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.

#144

the leg bone was connected to the hip bone. then your fist bone connected with my face bone. my shoulder bone disconnected from my arm bone.
now i hear the words of my mom.
"he won't stop."

#143

some days i feel more alive than others. today, i am breathing in and out methodically, thinking about the motion, reveling in how my headache is subsiding, my shoulders relaxing. our muscles are grouped into voluntary and involuntary groups. writing this down, i am thinking about the motion, it is learned, i am making my fingers bend and press and move and i am their master. my heart, well, it is beating of its own accord, independent of my wishes- and thankfully so, or i'd have been dead many times over.
but today, feeling my lungs expand and contract, i think about my heart, its valves opening and closing so faithfully. oh my heart, i'll start calling you old faithful. till the day i die, of course.

#142

throwing an empty pack into the trash can, she pulled out a new box of marlboros; absentmindedly hit the box against the palm of her hand. this was not a new action. how much time has to lapse before muscle memory comes into play? 3 hours? that's when she peeled the clear plastic from the last box. mingling fresh outdoor air with her own fiery white smoke, she pressed her phone to her ears. what she really craved was contact. not superficial conversations on the weather, but conversations about life, about physical contact, with someone willing to pull her from her house, take her somewhere new instead of the same Chinese buffet.
pacing back and forth, a black lab watched her from behind a rusted chain-link fence, his canine eyes oblivious to her burning red hair falling in the saddest green eyes.

#141

he's asking her what she thinks they should do. she pretends to contemplate, as if the options were equally attractive, as if the choice were between two kinds of ice cream, not decadent chocolate versus a kick to the nape of her neck.
"whatever you think is best, darling." she knows his mind is made up.
asking her opinion is merely epidictic. they both know it.
it's evident in her loss of independence. her loss of thought. her loss of strength. her failure to care.

#140

he was out with his basketball, like he was every day, stereotypical orange with rubbery black stripes, bouncing between pasty, knobby knees, bouncing off the backboard, bouncing up and being snatched back down by scrawny, scratchy boy-arms.
even from 50 feet away, you could hear the constant commentary in high pitched whispers, jubilant echoes after the swishing net, a running critique and mentions of an imaginary (and apparently, unwitting) defensive team.
the clock's running out! reverberated through the apartment complex. 3! his bony fingers clutched the ball. 2! he cleverly evaded defense, yet again. 1! he lost balance as he shot.
the ball barely scraped the bottom of the net, falling short, and rolling safely in the grass beyond the court.
he sat for a moment, perhaps contemplating the last few agonizing moments.
suddenly, he threw his arms in the air victoriously. Nothin' but net!

#139

I love you, I say. This makes you happy, I know. Today I want to love you and make you laugh. I cannot guarantee that tomorrow I will feel the same. Maybe I will want a separate room tomorrow. I may not even come home.
You ask me how I feel. I am brutally honest. Today, that is good.
Unfortunately, my reality changes every day. I am ephemeral.

#138

burned but not broken, she ran a gloved finger over it, removing ash and smoke. the whole house was burned to foundation and not much remained other than thick odor and charred leftovers of all the things a suburban home should hold.
but this... this was something extraordinary. this was the only thing she wanted.
cleaning it proved harder than she expected. each edge of the five pointed star needed her full attention. finally, gold shone through. no trace of earth or ash remained.

she walked into the nursing home and found her mother. she sat in front of the window, where she always was.

pressing the congressional medal honor into her mother's wrinkled hand, both women knew this was all that would remain.

#137

Kate looked through her purse, scrambling. Of all the days! she thought. I still have to get to the preschool and get to work on time! The previous night's rain still hung faintly in the air, the ground still wet under the backyard trees. It did not help her mood. "Marissa!"
A tiny head of dark brown curls bounded down the stairwell. "Mommy, I can't find Mr. Boots! He loves me! I miss him!"
I wish a missing stuffed dog was my biggest concern. Kate sighed. "I'll help you find Mr. Boots. I can't find my makeup bag, sweetie. Do you know where that is?"
Marissa paused for a moment, appeared to be making up her mind. She pointed to the wastebasket in the laundry room.
"In... in here?" Kate pulled a pink and brown bag from the trash can. Unzipping it quickly, feeling the blood rush to her face, she found everything inside. "Marissa! This is MOMMY'S BAG!"
Marissa stood in the middle of the floor, her lip quivering.
Kate took a breath. "Marissa, why did you throw my bag away?"
"I don't want to you to have it mommy. It makes you sad."
"It makes me sad?"
"You're pretty mommy."
Kate thought to all the times she sat in front of her makeup mirror, layering foundation, power, blush, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow... and sighing. She thought of how often she absentmindedly turned to Marissa and made comments. "Wait till you're a teenager honey, you'll find out then." Murmuring about her blotchy cheeks and perceived thinning eyebrows. She looked at her daughter. Perfect.
"You're pretty too Marissa." Kate hugged her, stood, and threw the bag back in the trash. "Let's go find Mr. Boots."

#136

her bare foot pressed the brake to the floor, there was no screeching- everything was loud. it was loud. eyes wide, half-wet, long blonde hair whipped across her face, no scream. the guardrail came too quickly...
black.
she felt the seatbelt on her neck. felt blood. tasted blood. heard the radio playing. loud.
saw black.
flashing white and red and vague outlines of men and vague outlines of... loud, loud, loud.
and black.
she was awake. was she awake? there was nothing. were her eyes open? she concentrated, trying to open her eyes; she could not feel them.
there were voices again. it was not noise this time. there were letters forming words forming sentences forming prayers.
concentrating on the voices. thickly, dimly, she knew she would not wake up. but she heard them, heard them through the swirling prayers and blood and black, and voices. she heard them.
felt them.
and...
black.

#135

i'm always wondering how i get myself into these situations, why i'm to nice, no... too timid to fight my way out, why i keep expecting a different outcome. perhaps i am definitively crazy.
he buys the popcorn and this gesture immediately puts him in the top 50% of all dates i've ever been on. unfortunately, this is neither a braggable nor stunning victory.
he asks about the scar on my forearm. it is a skinny but jagged scar, starting at my elbow and spiraling halfway down my arm. before i get five words out, he's lifting up his shirt and giving an explanation of his own scar, telling me what a badass motorcycle accident it was, turning left and right so i can see its majesty from every angle.
the movie has explosions and women, and i volunteer to get a refill, checking every exit and praying for a fire drill.

#134

the doorknob isn't shiny and doesn't turn easily, but finally it clicks, letting the door open, slowly, and all that enters the house is a bit of gray light and the tips of my fingers. it is a still day.
it feels a little like walking on the moon, entering the foyer, and i'm afraid my footprints will be etched into the floor forever. it is strange, no one has been here in years, but they say that dust is mostly hair and skin particles, and i realize there are parts of me everywhere, on the subway i rode yesterday, on orange i picked up but didn't buy.
for a moment i feel panic. my tongue is dry. i put a mint in my mouth and it's a little unsettling- everything today has been so empty, so dull, and the sudden shock of spearmint feels like falling into an ice bath.
suddenly i want to tear this house down. it's alarming, how passionate i feel about somewhere i've never been. but he was here and now i am here, staring at my own face in a broken hallway mirror and wondering why i'm here.

#133

you and i were never black and white. but i've always been a little deeper, a little darker. like a marker fresh out of the box; i draw clean lines and sometimes bleed through the paper.
you... how can i describe you? we have an old tin can of haphazard pens and markers, sharpies used for everything from fake tattoos to garage sale signs and the eventual moving boxes with my name scrawled on top. try as i might, i can't get any of those markers to draw a full line. every color is a lighter, dried up version of itself.
in terms of black and white, i guess i'm the villian. but at least i'm not waiting, drying up in an old tin can.

#132

as rarely happens, i was struck by a brief moment of poetic genius today. finding nothing pockets but an old napkin, i scribbled word after word to make sentences that made whole thoughts, expressing my love and my life and my passions all over that piece of recycled paper.
i meant to give it to you.
i meant to watch your eyes tear up and watch the light reflect back to me.
i meant to make it all the way home with dinner.
damn squirrels and knee-jerk reactions.
damn the spilled coffee all over the dashboard.
why, why, why did i put that napkin back in my pocket?
so it seems my thoughts were recycled before you could hear them. guess that's my part to save the earth.

#131

the stereotypically red and white checkered picnic blanket caught a slight breeze and teased her bare feet. this is the happiest i've been in a long long time she thought. she said it aloud and looked over; he was stretched out, hands clasped over his chest. he smiled but didn't open his eyes.
"what do you want out of life?" she reached over and shielded his eyes from the evening's last bit of sunshine.
one eye opened. "tomorrow."
"what's special about tomorrow?"
shrugging, he closed his eyes, pressed her palm to his lips.
he peeked out again and she sat expectantly, waiting for his answer.
"haven't experienced it yet."
"what about in a year? 5 years?"
suddenly he understood what she was looking for. but he wasn't ready to give it. "can't have a year if i don't have tomorrow."

#130

at fifteen he vowed to never be like his parents and worked for 3 years to leave the day after his 18th birthday. with a pocketful of traveler's cheques (for years he used only those; they made him feel eternally nomadic), pre-stamped envelopes, and the kind of charm that few still possess, he headed out.
every day since was a new adventure. he'd been to foreign countries but never college. he worked for the poor- serving and eating at soup kitchens, climbed mountains, even traveled with a circus for awhile, picking up every trick he could learn- from fire-eating to swindling.
he'd been to nearly every library in every town he rattled through, fixed strangers' motorcycles, and helped college kids pack up for home.
he started each day unencumbered. only one specific goal in his mind.
today he thought. today, maybe i will fall in love.

#129

there was an old one-room schoolhous, a "piece of history right in front of our eyes!" as her dad exclaimed, and the stairs out front were concrete to replace the rickety wood. peeling red paint stuck out and up and down and she wondered who had painted it and if it occurred to them that red made for a highly cliche "historical" schoolhouse.
the water pump out back still worked and she stuck a bare foot under the cool, chugging water and looked at the surrounding woods. the trees were low, many young, maybe fifty years old, one hundred. she wondered if any history was still real, if this was real now, and how rugged and exotic her life might appear to someone 200 years from now, feeling water on their feet and looked at a cracked, red-paint-chipped building.

fortyeight

They walked at the curbside, hand in hand but hearts apart. The lights in the windows of the high-rises are downtown constellations, but they were too busy watching the cracks in the pavement. Corner parks are empty, like always after dark, and when the taxis stream by it's like a jukebox with a hundred four-second songs. Most of them are, like most songs are, about love and finding it or losing it. She thought to herself that it was like her life's story being told in three city blocks.

fortyseven

The sound of shattering glass trickled through the alley, like a loud stream in a quiet forest. His eyes twitched in all directions, but found nothing. He was sitting next to a small concrete staircase, the door behind his head used to belong to a restaurant. Can't tell by the smell anymore, though. Everything smells like rotting.

He wrapped his hand with the shreds of a t-shirt. Last time white, this time blue. His face was streaked with tears, and dirt, and blood, and some of it his. Someday this will make sense, he knew. But not today.

#128

in a little less than fifteen years he had won almost every award the literary world had to offer. they sat, gathering dust into corners, fervently, like an old woman tidying up for company.
over time, he had learned to give expected answers about inspiration and the writing process. "neruda," he would say. "neruda wrote every day regardless of how he felt. writing through those uninspired days gave him both courage to persist, and a plethora of material to delve into." cue the applause.
not that he didn't revel in those words. it's just the he felt they were false. how unbearable! to cringe over false words in the world of fiction!
he couldn't explain how the stories came. he would sound mad, perfectly mad if they knew the truth. what sort of disorder was it that made him scribble words, paragraphs, entire chapters in his sleep? in the morning, a slightly messy, precisely worded story lay waiting for him on the notepad beside the bed where he slept alone.
too long now. too long he loved and hated this gift. his distrust of self gave way to insomnia; he longs now for a normal life, a normal rest.
and now he prepares for his greatest work of fiction. he must tell the world why there are no more words.

#127

everything is a fad to me because i don't know how else to live. it comes along quickly, the rampagingfastbeatingscreaming of my high school music scene, preceeded by the stonewashing, tightrolling, hair frizzing eighties. and all of us in the middle of everything, clamoring, grasping/gasping oh, don'tmakeitstop.
i turned a corner yesterday and ran into an old friend. she was pretty-polished and business-suit-important and i stood in front of her tall and lean, i quit veganism only a week ago, and today i am finding something new to hold, to feel it for a time and know that something lived.

fortysix

The chords remind me of high school, but the melody is unfamiliar. The tempo, even faster than your quickened heartbeat before I walk out the door. It slams, the glass makes a cymbal crash, and a roll of footsteps off the porch. And while well orchestrated, the melody is unfamiliar.

#126

i'm at the top of a bulding. The cars look so so small below. Diminutive like me. The wind is so strong up here, muscling through each tall bulding, pushing my back, whipping my hair to my face. it bothers me now, writing a note to no one. it's a goodbye (of sorts), more because of "should's" than any legitimate reason.
"if i had a superpower, it would be mental resiliency."
i face the wind, clutching the paper in my hand. my palm opens.
it is flying.

#125

i wrote you a letter today. i miss you more lately, for a variety of reasons, none of which are probably legitimate.
this is what we do now, isn't it? rip the bandaid off quickly and the pain is sharp. it should subside soon, take a deep breath. till we look down and realize the wound was never fully healed, just out of sight.
maybe you'll open it alone; maybe you have a girlfriend now who picks up your mail and will question who i am.
maybe, more than anything, i want to know what you'll say.

#124 (my perception of a fortyfive followup)

i traveled the world on nothing but medical supplies and charm. all those people, those people. and i could not help them.
bangladesh.
a tiny girl with a ballooned stomach and crooked toes who begged for me to fix her, when all i had left was a prayer and a few candies.
ireland.
the chronically ill mother with hollow eyes and the most haunting voice. she stood, her rail of a body so precarious against the wind coming off the moor. i heard the next year, an atlantic storm swept through and took the last of her strength with it.
johannesburg
nearly twenty percent of the population lives in refuse and are afflicted with all the consequences thereof. Not even 16, a boy lay with head in his mother's lap, listening to Kwaito as he took his last breath.

i had no camera. i bought card after damn postcard; afraid that my mind would start slipping, i would lose these moments somewhere along the way. if only i could.

maybe if i sell these memories, they will no longer exist.

#123

on thursdays i'll follow hurried businessmen across streets, hailing a cab when they do, telling the taxidriver, "follow that one! go!" then into elevators, fake plastic secretary glasses, head down. they step off and so do i, whispering something just loud enough like "condor has reached 4th floor, target unaware."
maybe i'm creating a society of paranoia.
but it makes my life more exciting, and maybe they won't take their families for granted anymore.

fortyfive

He sent his family a postcard every other week.

Bangladesh.

"Wish you were here!"

Ireland.

"Having a great time, met lots of interesting locals!"

Johannesburg.

"Can't wait to tell you all my stories!"

He had never left Louisiana. There was a website that would ship you postcards. He wondered if the guy who ran that site had ever been to any of these places.

#122

"if you want a happy marriage, don't marry a pretty girl." that was what they all told you, right? in jest, right?

it was their way of warning you how bad we are for each other.

maybe i'm a trainwreck.
i just don't want you to look away.

#121

you went out with your friends today. you kept texting me what you were doing saying "just found a sweet tshirt for $3!!!" and sending pictures, hair tucked behind your ears, your smile tucked in between your pretty friend and the one whose name i can't remember how to spell.
while you were out with your friends today i gave almost all of our furniture away, warmed out leftovers and made sandwiches for all those homeless men on broad street.
today i answered yes to all your requests.
today i packed all our belongings in our car, turned off the water and electric, gave back the apartment key.
you're the one who always talked about leaving.
you said you'd leave and never come back.
every song you write is about the open road and sunsets.

what, are you all talk now?

#120

My grandparents never kissed each other. They never held hands, never hugged. But every morning, without fail, my grandmother, her hair pulled into a loose, silvery white bun, would make 4 pieces of buttered toast between the two of them, a cup of weak tea for herself, a cup of black, thick coffee for him.
She lived in the house he built even after he was gone, after all the kids had moved away, after her knees shook too much to climb the simple oak staircase. The flowers at his grave came up bountifully each year, fertilized by old coffee grounds made precisely for that purpose. My baby niece received a knitted sweater from her grandma and grandpa, and I hope to one day know what it was they held, if not each other.

#119

No one expects their relationships to change for the worse. But when I told my friends how you make my heart skip beats, I didn’t know it was foreshadowing.

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.

#107

it’s not so much that I hate you. Just that I can’t trust you. Yesterday I was reading our grocery list and you added dishwasher detergent. We don’t have a dishwasher.
Without prompting, you said you bought some berry flavored tums at the store. The label said mint. Maybe it was an honest mistake, but when I showed you the label, you still insisted they were berry!
But then you accidentally shredded my sweater in the wash, and said you gave it to a homeless man. I found it in the trash.
You told me stories of your high school basketball team placing third in the state. Imagine my confusion when I found out you placed second. Your lies have no reason.
So when you say you love me, I just don’t know.

thirtyeight

I had a dream about you for the first time in as long as I can remember. There was a bonfire, and there were many other people, but I can't recall any of them. Only you. And the things I said. The most horrible, vile things I've said and didn't think to say before. The look on your face was all I needed, and my heart exploded with joy. I had never wanted to hurt anyone more in such a vicious manner than I did in that moment, just you and me. It was everything I think other people consider heaven to be.

I can't decide if this makes me a bad person in real life.

#106

the room was well lit, but it smelled heavy and dark, like paint fumes without the mind-liberating qualities.
they pulled down the sheet, thicker than i expected, not a 250 count, like my ones at home. i nodded that it was him, yes, at least, it was him based on the only picture i'd ever seen.
strange that they called me, the only still-relevant phone number in his rolodex (and who still uses a rolodex?) even though i was too young to remember ever meeting him and my phone number had changed 8 times since then.
strange that a life can be so innocuous that your own nephew is unaffected by the blue of your lips, the odd, cold pallor of your skin.
they covered him and escorted me out of the room. condolences and slips of paper were handed to me in the same moment, and i accepted both before heading out the door.
the day was well lit, but not like the room, but everything still smelled heavy and dark. i looked at my phone, wondering who to call, who to tell about my very bizarre day, the way i felt suddenly hungry, and realized there was not a single person who would understand.

thirtyseven

"You asked me once, in an exasperated sigh, if I believed in anything at all, and I replied with something cynical and funny and we laughed."

The coffee burned a little bit, not enough cream.

"It's been a while, or long enough at least, and I think you've seen what I meant, and why I said it."

I don't even so much like coffee.

"And now, I still have the same answer but I don't think it's as funny anymore."

#105

There were days he wished he was a smoker. Standing outside, staring out at nothing, never knowing what to do with his hands, nervously sliding them into his pockets, feeling chapstick, feeling an old straw wrapper, feeling a loose thread. Then pulling his hands out, one, then the other.
His coworkers would come out with a casual, mumbled hello, sliding a white cigarette, sometimes the first in the pack, sometimes the lonely last. A flash of fire, a calm and satisfied sigh with the first drag in the middle of a long day.
He licked his lips, shoved one hand in his pocket, another through his thinning hair.

#104

she was free-floating and beautiful, the front of her skirt tied up in a knot to escape imminent bike chain fate. the back of it flapping behind her in cascades of earthy yellow, tan, sunburnt orange. her shoulders, freckled, shades of pink and brown, lines running across her back, detailing every shirt, every dress she had worn that summer.
the wheels kicked up dirt behind her and she practiced riding, one hand, no hands; steering with her bare feet now.
she laughed and it trickled up the sky.
her neighbor paused from hanging clothes on the line, saw the girl, took a moment to turn her palms up and smile at the open sky.

thirtysix

The bricks of the old corner pub were cold to the touch, and the rain was quiet enough that you could only hear it in your heart. Cars hummed by as I leaned my forehead against the wall. I could see the paint chipping around the foundation, white flecks scattered on the sidewalk around my feet. I don’t think this is the way things are supposed to be.

thirtyfive

The drops of blood on that yellow shirt remind him of the tiny ponds dotting his grandfathers pasture outside Cardiff. He’d visit every summer and most Christmases. The Christmases were best. Meat pies and muddy hillsides. 

His grandmother gave him that shirt.

thirtyfour

Her hair was black and maroon, but not mostly either. Unsure eyes glancing but not seeking, and with probably too much makeup. Surprisingly, she was the type of person to pay attention to the pre-flight safety instruction presentation.

I forgot to ask what her tattoo meant. It’s Hebrew inside a sun on the back of her shoulder.

I think the maroon was dye.

#103

tomorrow my new brother comes. it's not right to hold it against him- the fact that my mother actually wants him. that's the strangest thing- that the adoption agency wouldn't think to check abortion records. i had always been the thorn in my mother's side, the "miracle child" only to my grandparents, and even that was a long time coming.
you'd think she would have stopped drinking after a crazy drunken night ended in me. you'd think she'd have the decency to give me away after a failed attempt on my life. anyone in their right mind could even wonder a half-illiterate woman with an unsurmountable hatred for her biological daughter could possibly be a day away from a son.
ruminate all you want; i've given up on logic.
i began life as a lame duck daughter, i guess that's how i'll end it.

#102 (had 2 98's)

you painstakingly painted every flower in the field. your hands, old, but not with age, still steady as ten years ago, as still and unchanging as ten years from now. each bloom waited, felt your brush, turning yellow turning pink and blue and beautiful, turning toward you.
every flower loves me, loves me not.

#100

he was always the ace of the family. aced tests, learned to fly, got top awards in any academic extracurricular club.
despite all that, life has always been a little over his head. he never really got it. little problems of life, the right thing to say when a girl starts crying over her backstabbing "best" friend, giving the scolded dog a little pat on the head, giving mom an extra minute of peace after coming home from her second job.
she always told me how he was going to get us out of this place. how he would move us away from this neighborhood, somewhere warm for a change. i watched her eyes grow far away, her brave, put-on smile turn to something wistful, wonderfully hopeful.
she truly believed he would save us. if only he was real.

#99

tick, tick, crash.
and hell, now it's all upended. that's what i get for putting my life out there. for getting together with her without any semblance of a plan.
time ticks down, i drive downtown, and is it so fatuous to think i could maintain order?
it wasn't love the way people think of it. she knew it from the start.
emotions change, fall out of place, gather drama and chaos. they are sticky.
tick, tick, crash.
i need a new metronome.

#98

maybe it's because my entire diet is comprised of arabic coffee, water, and the occasional supreme taco with extra sour cream.
maybe it's because i started flushing my ritalin down the toilet at the ripe old age of eight.
sometimes i wonder if it's caused by bad air; this city is so weighted down, it's so thick.

no matter what it is, my heart skips a beat when you walk by.

#98

i knew this time would come. all time comes eventually. it never matters how much time has come before, we're never truly prepared.
now is the part when i'm supposed to reflect on my life's deeds. what have i done worth noting? what have i done that reflects a life's work? i have been a son, i have been a husband. an adversary. i have been the law, and an obsession of the law.
the obesession is coming over that ridge. i was camped there last night. moving here, it bought me an extra day, and what happened today? i built a fire, i washed each of my wounds. i thought of my love, cold in the ground, warm in the Sky.
they are coming quickly, and i have finally come to terms with a final, violent blow.

#97

everything was dramatic with her. each moment of her life was met with a certain flare, and it was understood that she was born that way. even those who found her abrasive were still intrigued, driven to know more about her.
innately red lips, a smile you could see from a mile away; she was not content for people to like her, she wanted them to love her. her little sister's girl scout troop held a bake sale. she was not content to simply supervise the table. after a yellow pages search, she convinced a local auctioneer to donate 2 hours of his time to raffle of homemade cookies, gooey pastries, and powdered sugar covered brownies.
it came as no surprise when she got a full ride to college, and again as no surprise when she became the first non sorority member recieve the university homecoming queen.
goodwill workers were stunned when she was not content to simply donate items; she donated her time to wash baby toys, sterilize dinnerware.
her quiet, oddly uneventful fall into alheimer's was so unlike her life. her friends were granted brief moments of respite when she would declare "what about Everest?!", her favorite inside joke about her various impressive conquests.
those moments, and each one leading up to that strange time of her life were the moments they all remembered after. they remembered her passion, when she couldn't remember it herself.

#96

under the cumulus clouds hovering in a bright blue sky, below the very sky itself, the air turns darker, grayer. the fog not made of clouds, but of atmosphere and hope long thrown by the wayside: a town.
tired bricks settle into the earth a little more each day. fatigue characterizes everything, from the passers-by, to the flowers in the park. they all ache, they all stretch, hearing their bones, their stems, crack and press and loosen for the smallest moment of relief.
through the fog, blocked by an aging mahogany door, a man sits on a bench in his living room.
the piano is big, obsidian, bold and defiant. he begins to play, and with each passing moment, his arthritic hands become smooth, lithe, young. suspenseful trills, violent runs, the Romanticism of Mendelssohn, the simplicity of lullabyes.
the vibrations race through the open window, into the dampened street, shaking buildings to life. tired workers shudder off their chill, look up, look at each other, one even dares to crack a tiny smile at a child. with each note, tinkling in the upper register, booming contradictions from the left hand, he brings life to the city. the muted notes gain resonance as the fog lifts, and the tiniest bit of sky beams through.

#95

she said, really. you're great. but i just got out of a bad relationship.
heard that before. and before that.

a split second later, and you would have avoided the pileup entirely!
thanks officer. i feel strangely optimistic now.

oh, i'm sorry sir. the deal on athletic shoes is over. the current one is for sandals.
i can't even take advantage of the deals at shoe carnival before the half hour expires.

i am an anachronism at all times.

#94

it was his version of an apology. his share of the rent, pulled from the pocket of his jeans, fresh from the washing machine. a soggy testament to the way he'd lived his life up till now.
she took the money and separated the bills. all singles. apparently, just a share of his share of the rent.
she pushed it all back into his jeans pocket. told him to put it all in the dryer.
sitting at the table, she scribbled out and signed a check for that month's rent. plus $10.

her car was waiting; keys in the ignition.

#93

lack of illumination wasn't the problem. not even lack of imagination. just deficit love and too much time and the thick film of dirt- settled from lack of use and movement. even the air held a heaviness, like a silent requiem. this room of sharply angled ceilings held all his life in books and boxes and piles of childhood stuffed into acute corners.
a door creaked open, sudden breathing and scattered dust, the window flung open. a life gone, ready to be discovered.

#92

even the trees surrounding it always assumed a dim and dank persona. the weathered, storm-cloud colored building rose, brick by ominous brick, visible from town, a constant reminder that there were still people who had seen enough of life, seen it in every inherent atrocities.
sometimes a scream would echo, shrill and harsh; maybe a nightmare, or maybe the dreamer was more awake than any of us.
tonight though, the screams blended in a cacophany of dissonant harmony. from their homes, the self-proclaimed "mentally stable" saw blue, red, orange flames running skyward, sprinting up from the ground to the third floor, fourth floor.
inside, locked in rooms, chained to their beds, tied down in their chairs, white robes, cracked nailbeds, unkempt hair. they let out screams, less of fear and more of knowledge.
of course this is how it will end.
this is how it began.

#91

We went walking, heavy trees overhead, you counting every step aloud, me narrating your every move. you looked up and a bird pooped on your head and we ran to the cold stream to wash it off. it is fifteen long steps from the knobby tree with the squirrels to the water. once, we danced at your sister's wedding but we knew she was only happy in public. you stepped on my toes twelve times so we laughed. that night they swelled up two times their size. at the restaurant, our waitress was pretty and you said so. it was only twenty-two regular steps to the public restroom where you kissed her and twenty-two more when you came back smelling of heavy body spray and grease. we walked to the bus stop and forgot to count, but you made three phone calls and gave me zero kisses when i left. with the density of trees over our heads again, i spoke the words "i hate you" right out into the air and i layed on the grass next to the stream. you walked fifteen long steps to the knobby tree, then many, many more back to the car. there were no more steps left for me.

#90

i'm off to the military, mom. i know you always tried to keep me from it, always tried to keep me on the path to being a doctor, a banker, a good job. the suit i'll be wearing to work isn't exactly what you had in mind. i know that.
but with all the stupid things i've done in my life (yeah, i admit it. you knew better all along- too bad nobody realizes that till its too late), there's one thing you know about me. if i start it, there's no way i'm not gonna finish it.
so this is the path i'm starting. and who knows? maybe i'll develop some kind of Onoda complex and be completely balls-out crazy, and my country will give me a medal instead of therapy.
that's probably what i always needed. i'm gonna go and get a different kind of therapy.
and by the way, if i don't make you proud, or i make headlines in a bad way, you should tell dad that, well... you know. i just think that if i can do right by him, i will. but if i'm a disgrace, he shouldn't have to take any blame.
i cleaned out my room just in case. but i left anything joey might want. you'll only hear from me if i make any headlines. i love you mom.

#89

tell me to stay home with you. our covers are still warm as i tiptoe out of bed in the mornings. glancing back, you peek out from under the green quilt your sister made, peek out from under your lashes, your gaze washing all over me. i smile, out the corner of my mouth. you mentioned once how you love that, and now it's become habit; i'll do anything you love.
please. it says. please ask me to stay. tell me to call in. tell me how you need me, how you'll give up the whole world today just to keep me here and leave all wordly essentials laying on the floor beside the bed.
you never ask. but i will keep waiting. i am always on call to stay here with you.

#88

i have a nice little heart. i assume it's nice. it has continued pumping and pumping away.

my hands are a little too big. they make it hard to play music and so i listen to my heart. beating away, like a drum. a little bongo keeping time to a songwriter's lyrics. sometimes it is very loud, so i hold my breath till i can't hear it anymore. but then i breathe quickly, gasping, and it is a war drum. it is painted and chanting, and pushing its way out, i can see it under my thin skin. then i push on it. push down with my thick hands, my long fingers, ragged nails.

somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind is where i keep my Self. it is better this way.

#87

sitting on the bathroom floor again. better than in a room full of people i barely know.
wish i could say i'm solving problems, working through my issues. i'd like to say that i just needed to get a breath, instead of coming here because it feels better to cry somewhere dirty and lonely.
trying to talk myself into positive thinking; telling myself this will pass too, and something will turn out new and exciting.
everything i think, i've thought before.

#85

i only change things that don't matter.
fire engine red hair. what personality will society extrapolate from me today?
tomorrow i will bite my nails nervously. not a habit; a conscious choice. today was jazz. "i love jazz. i never listen to anything else."
tomorrow maybe screamo. or hardcore.
it'll be a Gap scarf, nail biting, hardcore, maybe a flower behind my ear. i'll quote the art of war in a boho dress.
i will exist in only temporal conditions. contradictions make people uneasy.

#84

the united states government has spent twenty million dollars on psychics over the past 35 years. what makes you say everything's going to be okay? you don't know. it's the most otiose system under the guise of justice i've ever seen.
twenty million dollars. but if i said i had a vision, if i suddenly talk about an out-of-body experience or a message from God, my lawyer would make the case for a mental health plea. i would be locked away.
by the way. i'm gunning for it.

#83

"mom, i was thinking of having a birthday party. is that okay?"
"whatever you want. when's your birthday?"
looking back, i realize that i should have been hurt. surprised at the least. but i was naiive and desperate for approval, so i told her "june 4th. i was hoping you and dad would be there."
"i have things to do. people have expectations you know." whipping her mascara shut and grabbing her plum-colored clutch, she stood and straightened her Vivienne Westwood ensemble.
my mother was, unknowingly, a card-carrying member of the Dunning-Kruger effect club.
maybe i should have just been pleased that she cared enough to ask when it was. nevermind that she didn't remember.

#82

it was counterintuitive.

keep planning. but every plan fell apart.

keep praying. every prayer is answered. what's the point, if the answer is no?

fall in love. your heart will be broken. better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? Tennyson must not have truly loved.

follow your dreams.
maybe dreams are only meant for sleep.

#81

it was her long hair, genetically skinny limbs, and incredible dearth of intellect that drew men to her. a precious lucky few found her off-putting personality... well, off-putting.
but, most of them fell into the stereotype. sucked in to the realm of the "poor-me" syndrome that women use to manipulate. and she was good. oh, she was good at it.
by the time he realized this, it was too late. years passed till he finally looked up; most of his friends had moved on. the few within site were wounded and battle scarred from being neglected too many times, ignored, their advice explained and excused away in her favor.
she remained the same, leaving his life a sad wreckage of what it could have been.

#81

he ordered just the sandwich, not the whole lunch combo. that should have tipped her off. but of course it didn't. a girl like that, you know every argument is ad hominem, indicative of the whole relationship.
they sat in the same booth, in my section, and i guess it was justification for me. sure, i'm predictable- the same place every day, but at least i was getting paid for it. their boredom was self-imposed.
clipped together with a black pen, the papers slid across the table to her.
a glance. she looked him in the face. back down.
she had chicken. unnecessarily, i gave her a steak knife. i approached the table and laid the food down, the knife sitting knowingly on the top.
she was ready to eviscerate him.
i retreated to the back room. i needed a fix.

#80

left on main. second right. third house.

SOLD.
suddenly, it held nothing.

#79

She kissed me right as i was leaving. i mean, really, who does that? what kind of a person does that? hey, great to know you, we've been friends for our whole lives, now you're finally getting out of here. oh wait, let me plant one on the lips!
i'm going to pretend like nothing happened. i'll call her tomorrow... because that's what i would have done anyway. i won't be weird. i won't...
i'm not gonna call her tomorrow! she ought to call me! because she had plenty of time to let me know how she felt.
maybe it was one of those weird girl things. we're just friends. yeah, we're just friends, and that's just how girls express feelings, right? they're always hugging and kissing. they even kiss each other!
ooh. they kiss each oth....
but why did she have to do it when i didn't even have time to react?! i could barely even wave back.
the train's stopping. maybe i should turn back.
should i go back?

#78

the chair let out a bright squeak as he leaned back, satisfactorily. it had been a long day, much like the day before, and the day before that, and the day... you get the point.
it was there, complete, in his hands, so to speak. tiny pixels, code floating around, jumping from one place to another inside his computer, recieving commands and organizing them as quickly as his fingertips could press the keys.
so here it was, years of work, glowing in front of him, highlighting many wrinkles and misplaced facial hair, 942 pages waiting to become more than just pixels and code.

#77

"we were vicious back then weren't we?" she asked.
he looked up from his book. "probably nicer than most."

the pages turned almost on their own. "every night we went to bed late. why, i remember going out at midnight! we were silly back then weren't we?" she asked with a laughing cynicism.
"at least," he turned another monotonous page, "we were alive."

#76

anything that goes without close examination fails to improve. i understand why people don't look at their lives more closely. of course we all make excuses- for our behavior, for our girlfriend's behavior, for our reasons for doing (or not doing) a multitude of things.
but now i'm in my 50's and i can't see a singe significant way i've improved my life. not to say my life hasn't gotten any better. it's actually been a really good run.
but have i changed my mind about a single thing? have my views molded or changed in any way? have i decided to start listening to the people closest to me?
none of those things.
i've always been okay with helping others. looking at their lives and offering advice. and they take and swallow and digest and process.... and their lives grow and evolve. i take credit and then fail to do any of those things for myself.
so now i'm in my 50's and for thirty years i've been married (happily?) to a girl i was never fully in love with, who lied over and over to get me to stay, so i did; i've never resolved my sins with God, and from the outside, everyone thinks i have a fairy tale life.
lies have carried me far. introspection will ruin me.

#75

look up! he would say. and she would gaze at the sky, her long hair cascading back, pressuring and pinching her neck. but she kept looking.
i just didn't want you to miss it. and he would smile her way, fishing for her hand with his own.

each time she gasped over what she saw. that cloud looks like the tree in the backyard! or i'm getting vertigo just trying to look at that building! it's so tall!

he was always making her look, reminding her to see everything, to take it in and remember it, to snap pictures of every movement and create flipbook in her mind, full of photo stills that came to life.

look up! he would say. and he would smile, then look up with her, the glint of the sun catching in the cataracts of his once chocolate brown eyes.

#74

before she knew it, she was laughing. it started as a lilting, feminine laugh. the kind that is real, but inhibited. then it kept going.
she was aware of herself, which is uncommon. most laugh who laugh without reserve are doing so without intention.
the tears about to pour over her eyes, her face and lips stretched wide, wider, widest, her nose growing pink, then red; she was acutely aware of it all.
the inhibitions fell away to reveal strong laugh, accentuated by a gasping for breath, failure of her body to retain its aforementioned composure.
she allowed it.
she allowed herself to ache happily.
inhibitions and composure be damned.

#73

day in, day out, 6:50am and 6pm, the same commute, the same rickety, dirty train, familiar, bored faces of the same strangers.
she was going to talk to him, she was! his stop was only 2 before hers, and sure, why not find an excuse to get off?
her notebook was full of their life together. the things they'd done. well, of course, once she gained the courage to find out his name.

page one: we took our first road trip together! we went to the beach, for a picnic, and he brought a little basket especially for collecting seashells. ... and when we got home, he bought a picture frame and pasted the shells on the front, placing a picture of the two of us inside. he is so sweet!
page five: my new haircut is horrible, horrible, horrible! he wants to come over tonight, but how can i let him see me? ...he came with pretty barrettes and box of hair dye, and together, we laughed and washed my hair in the big bathtub. i kept blinking and he swept the water drips off my face. it was so much fun!
page eight: meeting the family was wonderful! his little sister immediately wanted everything to do with me. his father kept nudging him, making me giggle. his mother was loving and baking and open- expressing how pleased she was that her son found such a talented and lovely girl. this could be it!

back to reality. the train stopped and he got up, making eye contact with no one. she jumped off behind him, rehearsing different lines in her head... should i fall and see if he helps me? ask directions? just introduce myself?
a woman walked his way. no, no, no. there's no way... he can't have a... he waved to the woman. she tossed her long blond hair and they kissed, a flash of a diamond taunting from her hand.

#72

they aren't asking for much, really. the most they want out of life is just to feel a little less shitty than they do at present.
they sit, content with box wine and cheap beer, under yellow proch lights, filtering itself on long brown branches that used to be tall brown trees.
as children, they climbed them and sat, watching and pretending, imagining discoveries.
now they climb and sit- only now we carry heavier limbs; tired imaginations, ruined by the stark and barren miles behind.
sitting on the porch, waiting for inhibitions to disappear, along with boxed wine and cheap beer.

#71

she was submerged. the water swirled slowly around her, filling her nose, her ears, she opened her eyes and saw only white. nothing in her mind. just white.
the water stilled itself and there was quiet. slowly her eyes closed.
there was only quiet.
suddenly someone grasped her by the shoulders. "what are you doing?!" and she was pulled from the porcelain tub, hair and water obscuring her face.

#70

"you never feel that way?"
"i guess not. maybe i just don't understand you."
she turned a little half circle, leaned her back against the bridge. the wind, making ripples in the water below, turned its attention to her hair, blowing it in her face, making a crooked part on the back of her head.
"it's just that feeling of being unfulfilled, knowing that there's more out there."
"you need a boyfriend."
"actually," she paused, "i think it's the opposite. with a boyfriend it's like, he's your standby. there's always someone to go to the movies with, to hold your hand, he's obligated to be there when i'm freaking out over spilling pie all over the oven. i want somebody who's always going to be there, even though he doesn't have to be. but then, as soon as i find that person, they soon become obligated. do you see? there's really no way around it."
spearmint scent filled the air as he popped in a fresh piece of gum. "you're worried nobody really likes you." he creased the shiny wrapper back to its original shape. "nobody likes anybody all of the time."
"what about you?"
the wind caught his laugh. "i'm stuck with me."

#69

they sat, one with his chin tilted down, staring across the table from under unkempt eyebrows, quiet, the muscles in his neck visibly flexed.
the other wore a listless expression, enhanced by polished round glasses. twitchy by nature, a well-moisterized hand holding a formal letterhead with a small serif typefont, he cleared his throat.
"we wish you luck in the future."
teeth clenched, he grabbed for the paper. it looked like the paper would be quickly smudged, but as he grasped it, his hands were stained, not dirty, making each crease, each fingerprint more pronounced, rough.
the small, office blue desk chair heaved a sigh as he stood, keeping his eyes straight forward.
the other began blinking quickly, nervous.
he crumpled the paper in one hand, threw it sideways. still looking at each other, they heard the swishing of the trash bag as it landed.

#68

the first time i met her, i knew she would die young. i almost hoped she would.

don't get me wrong. she was beautiful and i fell immediately into a mix of lust and deliverance. but everything about her, the easy friendliness, thick-lipped smiles thrown casually over her shoulder... i understood that she would somehow give me a reason to justify what i already knew. that the world is either much better or much worse than we hoped.

i'd never seen her before that tuesday on the 3:30 bus when she asked me for the time; i pretended to look at the sun and said "i'd guess about 3:32" and she let out a robust laugh and extended one soft, bony hand.
every day after, i would look for her, and we would hang on to the railings together. one day i found a seat and she pretended to be offended and i gave it to her anyway, staring at the way her spine reached through her shirt.
she was like an apparition. God's way of playing with my emotions and feeding on my need to feel something (anything) about the world.

i know now that we're all worse off than we had hoped. i knew it before, but she gave me a reason. i knew she would die young.