in with this world. i, too, am meant to float away on the breeze.

#148

softly, consistently, small waves, (those of the proverbial butterflies) pushed the ocean forward, up to the beach, slowly swirling sand and convincing rocks to slide apart and become more beach, algae laden faux coral. overhead, stars tossed light on each gentle crest, daring to prove they were suns in their own right; suns of the night, if only we would come closer and see.

she reached her arms to the sky, pausing at each faraway light, imagining the warmth of daylight on her skin, feeling the dark cold of the ocean on the backs of her knees, between each finger, all the softest and strangest parts of her body. the day was too harsh, she was too insistent, everything felt jaded and abrasive and ashen. tonight, alone with the infinity of night, alone with the persistent breaking of stones into grains... tonight she glowed.

#147

you wore that stupid frayed out sweater i hate. everyone loves you, and they very well should. your face is so open, bangs swept to the side, and your eyes are so brilliant. the first day i saw you with that book... you looked up and i was pierced straight through, sudden pumping in my chest, i thought for sure you could see it through my shirt.

you are everything to everyone. every girl envies you, every boy wants you; have you ever had a evening alone that wasn't by deliberate choice?

that frayed out sweater, has it taken the brunt of all the years for you? you are unscathed and i hate you and love you for it. if your heart were any brighter i would hide in the shadows from your light.

#146

we sat telling stories, and he asked follow-up questions like a good, active listener should, and i wondered if it was an act. every scar, every bruise, he asked where they came from, how i felt about them and as i spoke his face turned ashen, involuntarily pale, as if he felt every scrape, each breaking bone, every long piece of cold metal slid into my skinny limbs- a frail version of wolverine, not strong enough to lift the adamantium into a fist.
my heart was nearly the only part of me that was not either fortified or scarred, and when i told him later that i loved him, he cringed, the same look of pain from every story up to now and then i learned what a scar truly was.

#145

"I'm going to start living!" he exclaimed, talking about the beginning like it was somewhere he hadn't been yet.
"What have you been doing in the meantime? What is now?" she asked, offended by the idea that their life thus far had simply been a preface.