#224

she practiced her handwriting in junior high study hall, behind the third most popular boy in school. she would scrawl his name slowly, shading every other letter, sketching one eye and then the other, noting the speck of light in the left, the ever-surprised uptick of thick eyebrows. never displaying it to anyone; instead turning in recreations of A+ work from other students in other schools. still in 8th grade, practicing delicate gestures, the self-assured walk of the pretty girls.

reading descriptors of women with french names and subtle beauty. understanding the allure of sponteneity- of the pixie-like, the idiosyncratic, women who are both sexual and childlike.

and here, a month left of her twenties, a chance to show courage. one choice that could alter a life of fiction into reality. a moment that could give her definition.

yes or no. the difference between always becoming and never being.

#224 is not fiction.

"I haven't written a creative word since April ," she thought. "And now, 4 months later, it is still on my mind." That familiar, creeping sensation came that, of all things, her writing would be shuffled along like an old woman, the store is closing now, move along, get outside where we don't have to bother with you anymore. And it would be compliant. Oh, well dear old Writing would say. I wanted to purchase this lovely blouse for my granddaughter. But I'll go along now and not be a bother.
It would be overlooked like so many other pieces of her life.
Consistency.
She sighed. The only consistency seemed to be her ongoing struggle to stay with one passion long enough to mold it into something meaningful.

#223

why had he been in the city that day? how long did he stay?

even with tightly closed eyes, he couldn't remember. those weren't the kinds of details that etched their way intp his mind.
there was a dog, he told them, with a blue and silver collar waiting patiently outside a shop, scruffy and homely, like a well-loved teddy bear. his eyebrows lifted as he tried to think about the shop, wondered aloud if it was a bakery perhaps?

the detective's hand wrapped more tightly around his pen. didn't he remember anything about the area?

there were handwritten signs on the door. each letter was slanted enough for a southpaw's pen to reach all the way around. like you, detective! you know about the Geschwind theory right? that maybe left-handedness isn't really genetic?

detective greer tried to steer him back on track.

on the fifth row of the bus there was obviously some sort of apple perfume; the smell was too candied to be the fruit. i don't think the girl was still there. no, he said, no i don't know which bus line.

did he remember anything important? anything that would be of help?

i remember a lot! he said. everything's important. did you know that non-fiction writers use more semicolons and commas than fiction writers? it's true. because everything is just as important as everything else.

#222

sure it was a little kitschy. polka dot skirt. long, fake extensions for hair and eyes. hair, of course, is the only thing we want thicker on a woman. i'm happy to oblige tonight. in my right hand is a gin and tonic. i'd never had one, but i ordered like an old pro, a little pleased at myself when the bartender gave me an approving nod. it came with ice and a tiny slice of lime and i think if it weren't for booze and guac, limes wouldn't be on anyone's grocery list. it's interesting really, garnering such attention when you're playing a role. being outside of yourself. the freedom in being unrecognizeable. the freedom in adopting a lilting and flirty fake laugh. i worry about the ethics of this particular brand of freedom.

#221

there's a softness to his song that never pervaded our relationship. he sings that he's learned his lesson. that he's heard i'm with someone new. during the bridge, he asks will your new love sing you to sleep at night?

picturing his wide brown eyes closing parentheses around each phrase, his song is undeniably sweet. i know that every girl listening is clutching her radio, falling for him, sighing longingly. i can't blame them. it was so easy. he knows how to make a woman fall in love with a guarded heart.

watching the sunset from the rooftops is so lovely. it was so lovely. our rose-colored dance was only one harmonious evening out of all the nights of shouting and crying. even knowing the truth behind these lyrics, i still find myself feeling sorry for him. for his broken heart.

i've never heard anyone make such a shit excuse for a relationship sound so damn beautiful.

#220

it's not really what anybody means when they say they want to be special. or one in a million. how about one in 8 million? i'm well-known know in my little circle, but it's a pretty small space.
speaking of circles, they are permanently under my eyes, drawn on my torso, and talked in every appointment.

i get to be a mystery. looked at, photographed, marveled over!

but i have more needle marks on my arm than a heroin addict and i'm particularly eloquent with medical terminology that people my age should never even know.

i'm one of the lucky few who get to say "hey, bet you've never seen this before!" and have it actually be true.

#219

it wasn't the effort that mattered to her.

it's hard to woo a woman who always wins. there. now you know the end of the story. that's what you want to know, right? the end? the world doesn't offer enough time to fill in all the blanks, the attention span to sift through the details.
details like a letter containing words like sunrise, loyalty, and fervent. details like the way her coat held her hand more than i did. or like the evenings i'd drive by her house with a rose, with tickets to a show, with her favorite coffee... and her car was gone. oh, i just stayed in last night.

it wasn't perfect. i was only usually on time, not always. not every restaurant served up their best food. the money was good, but my job was not.

next time, i'll go for a girl who tries hard, but often fails.

#218

the cover sprang out from the shelf, a mix of brick red and burnt adobe orange and some sort of weathered fencepost brown. that picture was so familiar, but here it was glossy, the colors set to bleed off the page, and i thought of how the edges must be lying in a dump somewhere, pieces of a puzzle and i'm holding the whole answer in my hands.
your name looks good in print.
your name... you changed the spelling but not the word. the back cover shows that your hair is different than i remember. longer. trendier.
i buy it. it wasn't in the memoir section, but i hope to find myself inside.