Half Empty

     I left the memorial service early to go on a date. The memorial was for a man I knew from high school, a Taylor Williams. He killed himself. The date was with a man I met at a party, a Jared Taylor. He worked for a bank. You might say I had Taylors on the brain.
     Jared Taylor ordered us a bottle of champagne. I am no aficionado of champagne but I am pretty sure it was an expensive bottle as the waiter raised his eyebrows and quickly looked at me. Then he nodded. We weren’t allowed to fill our own glasses, the waiter did that for us. It made me uncomfortable.
     I stared at my date from my side of the red leather booth and thought about high school Taylor. Taylor Williams had pointed at my legs one day in homeroom—usually covered by a long, flowing velvet skirt my mother had repeatedly begged me to throw out—and commented, “You have really white legs.” It was one of the first things he had ever said to me. I made sure from that point on to wear stockings under the skirt so my paleness could not be identified.
     “Have you ever thought about suicide?” I asked my date.
     He frowned and signaled the waiter to pour me more champagne, though my glass was still half full. I took that as a yes and was thankful I wasn’t the only one who lacked follow-through.
     Taylor Williams and I had ninth grade history together. He sat behind me and always smelled like the Big Red gum he chewed. Sometimes during a test I could hear him smacking behind me. It got to be so annoying I would make sure to switch seats during an exam day.
     Once, when we were both early to history, I asked him why he chewed gum. He said it was to stop him from smoking.
     “You smoke?” I asked, horrified that a fourteen-year-old boy had picked up the habit my parents informed me would kill me before I was thirty.
     “No. But it’s to stop me from starting. It’s something to do with my mouth.” And he offered me a piece. I accepted, though I preferred spearmint.
     Taylor still died before he hit thirty. At the service, his parents cried and I offered them a tissue that they accepted without remembering my name.
     My date asked me if I liked my job. I had forgotten that I had lied to him and told him I was employed as a receptionist at a Cosmetic Clinic specializing in face-lifts and liposuction. Reality—temping while I wrote the archetypal Angeleno screenplay—was just too typical and uninteresting to tell.
     “I love it,” I said as I took another sip of my bubbly. “Sometimes I save a little bit of the fat we slice off and use it in my cooking.”
     My date gagged a bit and excused himself to the restroom. I knew he was actually going to call some buddy of his and tell him what I just said. I would have done the same thing.
     I should have tried to make it work with the guy, my friend Susan said we’d make a really cute couple. But after the memorial service it seemed like an awful lot of effort to go to when, in the end, we’d both be dead. Perhaps via self-inflicted measures.
     I took a piece of fancy sourdough bread from the breadbasket and started to rip it into tiny little pieces.
     “Why are you doing that?” I imagined Taylor Williams asking from across the table.
     “It’s something to do with my hands,” I would reply.

Recycling

     She knows he can’t imagine her eating all that.
     Blind Date #23 sips a dignified spoonful of butternut squash soup. A freckle of creamed orange remains on his thin lips but she makes no attempt to alert him. Instead, she slices into her filet mignon. Blood leaks out like old nail polish.
     Blind Date #23 tries not to stare as she quickly and methodically bisects her meat. She cuts the flesh into perfectly square, bite-sized pieces and one by one pops them into her mouth like a snack enjoyed during a movie. Every now and then she breaks for a sip of red wine (his choice) or a bite of her side dish (pommes aligot). By the time she has finished her meal, he’s only consumed half of his soup and a few bites of his Lobster Cobb Salad (the dinner special).
     She smiles sheepishly at him and bats her eyes twice like her neighbor Christine taught her. “I guess I was hungry?” She raises her voice at the end, making the statement a question that requires his assurance.
     He laughs and informs her he likes a woman with an appetite. They both know this is not true, and she traces hearts onto the white tablecloth with her finger while he finishes his meal. Programmed muzak falls softly from the speakers above them.
     When the waiter offers them dessert, they ask for the check.


     Blind Date #23 wants to come up for a drink. He doesn’t say so outright, but when his glossy car purrs up outside her apartment he looks at her expectantly and says, “Well, here we are.” This is the point in the play where the comedic relief runs on stage and declares a joke. This is the point where the audience laughs and everything is okay. She should take the cue, no doubt her fancy fifty-plus meal earns the man at least one kiss and one good laugh, but she doesn’t have the energy. She’d rather stay backstage. If his conversation weren’t so monotonous she’d remain curled up in the passenger seat with the seat warmer on, listening to Miles Davis and enjoying the new car smell. Opening the door takes so much effort.
     She forces a smile. Her chapped lips crack. It’s easier to fake an orgasm. “I had a lovely time,” she says. “Goodnight.” And with all her might, she opens the car door.


     She takes care not to alert Christine of her presence when entering her apartment. She’s in no mood for Christine’s false chipperness—Mr. Right is out there somewhere! The question is, what if she doesn’t want to find Mr. Right?


     The cat is waiting for her, his long, back tail gliding back and forth on the wood floor like a snake. She doesn’t bother to take off her heels as she walks into the kitchen to crack open a tin of cat food. She dumps the wet chunks into the cat’s bowl and throws out the can. She doesn’t recycle. She doesn’t see the point, the homeless man by the dumpster will do it for her.

Cigarette

     I want to put a cigarette out on your back.
     Okay. I continue to dig through my purse.
     Still not looking at him, I wait for the cigarette sting. In my low-cut dress my bent back is bare and naked, exposed to both the elements and the small circular nub of fire he holds between his smooth fingers. I wait, but the pain never comes.


     I turn to look up at him and arch an eyebrow. I thought you were going to put a cigarette out on my back.
     I’m afraid.
     You’re afraid? I’m the one who is going to be scarred.
     That’s why I’m afraid.


     I watch him finish off his cigarette. He flicks it haphazardly onto the ground, and I try not to be annoyed by his defacement of my apartment building.
     Now you’re done with your cigarette.
     I could light another one.
     I stand to walk back in to my apartment; a wave of vertigo passes through me. I would eat something but he likes me thin.


     Smoking gives you cancer, I offer as we sit in silence on the couch.
     Surprise surprise.
     I shrug. I’m disappointed he didn’t hurt me, and I’m worried about my disappointment. I thought I was just an emotional masochist.
     I want a cigarette.
     You don’t smoke.
     What, are you afraid I’ll put a cigarette out on you?
     I doubt I would feel it.
     I know you wouldn’t.


     We smoke in the courtyard in silence. I cough with my first drag and curse my lack of poise. My neighbors’ two kids play cards on their stoop. The older one wins a game and laughs in victory.
     I notice his cigarette is almost out.
     Okay, I say. I’m going to turn around and watch those kids. You put your cigarette out on my back, right under my left shoulder to the right of the mole.
     Are you sure?
     Yes.
     I turn away. I hear him take his last drag. I wait for the burn.

The Racist

The following story is inspired by "The Dinner Party" written by Joshua Ferris. The prompt was write a page or two about race.

     “All I want,” I argue as I stir the scalloped potatoes in with the rest of the soup, “is for you to admit that you are a racist.” A bit of the mixture splashes back up out of the pot and onto my forehead. I wipe it off with a finger and taste. It needs more onions.
     He’s dicing said onions and not meeting my gaze.
     Tonight we are arguing about race. Yesterday it was abortion. We had both thought race would be a slightly lighter topic for pre-dinner discussion. We had both been wrong.
     “I’m not a racist!” Brian shoves a small white ceramic bowl filled with the chopped onions in my face. I consider voicing the biting comment that of course he wouldn’t cry cutting onions, he’s heartless, but I refrain. The fact that he didn’t just storm out of the kitchen the second I pulled the racism card out of my recipe rolodex proved I had hit a nerve.
     “You certainly hate Mexican food,” I tease as I dump the onions into the stew. “I had wanted to make fajitas but nooo we had to serve a white-bread American dish.”
     He groans over by the sink where, bless his heart, he’s doing the dishes. “You are making a French dish, my sweet. My dislike of Mexican food does not mean I hold a dislike for Mexicans. Mexican food gives me gas. Mexicans do not.”
     “There!” I wave my ladle in his face; red splotches fly haphazardly all about the kitchen. I will have to Windex-Wipe them into oblivion before the guests arrive. “It’s the tone you used. You’re a racist. Just admit it. I won’t judge.”
     “You are stereotypically categorizing me as racist because I am a white, fairly successful, male. Frankly, I think you are classist.” He pulls the Windex-Wipes out from under the sink and begins to clean.
     I gently serve the soup into china bowls. As always, I am amazed as to how these dishes, cheaply procured in China Town, could appear both so beautifully sterile and yet, with a single ornate design—the flash of a golden rose and her thorn, add an oriental, mysterious quality to kitchenware. The Asians sure know how to decorate.
     “Classist?!” I yelp. “What does that even mean?” I pile the soups onto a tray and carry them into the dining room. There, I shift the linen tale napkins a bit to their left. “Brian,” I continue once the bowls have been rightly placed, “I just like giving my friends a nice, dignified dinner party.”
     “Right,” he snickers from the kitchen. I hear him make himself a scotch on the rocks. “And you and all your friends can feel so high and mighty judging the world up here in this Manhattan loft while the rest of us plebeians are mocked, thrown out with the trash, and yet we are the ones labeled as racist?”
     I ignore him and start to tidy up the living room.
     “Darling?” I call as I fluff some pillows and make sure the wicks in all the candles are fire-friendly, “Can you start uncorking the wine?”
     “Already on it, Love.” He enters carrying three bottles—a red, a white, and a rosé. I nod at one of the bartenders I’ve hired for the night. “Give the wine to him.”
     “Who is that kid?” Brian asks. “Shouldn’t he be out at the Cape pushing lawnmowers?”
     We both stand still and watch the boy awkwardly cut lemons. “So he’s young. He mows the Richadsons' Hampton home and comes highly recommended. This way, if someone throws up we have someone on standby to clean up the mess.”
     “I’ll take being a racist over whatever you are.” Brian hands over the liquor and helps me pull a tablecloth across the coffee table. “Nobody cares about this crap, you know.”
     “I do. I care.”
     “Would you mind if I invite some friends to this?” He waves his hands over all my handiwork. There’s a glint in his eye, and for the first time all evening he seems happy. I’m thrilled by his offer.
     “Certainly! It’d be lovely if we could get your friends to meet my friends so, one day, when we announce the engagement…” He lays a finger on my lips and kisses my forehead.
     “Soon.”
     I sigh and vent my frustration into another throw pillow.
     Brian is too amused by some personal joke to recognize that I am upset. He leaves the room to make some phone calls. Ten minutes later he returns, all smiles.
     “I invited friends!” he says.
     “Who?” The daisy planter belongs on the counter, the lavender on the coffee table. I walk towards the kitchen to fill the vases. Brian follows me.
     “Jose and Bill.”
     I stop in the middle of the living room, a vase of flowers in each of my hands.
     “You invited…” my voice is steal. My arms have started to shake. The flowers are unnaturally heavy.
     “Jose. You know, he does some handiwork for us. He’s a gardener, capitol fellow. And Bill.”
     In a small, tentative voice, I look up at Brian’s smirking expression to ask the one question I do not want to know the answer to: “Who is Bill?”
     “Why, Bill’s our neighbor! You always talk about him? His manners are impeccable.” Brian is mocking me now.
     I refuse to play this game. “Oh, Bill! Our neighbor with the motorcycle. Our neighbor--“
     “The Negro!” Brian bellows. He slaps himself on the knee. “This cocktail party just got entertaining.” He watches me as I, in total silence, fill the vases in the kitchen and place them on their respective living room tables.
     I do not look up from the place settings. We need more paper napkins. I need to go check on the soup bowls, perhaps I served them too soon.
     “You have to uninvite them, honey,” I calmly demand as I hand him a wad of napkins without meeting his eye. “Put these out and then make the calls.”
     Like a petulant child, he shakes his head. “No.”
     “Why not?” I stop and glare.
     “I’m going to hang out with my friends from a different race. How many of your friends are anything but white?”
     I ignore him. This is no longer funny. “I asked you to invite your friends, not people to prove a point.” Together we walk back into the den. He holds the napkins while I re-arrange the flowers.
     “They are my friends! Jose and I have a lot in common, we both like the sun, and hot sauce…”
     “There!” I shout. The bartenders glance over at us and quickly look away. “You’re trying to be funny, but you’re just sounding like a goddamn racist.”
     “I was being funny.” He throws the napkins on the floor. “Fuck this, if you’re going to be such an anal retentive bitch I’m going out for a beer.”
     “You call them and uninvite them first!” I shout as he slams the front door. I smile at the bartenders. He’s forgotten his coat and will likely be back for it so as to not freeze to death.
     But he doesn’t come home. So later, when in the midst of my party one awkward Mexican man shows up with jeans and an accent that clash against our fancy cocktail dresses and expensive upbringing, and when a tall, well-spoken black man arrives and is immediately hit upon by three married women and despised by two of their husbands, I alone am left to clean up the mess.

Suicide Smut

     She awoke to his hand between her legs.
     “What the fuck are you doing?” she mumbled, slapping his slender digits made sweaty by the heat between her thighs. “I’m trying to sleep.” She turned over on her side, away from him.
     His voice was hoarse and hot in her ear. “I’m horny,” he replied. He slipped his hand under her nightshirt to fondle her breast. Almost casually, he pinched her nipple.
     She hated how her body so naturally reacted to his. Like a reflex, she turned over on to her back. “If you must,” she half groaned, half sighed. Anything to make him happy.
     But as she squinted her eyes open against the morning light beaming through her shades, she saw that he was not happy. Even as he positioned himself above her, his dick ready in his hand, the grimace on his face was not of the expected pain-pleasure, but just of pain.
     “Hey,” she said softly, reaching up with one hand to place one stray Superman curl behind his ear, “are you okay?”
     “Fine,” he grumbled as he slid into her.
     She gasped; the lack of foreplay was evident. But, as always, her body quickly responded. Soon, she was moaning, raising her hips in a rhythmic reaction to meet his own.
     As they fucked, she drifted above their gyrating bodies to look down at her bed. They were not a pretty sight. The noises she made shamed her. She could be their own morning rooster wake up call. Her teenage neighbor must be having a field day.
      She was close, she noticed from her hazy perch over them. Her body’s closed eyes and reddened face proved that. But she couldn’t see his face. She frowned, suddenly desperate with the need to see his eyes, his dimples, him.
     If she could have, she would have seen his big, shit-eating grin. She would have seen him wince just once, and then give a quick nod.      Instead, all she saw was his pelvis continue to thrust into her prone body as he balanced himself with one hand and, with the other, reach under his pillow. She saw him pull out a gun, small and sleek and black, and hold it in stark contrast against his temple pale and white. She saw him thrust, she saw her climax, and she saw him pull the trigger.

Prone To Breakage

The following story is inspired by the following writing exercise found on Aimee Bender's website:

For a group; 3 or more is best.
On a scrap of paper, write down an occupation. On a second scrap of paper, write down a kind of store. Pass the occupation to the person at your left; pass the store type to the person at your right. You will end up with two scraps, by two different people.
Then, in a couple of pages, explain why this person is at this store, and describe the small event that happens while the person is there. Use the store.

In my writers' group, I was given the profession "philosopher" and the setting "antique hardware store." What follows is my attempt to do this prompt while remaining true to the theme of this blog.



     “So now you’re a philosopher,” I snap as I finger a tiny brass hammer the size of my palm. “Good for you.”
     He sighs and takes the hammer from me. He squints against the dim light and reads the tiny ticket attached to the hammer. The tag flutters against the wind emitted by a small albeit well-placed fan hidden in the corner of the store, and it takes him longer than normal to decipher its inscription. “This is from 1927,” he scolds, “treat it with delicacy.” He nods towards a sign posted high to our right as he gently returns the hammer back to its home.
     I look up at the aforementioned warning framed in what is likely an antique frame above what is likely an antique cash register. Please be delicate, objects are prone to breakage, it cautions, the fancier version of “you break you buy.” The words themselves are printed in a jarringly modern font, and I feel that the sign would be much more appropriate had someone written that warning by hand, or even better, with carefully elegant calligraphy. Below the admonition and behind the register stands an elderly woman with curly blue hair and frosted white tips. She’s likely older than half the antiques in this dump.
     This thought causes me to laugh; I accidentally snort a whiff of dust and sneeze three short expulsions in a row.
     “I hate this stupid store,” I complain as I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “It only has antique hardware, nothing interesting. And it’s dusty.” I glare at the elderly woman, she is too busy polishing a nail longer than my middle finger to pay me any heed.
     He, too, isn’t listening to me. Instead, he runs his hand through a dark wooden box of screws, smiling absently as if he’s massaging a bag of smooth pebbles and not sharp metal points.
     Frustrated, I look out the store’s finger-print laden windows and watch as two of our fellow tourists walk hand in hand towards the beautiful beach that makes this patch of coast such a desirable vacation destination. We had taken this three-day holiday to work out our relationship kinks, not shop for unusable and therefore useless paraphernalia. The fact that there is even a market for tools that are “prone to breakage” depresses me. I again curse the hotel staff for recommending antique shopping as a suitable weekend excursion.
     “I’m just saying,” he continues as I follow him over to a table covered with old measuring tapes. These twines are not made out of plastic like the measurements of today, but soft materials like felt; one particular piece feels like velvet. I wind the faux-velvet rope between my fingers like a boxer getting ready for a match. “I think some people aren’t meant for long-term monogamy.”
     “And you got this from reading some Kafka and one book on basic philosophy?” I mime a jab and imagine the crowd roaring in approval.
     He rolls his eyes and takes my hand. Gently, he unwinds the tape and places it back on the table.
     “I was just thinking out loud,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
     “I hate this place, it’s gross, let’s leave,” I reply. This time, the blue-haired woman does hear me. Off his embarrassed glare, I, too, shrug. “I’m just thinking out loud.”
     Quickly, we exit the antique hardware store. When we are outside, he turns left and I go right. It takes longer than I’d like for me to realize we aren’t walking together.

Sweet Dreams III

     Last night I had another dream about your sister.
     The dream is always the same. I meet her for coffee. I order a Chai Latte and offer to buy her anything she wants. Hot chocolate? Pumpkin muffin? She glares at me and stiffly takes a seat at a round table by a square window. She orders nothing. The barista looks sympathetic as she hands me my drink. In the dream, the drink is so hot I nearly burn my hand.
     As I pull out my chair, I make sure my silver cross and chain is easily noticeable. Mom bought me the necklace in one of her many attempts to force spirituality upon me. (God is the ultimate boyfriend, after all. He never disappoints.) Your sister is deeply religious and would probably get along better with my mother than with me; yet if acting like I’m a Believer will help her to like me, then fine. At this point in the dream—and in true life—I am willing to try anything for her acceptance.
     This is the time in the dream where your sister makes it known she dislikes me. No surprise there. Under her breath she informs me that I will never earn her approval. Thus, you will never be free to love me, much less move us on to the next level in our overly dramatic relationship. Your sister smiles a smug smile as she says this; she is so proud of her hold over you. Sometimes, she even helps herself to a sip of my latte.
     But this is my fantasy, not hers. Soon it is my turn to yell. This is my favorite moment, this is the reason I dream, and I know my real self is smiling, grinning a wide, Cheshire Cat grin into my pillow. It is so freeing, this yelling, this screaming at your sister. My soul soars as high as my voice—louder even. The sympathetic barista gives me a thumbs up and the few patrons scattered about eating scones hear my side of the story and agree with me: your sister is a bitch.
     Here, in the comfortable security of my dream, I can say and do what I never say and never do. In the waking world I nod sympathetically when you tell me I can’t come in when I drop you off at your apartment—Sister would freak out. I claim I understand when on a Saturday date night you can’t stay out late because you are going to Church with Sister the next morning and you worry what she’ll think if you sleep over. I have known you for three years and you have flaked on me a total of seven times on her account, once for each of the major sins.
     Family first, you always say. I am starting to see you will never let me join this family.
     After I expel a good amount of empowering and invigorating shrieking, your sister holds up one well-manicured hand and speaks. Calmly, she informs me that you certainly do not have to listen to her. You could tell her to buzz off. You could live your life, without her.
     We both know you won’t. As I stare down at my drink I wonder who I hate more— her, or you.
     Your sister speaks the truth. She speaks the truth and then she sighs. She stands up and walks out of the coffee shop. When I look up from my latte, neither the barista nor the single remaining patron will meet my eyes.
     This is about the time I wake up.

Sweet Dreams II

     At night she dreams of fucking other men. She picks them up at bars, or at the bookstore, in one dream while buying popsicles at Trader Joe’s. Always, they are immediately attracted to her wise wit and charming smile. They come over without much provocation. These men find her irresistible.
     And with each thrust, as they tumble under her floral bed-sheets and exchange bite marks and giggles, she thinks of him, of the asshole who is likely at his place, solemnly sitting in his underwear eating ice-cream and watching late night television instead of calling her, or responding to her adoring emails, or thinking of her at all.
     Or perhaps he is out with his brother, picking up other women.
     As these dream men love her body she fitfully awakens with the knowledge that still, still she loves him. She never reaches climax. Instead, she wakes up frustrated and so very angry. She has visions of calling him and telling him off, and as her cheeks become wet and she covers her face with her sweaty palm she realizes that that particular confrontation will remain a dream.
     Really, she does not want to fuck these fantasy men. She is not horny; she is furious. She wants to hurt him, to force him to care, and since sex with her is the one facet of herself to which he is consistently committed, she knows that the only way to affect him whatsoever would be for her to sleep with someone else. And even then, the likeliness of his heartache would be dubious.
     So every night before bed she goes to bars, to bookstores, to clubs. Trader Joes, after all, is closed. She smiles at real men, men wearing ties, men wearing fedoras, men who might be lovely, fascinating individuals like her dream self. Sometimes, she even has a conversation with one or two of them. On the hard nights, as she finishes her second glass of red wine, one brave soul will ask for her number. When this happens, she closes her eyes for a solid second before opening them and gently, sadly shaking her head. She will go home alone, she will go to bed alone. She will dream alone and, as always, she will wake up alone.

Sweet Dreams

     After you fall asleep I find designs in the cracks of my bedroom ceiling. I try to control my breathing. I see a cat, a star, and a baby’s rattle. I frown at the toddler-themed design.
     When you start to snore I gently lift your arm off my breast and roll out of bed, nearly taking my daisy print bed-sheet with me. Wincing, I pull the sheet over you and I stand. For several seconds I watch the rise and fall of your chest. I should turn down the air conditioning, the fluttering of your bangs echoes the movement of my heart.
     In my bathroom, I text him as I brush my teeth. I make sure my phone is on silent before I hit send; I do not want the telltale bells of my message to wake you.
     With a newly minty mouth I kiss your forehead knowing you will not wake. I leave a note on your shoes by the bedroom door, however, just in case. Gone to the library to study, I lie. Be back later. I draw a small heart and sign my initials.
     I don’t know what part of me will be back, but not the me you think you love.


     I drive to his apartment with no music but the sound of my own thoughts. If only we hadn’t run in to him at the bookstore. We went looking for good fiction, not drama.
     Awkward in front of you, we had hugged. Trying to look brave, trying to look together, I told him he should call me sometime. If only I hadn’t meant it. If only I had deleted his number. If only I had ignored his calls. I shake my head at a stop sign. I knew what I was doing.
     You were so happy for me, it’s so nice to run in to long lost acquaintances! You do not know that he is an itch I cannot help but scratch, and through the blood of the fallen scab I find pleasure in my pain.
     My phone vibrates for two full seconds. At a stoplight I look-- he can’t wait to see me.


     The fabric of his old couch irritates my naked legs. I shift and wish he’d hold me. Embarrassed by the need, I bite my nails. You would hug me; you would cradle me. You always do after sex, and I always push you away.
     He rises from his spot on the opposite side of the couch to get a glass of water. When he returns he hands me a green washcloth so I can clean myself. I softly thank him as I take it-- I try to grasp his hand, but he’s already out of reach.
     I think of you, asleep in my bed back at home, and bite my lip. My blood tastes metallic.


     Thanks for visiting, he says as he walks me to his door. I muster a fake, tight smile, and we hug stiffly, like two strangers and not two old friends who just exchanged bodily fluids. He shuts his screen door and walks away, not even watching to make sure I make it safely to my car.


     I let myself in to my apartment. From the doorway, I hear your gentle snoring. From the bed, you cannot hear me cry.

Requiem

What would you do if I died?
Don’t be macabre.
Under the covers I rub your leg, long and lean, and pinch your calf. You probably wouldn’t even care.
Of course I’d care. You fold yourself out of bed and walk to the window. You pry open my blinds and peek outside.
Hey, I say, I didn’t mean to offend you.
You didn’t offend me.
I put your pillow over my face and sigh.


I’d be sad if you died.
Are we still on this?
I stare at the freckles littering your back. I draw an invisible line from freckle to freckle, a connect-the-dots of freckle constellations.
I just want you to know that I’d be sad.
I know you’d be sad. I hear the frustration in your voice, and with my finger outline my imaginary lines. Your back is cool to the touch.
You are a galaxy, far, far away.


That morning I make pancakes that you don’t eat.
I’m watching my cholesterol, you say as I stuff a syrup-laden spoonful into my mouth.
I wonder if this is a hint that I’m getting fat, and I try to ignore the little pudge of stomach that forms as I sit at the breakfast table.
You only live once, I offer with a wave of my fork, feigning lightness. You take a sip from your water bottle.
Did someone die that I don’t know about? You’re really starting to creep me out.
I shake my head. Rolling your eyes, you reach across the table and steal a bite of pancake.


After you leave, I write my obituary.
After you leave, I try to write my obituary.
After you leave, I think about writing my obituary.


I wrote my obituary, I say when I pick you up from work a few days later.
Jesus Christ.
Well, not really, I amend. But I thought about what I’d say.
You say nothing, but instead roll down my car window and light a cigarette.
What do you think you’d say in my obituary? I ask as I make a right turn as the yellow light turns red and a car honks. You glance at me.
I don’t know, I don’t think about these things.
I wish you would.


That night as you take a shower, I lie in bed and think about my funeral.
I would have you scatter my ashes somewhere pretty, like a garden.
Or maybe at the beach.
My friends would go out for drinks afterwards and tell funny stories about the various ways I’ve touched their lives. Then they would cry big, gut-wracking tears and hug one another for comfort.
I wonder if you would cry at my funeral.
I listen as you turn off the shower. You start to hum a popular song with a forgettable name.
Still humming, you enter the bedroom. You shoot me a smile while you pull on plaid boxers.
I smile back and start to hum along.
Together in chorus we drown out the realization that no, you would not cry.

Train Story

Let’s take a trip.
Somewhere romantic, I say.
I’m low on funds, you reply.

The train! The train is romantic.
Is the train cheap?

I rent movies involving trains. Strangers on a Train. Murder on the Orient Express. The Darjeeling Limited. After each movie I take notes on proper train etiquette. Helping old ladies store their bags is a yes, snoring loudly is a no.

Where should we go? I ask over drinks at the end of a workday. You sip your beer and I sip my scotch. They drink scotch in the train movies.

East Coast? Midwest? I delve into my purse and take out the brochures from the Amtrak agent.

I thought you wanted somewhere romantic.

The train is romantic! I reach across the table to take your hand but you wave to the waitress and order another beer.

I forgot my ATM card, can you pick this up?

Of course, I say, fingering my pamphlets. I use them as a Chinese fan to cool myself.


***


We need to choose a date, I say after sex where you cover my eyes with your hands. You sit perched on the edge of the bed, an endangered eagle ready to fly.

I’m fine with whatever you want.

I turn over on my side and pull up a sheet to ward off the cold of your air conditioning.

Next month then. I think it’s just what we need. This trip will save us.

You get up to pee.


***


We leave in two weeks! I grin when I meet you at your office.

I spent the day buying new luggage for our romantic revival. Two pink leather suitcases that cost half my rent. I liked how my reflection looked in them: shiny and rose-tinted.

I can’t go. You put your briefcase down on marble floor. A woman walks by and sneezes.

Why? I think of the luggage in my trunk, price tags still stuck.

You touch my arm to lessen the verbal blow. If I leave now, I worry I’ll lose my job. The company isn’t doing too well.

But, I say. But you said anytime. I bought the tickets.

They are refundable.

That’s not the point. I blink back tears. That’s not the point.

Hey, you say. You kiss my neck for the first time since we met and had sex two years ago. I’m sorry. I really want to take this trip with you. We will go one day.

I shake my head and we get into my car. I drive us home but don’t remember the drive.

That night you sleep. You never dream. I do not sleep, but I dream. I dream of trains passing us by, trains with passengers who think when they see us what a sad, sad sight.

265 Cloverfield

      After he fucks you he gets up to smoke a cigarette. You remain prone, your jeans strangling your calves in a reminder that you really need to get to the gym. Calmly, you pull your shirt back down over your stomach and adjust the bra. You’ve never been a fan of showing skin.
      You watch as he opens a window and lights up. It’s still early enough that the sun is gentle instead of harsh, an embrace with ambiance aided by the fact that you are on the coast where the sun does not rise but rather sets.
      He coughs, the bedside clock ticks. He does not look at you but briefly places a long, cool finger on the windowpane before scratching his neck. His fingerprint winks at you.
      You are unsure as to how to proceed. Is this your cue to get the heck out of dodge? You wonder where that particular phrase came from and you smile, enjoying the respite the absurdity of your post-coital thoughts affords you.
      He turns, nods at you, exhales. The smell of smoke, which reminds you of your high school boyfriends, fills the room. “What are you smiling at?”
      You shrug and put your smile away. You try to be mysterious. “Life.”
      “That’s specific.” He turns back to the window. You both watch as a sparrow circles around a tree once, twice, and glides out of view and into the tree’s dying leaves.
      The clock continues to tick in the offbeat of your pulse.
      “I wonder if he has a nest in there or something,” you offer, filling the silence. Then you sit up.
      It’s his turn to shrug. “Probably.”
      You grudgingly admire his chick-lit novel of an outline: tall, lanky, beautiful. He is beautiful, and you hate him for it. You do not hate him for the fact that he is smart, or for the fact that he knows—really knows, and loves—music, or books, or for all the other reasons that make him both so colloquially perfect yet so damnably unobtainable; no, you hate him for his beauty. It is some quality, some aura (if you believed in that crap), he emanates that makes people instantaneously like him without just cause.
      Last week he showed up at your friend’s swanky birthday party because you had promised him if he did he might—might—get lucky. Really, you just wanted to see him. Frankly, you were shocked he showed up at all. Of course he said all the right things to all the right people. You were so thankful for his popularity, so proud. It was show-and-tell in Mrs. Knudsen’s kindergarten class all over again. Only this time you didn’t bring in the wool scarf your aunt knit, no you showed up with a basketful of space rocks. His coolness made you cool. Over neon-colored martinis envious girls in tight dresses told you how great he was, how you two were so cute together, that couple-dome was right around the corner. Their business school boyfriends patted him on the back. You smiled and nodded and became drunk without taking a sip. And like many a drunkard before you, you fooled yourself into the belief that maybe, maybe finally the one man who refused to fall in love with you finally would.
      Still smoking, he walks away from the window and bends down to pick up his shirt. He’s been lifting weights, and you wonder if he’s noticed that you’ve stopped.
      With nowhere else to look you look up and notice a water leak, ugly and dark and awkward amidst the comfortable tan of his ceiling. It is not like him to leave his home so grossly stained. This is the man who alphabetizes his books in the bookshelf only after fastidiously wrapping their covers with construction paper using just three pieces of tape. The fact that his bookshelf is home to a sterile stripe of brown-backs instead of the hodge-podge collage of rainbow bricks found strewn about in your own library unnerves you. Sometimes you wonder what literature he is so ashamed of, or if the construction paper covers blank, meaningless pages instead of significant words.
      He claims he is fucked up, a metaphorical mess. So are you. You can be messy together, a whirlpool of chaos. Your pool could be one of the Wonders of the World, if he would just let it. People would visit from foreign lands with their travel groups and sunblock just to take your photograph and marvel at the symmetry, the controlled chaos, of your togetherness. Math books would be written about the genius of your equation. Together, you could defy science.
Instead, the void of your unsaid relationship will remain just that: a barren, empty waste of space. Display closed until further notice. Please redefine your mathematical proof. Evidence lacking.
      Finishing his cigarette he starts to dress, his black boxer briefs harsh against pale skinny legs. Maybe you don’t love this man.
      You consider asking for a towel to clean up, but that feels too vulnerable. Instead, you wipe yourself as best you can with a sheet. Though you have been in this bed for over an hour, for the first time you notice his sheets are Star Wars themed. You feel vaguely perverted as the Wookie cleans up your nether regions. Quickly, you pull up your pants.
      You do not know the proper etiquette for these situations. You do not usually have random, meaningless sex. You were raised to sell the cow, not give the milk away. For Christ’s sake, you were raised religious. Your mother would be so disappointed in you. Or worse, she would pity you; she would pity these desperate graspings of a drowning woman, begging for a breath of air.
      He drops his cigarette in a glass of water perched on the window ledge. You want it to be half full. He sits down upon a chair far across the room. He looks at you but doesn’t see. You shut your eyes for a long, cool moment. Then you open them, slowly. You hear the bird outside fly away; neither of you looks. Somewhere outside on the street a car horn honks. He blinks and the day begins.
      “I’ll put on my shoes,” you offer, after a moment.
      “Okay.”
      You hate him. He’s not going to get back in bed with you; he’s not going to pretend that this was about romance or, God forbid, love. He has never wanted to hold you after sex. You are angry with yourself for even being hurt. You knew this would happen; yet you willingly came over to “listen to music.” Ashamed, you stand up and walk briskly out the bedroom; he trails behind like the metaphorical lost puppy. You glance briefly at the framed photograph hanging on the wall of him, his ex-girlfriend, and his sister at the zoo. You hate that photo. You want him to take it down but refrain from saying so. Usually you comment on the fact that he has a photo of an ex still hanging up. You purposely make your tone casual, so he doesn’t read too much into it when you both know he should. But today you just don’t have the energy to fake not caring. Discouragement, like depression, causes fatigue. The kisses that you had naively hoped were sweet and not just sexual really were just sexual. There should be an anonymous club for masochists like you.
      Yet even drunk, you managed to keep some of your control.
      “I’m glad I could help you cum this time,” he murmurs, looking at you through slit eyes as he all too casually opens the apartment door for you to leave. He wants some validation of his manliness. You want some validation of your worth. Neither of you will get what you want.
      Your car looks lonely and bright by the grey curb. It is the freak of the dull neighborhood. A sparrow, perhaps the same one from before, flies by and lands on the sidewalk adjacent to your car. If you were a bird, you would never land on the ground. It seems too dangerous. A neighborhood cat could come out of nowhere and kill you instantly, leaving nothing behind but your marble-sized head on someone’s porch.
      You step over his neighbor’s Jack O’ Lantern as you escape from the porch. The pumpkin grins lasciviously at you; one triangle eye is exaggeratedly larger than the other. You feel its stare as you move to shoo the unsuspecting sparrow away. He stays framed by his doorway.
      “Yeah,” you say over flapping wings. “You were great. Thanks.”
      So you both speak lies. He pretends he could fall in love with you; you pretend you could ever trust him enough to let him give you an orgasm.
      He quickly glances around, his large brown eyes-- eyes that in moments of stupidity you describe as “puppy dog” and “loving”-- anxiously scan to make sure none of his neighbors heard. Not for the first time, you have the urge to slap him.
      You should have given him a hickey, not a love-bite but an honest hickey, violent and angry and small. A hickey would be something for him to worry about later, some primordial mark that signifies “mine.” Another lie.
      None of the other women you assume he meets and likely flirts with know you exist. His sister doesn’t even know your name and she lives down the street in the pink apartment complex with the garish spray paint of a palm tree slapped on its side. That apartment complex is more suited for the miserly seniors in Miami than the scenesters-cum-surfers of Santa Monica, an observation he brought up the first time he had you over years ago. You are the longest secret you’ve ever kept. The one time you accidentally met said sister during an uncomfortable late-night diner run-in (him with sister, you with friend) he referred to you as an “old-coworker.” Shame stopped you from saying anything, but your friend held your hand across the diner table as you did your best not to cry. You were only partly successful.
      His semen drips down your leg. You’re not sure what annoys you more: the fact that you will have to wash your jeans and they’ll then shrink and cause you to feel fat the next time you put them on, or the fact that his semen is dripping down your legs and he can’t fucking walk over and give you a hug.
      You look at him; he looks at something over your shoulder. You turn, but all you see is his neighborhood, stucco and suburban, suddenly darkened by the nearby sea’s fog. A palm tree leaf larger than your arm waifs by. You turn back to him, eyebrow expertly arched.
      “The bird,” he explains.
      You nod.
      “Well,” he says, shuffling his feet in acknowledgement of your sudden awkwardness. “Bye. Glad I could be of service.”
      Inwardly you cringe, all too aware that he makes this about pleasing you to absolve his own guilt. If you were a little less low, you would comment wryly on this. Instead you dramatically roll your eyes, causing him to laugh.
      “Bye.”
      You sit into the cocoon of your car and start the engine and the heater. It’s inappropriately cold for the beach environment. You watch in the rear view mirror as he turns into his apartment without looking back. Lost in your own sad thoughts you place the car into drive, and you barely recognize the thump below your feet as the sound of your car running over a bird.