Cogan bangs in. I don't look up; I can tell it's him by his clumping footsteps. "Hey," he calls out.
"Hi, Cogan."
He sheds his sweatshirt and comes into the kitchen, where I'm watching pizza microwave. Kisses me casually; he tastes like oranges. "You seem bored."
"I am." I sigh.
"No dates? Me neither," he says without waiting for an answer. "It sucks."
"Still got your eye on what's-her-name?"
"Elinor? Nah, she hates me, it's pointless." The microwave chirps and I slide the pizza slice out. Cogan gives me a puppy-look.
"Fine, I'll split it with you."
"I love you, Gabby," he says with a huge grin, shaking the hair out of his face. I can't help but smile back; he's rather a sweetheart, after all. I've known Cogan since the second grade.
Instead of cutting up the pizza, we eat it bite by bite. I make him give me the last one, since I was the one who nuked it, after all. Cogan consents. Then we move to the couch, nestling against each other. He turns on the TV.
"Nothing good's on," I mumble. "Nothing good's ever on."
He shrugs and flips channels, wielding remote like a shotgun, finally setting on a long, long music video in which an ethereal woman wails and there's an overactive fog machine. "Good enough," he says smugly.
I poke him just above the hip. "Cogannnn."
"Gabbeeeeee," he replies. "Gimme a kiss."
I give him a kiss, and he surprises me with a quick squeeze. "Sorry, Gabby, sorry," he apologizes immediately. "Couldn't help it."
"It's okay," I say. And I really don't mind. We've been roommates for almost two years now, we've fooled around a lot and fucked twice, and it's fun, a good outlet. We love each other, sure, but not that way. It's just a way to consummate our friendship, and we both know it.
Cogan yawns. "Work sucked today. This woman comes in and starts bitching about her coffee not being decaf. She wants her money back. She already drank the goddamn coffee. We're a bookstore, not fucking Starbucks."
I shake my head in sympathy.
"How bout you?"
"Went to pottery class, went to work, helped fifty little kids try on shoes, got some whining adults, got some decent customers. Robin's on my shift now, and she's really helpful. It was okay."
We watch TV for a while, not enthusiastically. We work on the crossword ("'aboard,' not 'on ship!'" I maintain). We go to bed.
It's a week later (the word was "aboard" after all), and I'm the one that bounces in this time. Cogan's home, reading a magazine. "Guess what?" and before he can guess-- because he always does-- I finish, "Hot guy."
"No way." He grins huge. I do too.
"Yes way. Came into the shoe store. Tried on a bunch of shoes."
"Hit on you?"
"Sort of. He took my card-- not just the store's card, but mine. I think I might get a call. Robin thinks so, too."
"Gabby, that's great!"
"Well, and you?" I say, taking my shoes off and throwing myself onto a comfy chair, feeling good all over. "Anything new going on?"
"Well, you know about Megan." For two days now he's known Megan, and she's all he's been talking about. Gorgeous gorgeous Megan. "She just started working at the bookstore. Turns out Fridays we work together. It'll be sick. She's just gorgeous, Gab."
"Does she like you?"
"She seemed friendly enough. She did that hair-and-sideways-glance thing."
I nod knowledgeablely. "She's into you all right." I don't know her, so he describes her for me: her shiny-gloss lips and straight red hair. Slim and tall, maybe even as tall as Cogan, who's what, five-ten? Seems nice enough-- seems absolutely wonderful, actually, but he is a little biased.
"Can't wait 'til Friday," Cogan says. He gets up, goes to the fridge, gets out a Popsicle. "Want one?"
"Sure." Megan wouldn't want a Popsicle, skinny little Megan. I've got some meat on me, God forbid. It's not like Popsicles are fattening anyway.
Cogan tosses me one; we eat them together. His is orange, mine grape. (We split our Skittles bags accordingly.) We talk about Megan, and then I describe the guy from the shoe store in detail. Cogan raises an eyebrow at the guy's nose stud, but approves overall. I'm content.
Friday gallops in and so does Cogan, obviously, because he calls me up breathless and goes, "Gabby, where are you?"
"At work, silly. And you're not supposed to call my cell here." Fortunately there's a momentary lag and no one's in the store, not too usual for a Friday.
"Gabby, Megan fucking likes me!"
You're shitting me, I think, but I don't say it. I opt for "Seriously?" instead.
"Seriously. I asked her out. We're going to dinner tonight." He sounds really excited, his voice tense with the effort of containing how thrilled he is. Not everyone would notice this, maybe, but I've known Cogan for almost my whole life, for maybe twenty years (God, that makes us seem old).
"That's great."
"Yeah."
A customer comes in, and I say goodbye in favor of leather-sweat shoes.
Dinner's lonely. I look thoughtfully at my card. It has my home phone number on it, and my name. I wonder if anyone has ever been stalked by business card; certainly I haven't. On a certain level cards are all about trust, trusting the stranger.
Thinking makes me frustrated, and so I read instead, and surf the Internet. Listen to pounding music. Begin to feel better.
Ten o'clock Cogan comes home and wraps me in a gigantic hug. He smells different and looks flustery.
"Go well?"
"Fuck yes."
I offer up a smile, which he beams back tenfold.
The next day I get a call. "Hi Gabby, um, it's Kevin. You know, from the shoe store the other day? Basketball shoes? Do you remember me?"
I'm pretty sure I do.
"I'm sorry it took so long to call, I misplaced your card."
His voice is puce. I'm charmed by the way he refers to himself by his shoes, as though he thinks someone who works at a shoe store remembers someone by their footwear. "That's okay."
"So um..."
I know what he's going to say, more positively than I've known anything, so I help him out. "Want to go out? Catch a movie, maybe, or dinner?"
He laughs, sounding embarrassed. "Yeah, that was what I was getting to. I was thinking that diner down on Fourth Street."
"I have a date for tonight," I tell Cogan.
He's genuinely happy. And he has one, too, how convenient, and wasn't Kevin the name of my ex, the one that skateboarded? As it happens it was, and I had forgotten him completely until Cogan mentioned it.
"This Kevin is better."
Eating with him is far less awkward than first dates normally are. Turns out he is, of all things, a test pilot-- not the career I'd expected, with his shaven head and luxurious shoulder tattoo (a Celtic knot). "Forever Young's one of my favorite movies," I say, and he grins.
"Yeah, that definitely influenced me."
"So if you're in the military, why were you buying shoes at my store?"
"Someone told me a really attractive girl worked there," he says, downing a shot of Coke like an expert. I giggle. "Um, but I just wanted shoes for home, you know. They only give you those boots. Not really good ones, either."
"Are you a basketball player?"
"Yeah, as a hobby, not on a team or anything." His eyes are a very light green.
"And you don't have a girlfriend."
He grins, shakes his head, darts a eyelash-glance at me. He's so obvious it's rather darling. He's only twenty-four, after all, two years younger than me.
I kiss him goodnight, because I know he wants to kiss me but he's too shy, and we make plans for next Tuesday night. I feel triumphant. He drives away in his little beat-up old car with the anti-Bush bumper stickers, and I unlock the house.
Cogan's still not home.
I wonder what Kevin would think of Cogan, and feel a little nervous. It's not like he's my boyfriend-- neither of them are, actually-- but still.
Then I wonder what Megan thinks of me, if she's jealous; wonder what he's told her about me. Pretty uncomfortable situation for him too. But it pays off for us both, since after all we are close.
I go to bed before he gets home, and can't help but worry myself wide awake until I hear him inside. It must be three at least. I pretend to be asleep when he checks my room.
The next morning we dissect our dates in detail. Cogan's interested in Kevin, and I want to hear about Megan... to a certain extent. "Why were you so late last night?" I eventually dare ask.
But all he does is grin. "Blame Megan. Gabby, she's so wonderful. We were actually talking; I never do that with anyone. We talked for hours and hours. It was amazing."
"You talk to me," I point out, a little hurt.
"Well, you, sure. But you're different."
He talks to Megan on the phone all of Sunday. Retaliating, I call Kevin. His sweet inexperience makes me feel better. I'm only his fourth girlfriend-- well, not girlfriend, quite. His fourth date.
Cogan's calling himself Megan's boyfriend now. He's making assumptions too quickly, I think. Only middle-schoolers say they're together when they've been on two dates. But she does seem to like him, from what I hear. I still haven't met her, and when I ask he dodges the question. "I dunno, Gabby. She might think you're competition."
"Don't you want to meet Kevin?"
"Yeah, but not if you don't want me to."
I don't really know what to do, but that evening genius strikes and I make a suggestion: double-date. Kevin likes the idea, and I sandpaper-work at Cogan until he grudgingly agrees. "Just don't embarrass me."
"Cogan, I'm not Julia." Julia being his ex and a friend from high school. "I have some tact."
"Megan might see you as a threat."
"Well, Kevin will definitely see you as a threat, so just act into her and I'll act into him and no one will have anything to worry about."
"We won't be acting, Gabby."
I don't answer.
We set the date for Tuesday, when Kevin and I were going to get together anyway. We decide to have lunch and then catch a movie.
Monday passes agonizingly, Tuesday too fast. I go to the little cafe, where Megan is waiting. The guys haven't arrived yet. I recognize her from Cogan's description, surprisingly accurate. She's very cute, though surprisingly flat, one problem I haven't had to worry about since age eleven.
"Hi," I say, "are you Megan? I'm Gabby." We shake hands; hers is freezing cold. I sit by her. "I've heard a lot about you."
"So you're Cogan's roommate?"
"Yeah, we've known each other for ages."
"Really," she says. "Do you think he likes me?" She seems very shy and uncertain, suddenly, and I have to tell her the truth.
"Megan, he's incredibly into you. You're all he talks about."
She smiles, a little dubiously. "Well. I like him too. It's amazing, kind of, the way we hit it off."
She asks about Kevin, and I tell her a little. She says he sounds like her cousin. She's not so bad, after all. Then Cogan shows up-- "Sorry I'm late"-- gives her a long, graphic kiss, and then comes over and hugs me. I've been watching, a little weirded out. "Hey, Gabby. This is Megan, I guess you met."
"We did," she says. I nod.
Cogan tells us about work, and we listen. I feel really awkward. Fortunately, Kevin arrives. "Hi, Kevin!"
"Oh, God, I'm really sorry, I'm the last, aren't I?" He shakes hands with Megan and Cogan, then takes a seat beside me. The waiter, who we've been deterring for the past several minutes, comes back like an invincible fly and we order. Megan gets a salad, Cogan a hamburger, Kevin a sandwich, and I order soup. We manage to have spirited conversations somehow. Kevin and Cogan seem okay with each other, and Megan and I have achieved a tenuous acquaintanceship.
Turns out there's no film we really want to see, so we go to Cogan's and my house instead and watch, at Kevin's urging, Bonnie and Clyde. It's a movie I could watch forever. Cogan, who's seen it too many times, is unenthusiastic: he likes action, but more along the lines of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Megan hasn't seen it yet, somehow, and she cries at the end.
Then she says her shift at the bookstore they work at is coming up and gets up off Cogan's lap. And then Kevin leaves too, and it's just me and Cogan. We sit on opposite ends of the couch. I raise an eyebrow at him.
"That was fun," he says.
"Yeah. It was."
"Kevin seems like a good kid."
"Megan's pretty nice too," I allow.
"I guess now that we're both... we can't... you know."
"Yeah, I mean, it wouldn't be fair to them."
He nods, and we both move closer to each other until we're sitting in the crack between the pillows. I breathe him in.
"I like you better, Gabby," he says with a hitch in his voice.
"No you don't."
"I think I do."
"Platonically."
"Maybe," he hesitates. "Maybe platonically."
"I know what you mean." Actually I feel kind of the same way. "Cogan?"
"Yeah?"
"I think we might get married. In a bunch of years. You and I."
"Yeah, maybe," he says thoughtfully. "Megan... she's really incredible, but not... I couldn't spend my life with her."
I picture Kevin, his sallow features and wannabe nose stud, his good looks and army-man, average mouth. I like him a lot, I really do, but he's not a Cogan. "I mean, we know each other so well, we might as well be married already," I falter.
He shrugs. "Might as well have fun while it lasts, I guess."
"You mean you wouldn't have fun being married to me?"
Now he smiles. "Wouldn't be the same."
A pillow fight ensues, and I guess I'll just take things as they come.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
The Barn
The site was cordoned off; yellow tape and child policemen surrounded it protectively. Yana drew her shawl around her shoulders and walked up to one of the policemen, bold by desperation. "Please, sir, can't I see?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, we can't let anyone in." The boy had a very neutral face, beardless. Probably he couldn't even grow a beard. He couldn't have been twenty. He was very pale.
"But I think my fiance... he might be in there." The terrorist had been led away; he hadn't put up a fight. Everyone inside the barn was dead. Misha had been in the barn an hour ago, she knew, volunteering to enlist. She thought perhaps he had escaped. Hoped so blindly.
"I'm very sorry," said the boy, who looked like Yana's nephew Isak, really. "I wish I could help."
"When... when will they take out the bodies?"
The boy shook his head. "I don't know. Would you like to give me your telephone number, and I can let you know?"
Yana gave the boy her address instead. She didn't want to leave, though. An older policeman came and brought the young ones coffee and doughnuts. Her policeman offered her a quarter doughnut, which she accepted. She sat on a doorstep, adjusted her skirt and watched the policemen. They made her angry, the way they avoided the inside of the barn. Someone must have checked to see if all the people inside were dead, of course. Or had they? She thought of asking, but she had bothered the boys enough. She thought of Misha, his lamb's beard and lips that always bled. She wanted to tear off her headscarf and burn her fingers and rend her clothing. More, she wanted Misha to show up suddenly beside her and kiss her and kiss her.
The sun dimmed; shadows lengthened. Yana tore off her shoes and walked home barefoot. She ran a bath and couldn't stand to take it. She sat at the table, unable to do anything. Her mother came over. Yana talked to her for a few minutes and sent her off. She lit a candle and passed her fingers through the flame. The hours passed so slowly that Yana felt they had taken up a year. She slept perhaps two hours all night.
The next morning the young policeman knocked for her. Yana was thrilled to see him, and hugged him. He led her to the scene. "They took out the bodies, if you want to identify your fiance. If he's in there, which he might not be." He was a boy in all respects.
Some of the corpses were almost unscathed; others, maimed to the point of inhumanity. Misha was not among the recognizable ones, although two of the mangled ones had builds similar to his. "Reason enough for hope, I'd say," said the policeman optimistally. "If you find him, let me know, will you? I'll be at the police station for the next week. My name is Sander."
Yana nodded and let him lead her out. She walked home, still shoeless, almost wishing that her feet were not so callous so that they would show her pain. She opened her door and
--there sitting at her table was a man with a woolen coat and a lamb's beard and eager brown eyes and empty gloved hands--
"Misha!"
She knocked him and the chair over in her incredulous joy, and he was laughing, "Yana, what are you doing, you'd think I'd been gone a year!" and she cradled his face in her hands.
"God, God above, Misha, didn't you know? The barn you went to enlist in, a terrorist set a bomb in it, not an hour after you'd gone. I was so worried, Misha, Misha."
Misha was speechless and Yana saw that his hands shook. She steadied them. "God," Misha said after a little time, which got it all across really.
"Well," said Yana at length. "Did they let you join the army?"
"I've got a weak heart," he said regretfully. "They wouldn't let me."
"Just as well," and Yana was happier than she would have wanted him to know.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, we can't let anyone in." The boy had a very neutral face, beardless. Probably he couldn't even grow a beard. He couldn't have been twenty. He was very pale.
"But I think my fiance... he might be in there." The terrorist had been led away; he hadn't put up a fight. Everyone inside the barn was dead. Misha had been in the barn an hour ago, she knew, volunteering to enlist. She thought perhaps he had escaped. Hoped so blindly.
"I'm very sorry," said the boy, who looked like Yana's nephew Isak, really. "I wish I could help."
"When... when will they take out the bodies?"
The boy shook his head. "I don't know. Would you like to give me your telephone number, and I can let you know?"
Yana gave the boy her address instead. She didn't want to leave, though. An older policeman came and brought the young ones coffee and doughnuts. Her policeman offered her a quarter doughnut, which she accepted. She sat on a doorstep, adjusted her skirt and watched the policemen. They made her angry, the way they avoided the inside of the barn. Someone must have checked to see if all the people inside were dead, of course. Or had they? She thought of asking, but she had bothered the boys enough. She thought of Misha, his lamb's beard and lips that always bled. She wanted to tear off her headscarf and burn her fingers and rend her clothing. More, she wanted Misha to show up suddenly beside her and kiss her and kiss her.
The sun dimmed; shadows lengthened. Yana tore off her shoes and walked home barefoot. She ran a bath and couldn't stand to take it. She sat at the table, unable to do anything. Her mother came over. Yana talked to her for a few minutes and sent her off. She lit a candle and passed her fingers through the flame. The hours passed so slowly that Yana felt they had taken up a year. She slept perhaps two hours all night.
The next morning the young policeman knocked for her. Yana was thrilled to see him, and hugged him. He led her to the scene. "They took out the bodies, if you want to identify your fiance. If he's in there, which he might not be." He was a boy in all respects.
Some of the corpses were almost unscathed; others, maimed to the point of inhumanity. Misha was not among the recognizable ones, although two of the mangled ones had builds similar to his. "Reason enough for hope, I'd say," said the policeman optimistally. "If you find him, let me know, will you? I'll be at the police station for the next week. My name is Sander."
Yana nodded and let him lead her out. She walked home, still shoeless, almost wishing that her feet were not so callous so that they would show her pain. She opened her door and
--there sitting at her table was a man with a woolen coat and a lamb's beard and eager brown eyes and empty gloved hands--
"Misha!"
She knocked him and the chair over in her incredulous joy, and he was laughing, "Yana, what are you doing, you'd think I'd been gone a year!" and she cradled his face in her hands.
"God, God above, Misha, didn't you know? The barn you went to enlist in, a terrorist set a bomb in it, not an hour after you'd gone. I was so worried, Misha, Misha."
Misha was speechless and Yana saw that his hands shook. She steadied them. "God," Misha said after a little time, which got it all across really.
"Well," said Yana at length. "Did they let you join the army?"
"I've got a weak heart," he said regretfully. "They wouldn't let me."
"Just as well," and Yana was happier than she would have wanted him to know.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
a post about me
I wrote a story but it is too personal right now to share. It has little to do with me but a lot to do with my beliefs. Maybe tomorrow.
I like George Harrison.
I made a new blog, because the name fried bread was not taken (why, I do not know).
I am planning a huge novel which will not be written for about a decade. Also I want to write some split-scenarios. My life will take a psycho turn which should entertain you all.
I like George Harrison.
I made a new blog, because the name fried bread was not taken (why, I do not know).
I am planning a huge novel which will not be written for about a decade. Also I want to write some split-scenarios. My life will take a psycho turn which should entertain you all.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
The Bad Job
"Why do you do it?" I asked Ira. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, the weasel.
"It’s just for the money," he said softly. "It’s not like I have a choice."
"You could quit, you know."
"It’s more complicated than that."
I wanted to hit him. Ira was a coward, that was the matter with him. I felt a real hatred for him as I looked at him, the short man with the thinning hair and weak cyan eyes. Weak, that was the only way my brother could be described.
"Ira," I said, trying to stay calm. "You are... you’re a messenger is what you are. You call people when their family members are killed in combat to give them the news. What kind of fucking job is that?"
"It’s not that bad, Lizzy, and I mean, I can’t exactly quit. Someone’s got to do it and no one else wants to. But the people need to know. What’s more important, my conscience or their knowledge?"
"I don’t know." I sighed. "Ira, I’ve known you since before I was born. I don’t... I care about you. This sucks. Get yourself some nice job."
"And a nice house and a nice wife while I’m at it?"
"Seriously, though." Making an effort to see things from Ira’s point of view, I felt kind of sorry for him. He was trying to be a good person, sort of. And he was right-- someone had to break the news. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else, someone else’s sibling.
Just as other people’s sibling’s deaths were what he had to talk about all day.
At a loss, I glanced at my watch and noted the time gratefully. "I’ve got to go, Ira. I’ll call you. Maybe we can work something out. I really do want the best for you."
"Just as I want the best for you, Lizzy."
We hugged and then I left his apartment, thoughtful.
He had a problem that I knew I would spend a lot of time thinking about, trying to solve.
"It’s just for the money," he said softly. "It’s not like I have a choice."
"You could quit, you know."
"It’s more complicated than that."
I wanted to hit him. Ira was a coward, that was the matter with him. I felt a real hatred for him as I looked at him, the short man with the thinning hair and weak cyan eyes. Weak, that was the only way my brother could be described.
"Ira," I said, trying to stay calm. "You are... you’re a messenger is what you are. You call people when their family members are killed in combat to give them the news. What kind of fucking job is that?"
"It’s not that bad, Lizzy, and I mean, I can’t exactly quit. Someone’s got to do it and no one else wants to. But the people need to know. What’s more important, my conscience or their knowledge?"
"I don’t know." I sighed. "Ira, I’ve known you since before I was born. I don’t... I care about you. This sucks. Get yourself some nice job."
"And a nice house and a nice wife while I’m at it?"
"Seriously, though." Making an effort to see things from Ira’s point of view, I felt kind of sorry for him. He was trying to be a good person, sort of. And he was right-- someone had to break the news. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else, someone else’s sibling.
Just as other people’s sibling’s deaths were what he had to talk about all day.
At a loss, I glanced at my watch and noted the time gratefully. "I’ve got to go, Ira. I’ll call you. Maybe we can work something out. I really do want the best for you."
"Just as I want the best for you, Lizzy."
We hugged and then I left his apartment, thoughtful.
He had a problem that I knew I would spend a lot of time thinking about, trying to solve.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Alistair
It was very important for Alistair to look impeccable. Standing in front of the mirror, he added a dab of eyeliner, pulled out the powder again-- his skin just wasn't pale enough no matter how little sun he saw, a source of constant frustration. He bared his teeth experimentally. Still as white as ever; now those he worked hard on. His hair was starting to thin, unfortunately, although color wasn't a problem. Naturally brown-haired, he used black dye to perfect his look.
Of course it couldn't appear too contrived; that would ruin the whole thing. His reputation was staked on his professional looks, really. Alistair Morgan, always... impeccable. "Impeccable," he said thoughtfully, relishing the word. He looked, he decided, good enough. The hard part was that he had to stay subtle, or people would write him off as a crazy man. The way he looked now was good. Not perfect, but almost.
Satisfied, Alistair swirled out of his house and drove to the bar. "A very Bloody Mary on the rocks. As usual." He examined his nails; they had healthy white margins still. He was improving.
"How's it hangin', Al?" said the bartender, Dominic, handing over the drink and noting Alistair's appearance with approval.
"Well," said Alistair loftily, sucking on the straw's tip. "I must say this drink is rather good, Dominic. Better than your usual."
"Well, we got a B-type. Much rarer than the O's, and more gourmet."
Alistair was impressed.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
This WILL be edited-- it's been consuming lots of my time
| Colin was the Reverend's son, so he had access to the church. Since childhood he had liked to go in during the week, to sit on a pew and bask in the quiet. Once at a young age he had gone up to the shrine and tried to hug Jesus on the cross, to give him some comfort. His father had been very angry when he had caught him. "Colin! What are you doing? Show some respect!" He had been belted and could hardly sit for a week. Fifteen years later, thoughts of that still made Colin mad. That incident had tainted his thoughts of God, in a way. His father hadn't helped. The Reverend worked all week on his speeches. He would pace their small house while reciting in a booming voice, keeping Colin, his brother Devon and his sister Mary from playing, or even doing their homework. When they disturbed the Reverend, he hit them with the flat of his hand. It wasn't meant as anything more than a shock; the Reverend was not a violent man. But he did not shy away from punishing. The Reverend was righteous. Agnes, the Reverend's wife, was quiet. The Reverend didn't hurt her, ever. Agnes he loved. Agnes loved the Reverend, too. More than the children, they thought sometimes. They would escape to the fort in the backyard, Devon, Mary and Colin. Devon liked to skateboard, and Mary liked to sew. Colin was the only one that thought the church was a fun place to be. When his father had found out that he went there often, he hid the key. It was a family key and usually hung by the door with all the other ones. Now it went around the Reverend's neck. Colin thought that this, too, was unfair. If the church was God's place, why should he not be allowed to spend time with God? The church, unlike many, was not often open to the public, and besides when anyone else was there it was no fun. Colin liked being alone with God and the stained-glass windows and the unhappy Jesus on the cross. Years passed; Devon graduated high school, then Mary did, then Colin. Devon fled to San Francisco; Mary merely moved across town. Colin went to the state university, for lack of anything better to do. He didn't do a lot in college; he wasn't very social. He managed to make a few friends, but mostly worked hard. By the end of it he was at least financially stable. Agnes, his mother, died young-- brain tumor. The family reconvened and mourned as one. The Reverend spoke at the funeral, of course. Mary played the flute, Devon the acoustic guitar. Colin gave a piano rendition of a church song his mother had liked. Several people he had not seen since high school complimented him; he had grown into a man, somehow serene-looking with his gleaming brown skin and chunky glasses. Mary and Devon pretended nothing had changed; in a way nothing had. They were all still the same people, even if (as Devon said) half-orphaned. The Reverend was stoic. You could tell he was wounded by his wife's death, but outwardly he acted the same. There was just something underneath, a trembling somehow. He died five months later. Everyone said it was very touching, very tragic, very sad but sweet. Devon, Mary and Colin got together again. They spoke at the funeral, sifting their lives for good things their father had done. He had been kind. He had wanted the best for them. He had taught them ethics. He had taught them to love God. The congregation clapped and several women dabbed at their eyes. The church would miss its Reverend. While emptying the house of his parents Colin found a key-- a large, stately one which he placed immediately. Seeing the key didn't depress him, or swamp him with thoughts of his childhood and parents. But he pocketed it. He wasn't sure why. Later that week Colin found the key in his pocket. He added it to his keychain, where it stuck out like a giant among dwarves. He didn't use it; he lived miles from the church. Colin worked at computers, which was tedious but paid well. He took up smoking and bicycling. His siblings got married and had children; at length, at last, he found a girlfriend. Harriet had impossibly small elbows and a petite frame. She was intellectual and she and Colin were well matched. They were a quiet pair that kept to themselves. Harriet had sisters, and the families got along, but neither of them had many friends. Eventually Colin and Harriet married. They got along so well that there was no point in trying to find anyone else. They loved each other, but it was a very mature love, with none of the passion of youth (although they were both under thirty). One day Harriet noticed Colin's key. "What is this, Colin?" "It's the key to my dad's church," said Colin. "Their current Reverend has one, too, of course, but this was my dad's. I got it when he died." "What kind of fellow locks a church?" asked Harriet skeptically. Colin told her about his father. Harriet was calm and collected and suggested very rationally that they go to the church and do something that would "sort of symbolically spit on your father's grave. Deface the church somehow." "We can't do that, Harriet. Just because I still have anger toward my dad doesn't mean I want to disfigure the house of God." "Something that won't leave lasting marks, then, but will be the kind of thing we can look back on forever. And sort of feel secretly glad that we did it. In the church." "Sex," suggested Colin immediately. They drove to Colin's childhood hometown. It was eight p.m. on a Thursday; the church was locked. Colin unlocked it and turned on the lights (there were a few). The pews gleamed. Christ writhed on his cross. They couldn't see the designs of the stained-glass windows in the dark, but Colin had them memorized. They lay awkwardly between the rows of pews and did the deed. The floor was hard and cold. Then they got up (having left no traces), grabbed hands and went out, Harriet locking the door. They drove home laughing all the way. Things were better after that. |  |
| |
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Miranda [an assignment from January, based on a book- guess which]
Miranda is something of a tortured soul. She is understood by no one and loved by few-- namely, her parents and, cautiously, her older brother Eric. Liam and Alexandra had dreamed of having seven children, but after Miranda they stopped. They couldn't risk another like her.
Miranda sucks up money like a vacuum cleaner. It's not really her fault; her parents want cures, no matter how expensive. As it stands now, she is a burden and little else. A girl who can't control a single muscle in her body is not exactly a big contributor to the good of society.
When they take her outside for some sun, the pattern is always the same: Miranda is happy, then confused, then angry. Pedestrians shrink from her as though she were a monster. Liam or Alexandra or Eric, pushing the wheelchair, offer up apologetic smiles and continue quickly, ashamedly, on. Without Miranda they are fine, of course. Liam is a trim, gray-templed professor with a false air of competence. Alexandra is a bronze beauty (so to speak); she looks almost like an Amazon warrior, and often acts like one. Eric inherited his mother's height and muscular build. He's a chronic basketball player and popular at his high school, where he is a senior. He doesn't have a girlfriend, consistently turning down the offers. His dewy-eyed parents suspect that it's because he needs to spend the time caring for his sister. No one knows that Eric is gay.
Miranda, who for lack of anything better to do spends her time observing, has guessed. But she doesn't betray her brother's secret, of course. She wonders sometimes if even he realizes it. She believes he can solve his problems on his own.
Miranda has cultivated an interest in the arts. Her parents often sit her down in front of the television set for hours. They don't know what channels Miranda enjoys, but when they're nearby and commercials come on they change them. Thus Miranda has learned how to (in theory) make a score of exotic dishes; she could name a trivia fact about every character on Friends, Seinfeld, Will & Grace, Everybody Loves Raymond, Sex & the City, and Buffy; she understands which brushes create which effects on an easel; she can tell you how many people died in all the major battles of the Civil War, and she has seen and subsequently memorized hundreds of music videos. When Eric matter-of-factly tells their parents that Coke can remove stains, she thinks of Myth Busters and knows he is wrong. But she has to keep that knowledge to herself. She can't even control the convulsive movements of a finger or an eye.
It's hard, being totally unable to communicate. Inside, Miranda sometimes has flashes of insight that she wants to share. More trivially, she wishes she could at least tell her family that she hates lentils and likes pasta, or that the Disney channel makes her want to smash the TV. She feels as though she lives in a box that she can see out of but that no one can see into. To be subjected to countless daily humiliations, not being able to do even the simplest of things for herself, is terribly frustrating. Sometimes she wants to kill her caretakers; she has a foolish belief that when they are gone she will be freed. Then it passes and she is grateful she has no physical ability to destroy. She needs them, her prison wardens, after all.
Miranda is not only interested in the arts, but is, mentally, an artist. She tells herself stories over and over in her head, trying to ward off the inevitable moment when they will be forgotten, slipping away like impatient children dressed in gorgeous silks. She imagines objects in the house rearranged in such a way that every facet of beauty is drawn out and proudly displayed. None of her dreams are ever realized.
Over the long fifteen years of her life so far, Miranda has developed a world in her mind, one so real she can lose herself in it. In this world she is accepted. In this world reside creatures taht take her aside and tell her secrets: philosophical, cynical dragons. One in particular, although nameless, is a close friend of Miranda's. They sit and smoke and he tells her about his travels. He is old and wise and has been to a million places. Now he simply remains at home watching over his family.
The funny thing is that sometimes the dragon's stories are true. What he has told her of Paris corresponds exactly with the TV show on 1920s France. What he says of physics is reaffirmed by honored scientists. He tells the truth, and it's still the truth in the world outside Miranda. She loves to make these cross-connections.
At those times she is happy.
Miranda sucks up money like a vacuum cleaner. It's not really her fault; her parents want cures, no matter how expensive. As it stands now, she is a burden and little else. A girl who can't control a single muscle in her body is not exactly a big contributor to the good of society.
When they take her outside for some sun, the pattern is always the same: Miranda is happy, then confused, then angry. Pedestrians shrink from her as though she were a monster. Liam or Alexandra or Eric, pushing the wheelchair, offer up apologetic smiles and continue quickly, ashamedly, on. Without Miranda they are fine, of course. Liam is a trim, gray-templed professor with a false air of competence. Alexandra is a bronze beauty (so to speak); she looks almost like an Amazon warrior, and often acts like one. Eric inherited his mother's height and muscular build. He's a chronic basketball player and popular at his high school, where he is a senior. He doesn't have a girlfriend, consistently turning down the offers. His dewy-eyed parents suspect that it's because he needs to spend the time caring for his sister. No one knows that Eric is gay.
Miranda, who for lack of anything better to do spends her time observing, has guessed. But she doesn't betray her brother's secret, of course. She wonders sometimes if even he realizes it. She believes he can solve his problems on his own.
Miranda has cultivated an interest in the arts. Her parents often sit her down in front of the television set for hours. They don't know what channels Miranda enjoys, but when they're nearby and commercials come on they change them. Thus Miranda has learned how to (in theory) make a score of exotic dishes; she could name a trivia fact about every character on Friends, Seinfeld, Will & Grace, Everybody Loves Raymond, Sex & the City, and Buffy; she understands which brushes create which effects on an easel; she can tell you how many people died in all the major battles of the Civil War, and she has seen and subsequently memorized hundreds of music videos. When Eric matter-of-factly tells their parents that Coke can remove stains, she thinks of Myth Busters and knows he is wrong. But she has to keep that knowledge to herself. She can't even control the convulsive movements of a finger or an eye.
It's hard, being totally unable to communicate. Inside, Miranda sometimes has flashes of insight that she wants to share. More trivially, she wishes she could at least tell her family that she hates lentils and likes pasta, or that the Disney channel makes her want to smash the TV. She feels as though she lives in a box that she can see out of but that no one can see into. To be subjected to countless daily humiliations, not being able to do even the simplest of things for herself, is terribly frustrating. Sometimes she wants to kill her caretakers; she has a foolish belief that when they are gone she will be freed. Then it passes and she is grateful she has no physical ability to destroy. She needs them, her prison wardens, after all.
Miranda is not only interested in the arts, but is, mentally, an artist. She tells herself stories over and over in her head, trying to ward off the inevitable moment when they will be forgotten, slipping away like impatient children dressed in gorgeous silks. She imagines objects in the house rearranged in such a way that every facet of beauty is drawn out and proudly displayed. None of her dreams are ever realized.
Over the long fifteen years of her life so far, Miranda has developed a world in her mind, one so real she can lose herself in it. In this world she is accepted. In this world reside creatures taht take her aside and tell her secrets: philosophical, cynical dragons. One in particular, although nameless, is a close friend of Miranda's. They sit and smoke and he tells her about his travels. He is old and wise and has been to a million places. Now he simply remains at home watching over his family.
The funny thing is that sometimes the dragon's stories are true. What he has told her of Paris corresponds exactly with the TV show on 1920s France. What he says of physics is reaffirmed by honored scientists. He tells the truth, and it's still the truth in the world outside Miranda. She loves to make these cross-connections.
At those times she is happy.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
this is a whiny poem by me about me
my creativity is very limited
when I read other people's writing
or when I listen to music
I realize that those people can come up with ideas
in a way that I cannot
my ideas are not amazing
occasionally I have an epic idea
or a cute one
but even those are not amazing
or really very original
my ideas are usually specific moments
(such as someone having sex in a church)
while they come up with truly creative ideas
thus my creativity is limited
and back to the beginning again.
when I read other people's writing
or when I listen to music
I realize that those people can come up with ideas
in a way that I cannot
my ideas are not amazing
occasionally I have an epic idea
or a cute one
but even those are not amazing
or really very original
my ideas are usually specific moments
(such as someone having sex in a church)
while they come up with truly creative ideas
thus my creativity is limited
and back to the beginning again.
It came with a price
Carol wanted a lot of things. Nearing thirty, she was married with a daughter, middle-class, working at a desk job (9 to 5). Her life was not miserable but not joyful, exactly. Her daughter was four years old, named Kristen.
Lee, Carol's husband, loved her. He was an architect and had on occasion slept with a secretary, but Carol was (so he was sure) his soulmate and he took care not to jeopardize their relationship too much. He was towheaded, and Kristen had inherited his hair.
What Carol wanted, and she was too ashamed to tell anyone this, was money. They had enough money to scrape by, and they weren't going hungry, but Carol wanted more. She wanted a swimming pool, and before it was filled with the clear blue water she wanted to stuff it with crinkly green cash and she wanted to swim in it. She wanted to be able to casually donate billions to charities and still have billions left for herself, to buy every book and record and article of clothing and television set and computer upgrade and God knew what, she just wanted to have the wealth. She told no one this, but she knew that if Satan himself came to her and offered her a trade, her soul for ten billion dollars, she would accept it with no hesitation.
There was no free lunch, she had learnt that early on, and she knew, logically, that there would be a price even for the money. Her soul, if one believed in fairy tales. More likely it would be her free time that flitted away, or her health, or her relationship with Lee or Kristen. None of that mattered to her. Once she made enough money to last her a lifetime, she would be able to fix up those things using it. She had some fifty years left in her life and if earning money cost her ten, well, she'd have forty more afterwards to enjoy it with.
She dreamed about the devil sometimes. She had been raised Protestant, although she wasn't religious; she disliked Christmas and Easter, and they celebrated them only for Kristen's benefit. God was never in her dreams, but the devil was. He didn't scare her much. He didn't look like the devil in the storybooks; he was just a man, but somehow, in the hazy way of dreams, she knew what he really was. He greeted her casually always, and she nodded and smiled. He was like a boss that she was a little bit afraid of. He never threatened or bribed her.
One Tuesday Carol found a lump in her breast. A frantic rush to the hospital later, she was diagnosed with a benign tumor, not cancerous. The scare had shaken her up, and she downgraded to working part-time, bonded with her daughter more. Kristen turned five and they celebrated her birthday. Lee went on a business trip for two months and returned glowing, happy and slightly richer. They were saving. Carol was glad she only had one child: college educations cost so much these days. It was lucky she hadn't gotten cancer after all, or the hospital bills would have been debilitating.
They made enough to buy a second house, and this made Carol excited. They could rent out the smaller one and make all the money back, and then some. Things were going well.
More time passed: five years, to be exact. Kristen turned ten. Lee began to get gray hair. Carol wanted cosmetic surgery, but she told herself it would happen later, once she had enough that the cost would seem like spare change.
A year later, while reluctantly writing a check, she realized that that would never happen. Even if she had billions, like her dream, she would scrimp with pennies. Because pennies added up. That was the kind of mind Carol had.
At that point she quit her job, treated the family to a month in Hawaii, and began to go shopping every other Sunday. It was difficult at first, but within months she began to think of money as simply a means to an end, not as an end itself.
She got pregnant again in September. Her life was still not miserable; it had, she told herself, improved, become more joyful.
Carol still had a coin collection, though, and could spend hours poring over the currency. And she still dreamed about the devil, sometimes.
Lee, Carol's husband, loved her. He was an architect and had on occasion slept with a secretary, but Carol was (so he was sure) his soulmate and he took care not to jeopardize their relationship too much. He was towheaded, and Kristen had inherited his hair.
What Carol wanted, and she was too ashamed to tell anyone this, was money. They had enough money to scrape by, and they weren't going hungry, but Carol wanted more. She wanted a swimming pool, and before it was filled with the clear blue water she wanted to stuff it with crinkly green cash and she wanted to swim in it. She wanted to be able to casually donate billions to charities and still have billions left for herself, to buy every book and record and article of clothing and television set and computer upgrade and God knew what, she just wanted to have the wealth. She told no one this, but she knew that if Satan himself came to her and offered her a trade, her soul for ten billion dollars, she would accept it with no hesitation.
There was no free lunch, she had learnt that early on, and she knew, logically, that there would be a price even for the money. Her soul, if one believed in fairy tales. More likely it would be her free time that flitted away, or her health, or her relationship with Lee or Kristen. None of that mattered to her. Once she made enough money to last her a lifetime, she would be able to fix up those things using it. She had some fifty years left in her life and if earning money cost her ten, well, she'd have forty more afterwards to enjoy it with.
She dreamed about the devil sometimes. She had been raised Protestant, although she wasn't religious; she disliked Christmas and Easter, and they celebrated them only for Kristen's benefit. God was never in her dreams, but the devil was. He didn't scare her much. He didn't look like the devil in the storybooks; he was just a man, but somehow, in the hazy way of dreams, she knew what he really was. He greeted her casually always, and she nodded and smiled. He was like a boss that she was a little bit afraid of. He never threatened or bribed her.
One Tuesday Carol found a lump in her breast. A frantic rush to the hospital later, she was diagnosed with a benign tumor, not cancerous. The scare had shaken her up, and she downgraded to working part-time, bonded with her daughter more. Kristen turned five and they celebrated her birthday. Lee went on a business trip for two months and returned glowing, happy and slightly richer. They were saving. Carol was glad she only had one child: college educations cost so much these days. It was lucky she hadn't gotten cancer after all, or the hospital bills would have been debilitating.
They made enough to buy a second house, and this made Carol excited. They could rent out the smaller one and make all the money back, and then some. Things were going well.
More time passed: five years, to be exact. Kristen turned ten. Lee began to get gray hair. Carol wanted cosmetic surgery, but she told herself it would happen later, once she had enough that the cost would seem like spare change.
A year later, while reluctantly writing a check, she realized that that would never happen. Even if she had billions, like her dream, she would scrimp with pennies. Because pennies added up. That was the kind of mind Carol had.
At that point she quit her job, treated the family to a month in Hawaii, and began to go shopping every other Sunday. It was difficult at first, but within months she began to think of money as simply a means to an end, not as an end itself.
She got pregnant again in September. Her life was still not miserable; it had, she told herself, improved, become more joyful.
Carol still had a coin collection, though, and could spend hours poring over the currency. And she still dreamed about the devil, sometimes.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Posturing
"A little to the right. Just a hair more. Yes. Yes! Right there. Now don't move, just purse your lips-- no, not that much. Yes, like that. Well, close enough. No!"
Jaime sighed, rolling her eyes. She didn't mind humoring Galen, but this was a little over the top. He was a damn good photographer, she had to concede that, and Jaime didn't have much of an eye for art. She had managed to convince him to let her wear gauzy fabric draped over her-- "like some kind of Greek goddess, you know." He had wanted to take nudes. It wasn't that he just liked to look at her body. She knew Galen; he was a romantic, he thought clothing ruined the beauty of humanity. He had often told her with earnest conviction that he belonged in the era of the Renaissance. "When are you going to take the shot already?"
He shook his head and snapped a photo reluctantly. "That one won't make it into the collection, you know. Becuase your head was off. It all has to be perfect."
"I'm not a statue," Jaime said.
"You're a living, breathing model and that is where the magic is in this thing we call photography." Galen stuck another canister of film into his camera and adjusted his thick, black-rimmed glasses. "If I were a painter, it wouldn't matter. I could make up your posture. But photography is about things that are real and those who look at these photos will know that you actually moved your head like this, that you actually were in this pose. It's real. Non-fiction. Let's try it again."
"Galen, I need a break." Jaime turned her back, shrugged off the gauze, pulled on a T-shirt. "This is exhausting. It's so much easier just to look through the, the viewfinder and press that little button than it is to manipulate your whole body, you know? You should try modeling sometime."
Galen laughed self-deprecatingly. "Not me."
"Why don't you get your girlfriend to do this?" she asked desperately.
"She doesn't mind me having you pose for me."
"So? Why can't you take pictures of her instead?"
Galen put the camera down on the table, like a precious thing, and faced Jaime. He lifted a hand, ran his thumb down her cheek. She froze. "Because although Melissa is gorgeous, she's not beautiful the way you are. You are so goddamn photogenic, Jaime, you have no idea. Lissa... her beauty is in the way she moves, the way she lives, and it doesn't hold in photos. Yours does. It's in your lines."
Jaime colored. "My body isn't that great." She was tall and slender, with small breasts and a jaw just a bit too prominent.
"Your body is amazing," he scoffed. "It's not perfect, of course, but no one is perfect. If you were perfect it would ruin everything. You're just right, believe me."
She relented and smiled a little, looking at him. He looked like Buddy Holly, with those glasses and that curly dark hair. He really did belong in another era. Most of his photographs were black and white, yet another testament to that. She liked hearing his sincere praise; his speaking habits were so clear, with so little hesitation and stumbling over words. That was the thing about Galen. He was so literate, somehow, and he always knew what he wanted to get across.
A knock on the door. "Come in," said Galen, and Melissa entered. She was curvy, thick-waisted, with chin-length curling brown hair and a lipsticky grin. She was more or less the opposite of Jaime's blond delicacy.
"Not working, I guess?" she said conversationally.
"We're taking a break," Jaime enunciated. She wiped her mouth and glanced down at herself: her legs and feet were bare. Sometimes she wished Melissa wasn't so trusting.
"How goes the photography? I brought you some apples." She was, Jaime saw, carrying a brown paper bag, and set it down now (precariously by the camera). "Green apples in there. Your favorite, Galen."
"Thanks, love." Galen moved to her and they kissed, in the carefree manner of lovers. He picked up the camera again, to protect it from the bag, and Jaime couldn't help but smile. "You are thoughtful," he said. "Here, Jaime--" he handed her an apple-- "once you're done with this we can start up the picture-taking again. All right?"
"Okay." She wanted Melissa to leave, with her overbearing dresses and hair and makeup and God knew what, she just wanted her to go.
Something up there answered her prayers, because Melissa said, "I'm gonna go unload the rest of the groceries from the car. I'll leave you two alone."
"No, you don't have to," Galen began, but Jaime cut him off.
"Okay, go ahead, Melissa."
They made eye contact for a moment. Then Melissa nodded and left, shutting the door of the studio behind her.
There was silence for a moment. Galen looked at Jaime.
"She could have stayed, you know. We're not working. It wouldn't have done any harm."
"I didn't want her being around," Jaime mumbled, looking down. She wasn't hungry, and her apple was soft, which she hated. She set it down on the table. Then, with ferocity, she jerked her head up and gazed into Galen's blue eyes. "You know what? I'm ready to go back to work." She took off her T-shirt boldly.
Galen, always willing to shoot, gestured toward the gauze.
"No gauze. Forget it. Go ahead and take your nudes."
His eyebrows rose for a moment; he looked as if he were having a fascinating internal conversation, and Jaime, unabashedly naked, watched him. Galen.
"All right," he said as if to himself, nodding a little. "All right. We can do that."
"Okay," said Jaime.
Jaime sighed, rolling her eyes. She didn't mind humoring Galen, but this was a little over the top. He was a damn good photographer, she had to concede that, and Jaime didn't have much of an eye for art. She had managed to convince him to let her wear gauzy fabric draped over her-- "like some kind of Greek goddess, you know." He had wanted to take nudes. It wasn't that he just liked to look at her body. She knew Galen; he was a romantic, he thought clothing ruined the beauty of humanity. He had often told her with earnest conviction that he belonged in the era of the Renaissance. "When are you going to take the shot already?"
He shook his head and snapped a photo reluctantly. "That one won't make it into the collection, you know. Becuase your head was off. It all has to be perfect."
"I'm not a statue," Jaime said.
"You're a living, breathing model and that is where the magic is in this thing we call photography." Galen stuck another canister of film into his camera and adjusted his thick, black-rimmed glasses. "If I were a painter, it wouldn't matter. I could make up your posture. But photography is about things that are real and those who look at these photos will know that you actually moved your head like this, that you actually were in this pose. It's real. Non-fiction. Let's try it again."
"Galen, I need a break." Jaime turned her back, shrugged off the gauze, pulled on a T-shirt. "This is exhausting. It's so much easier just to look through the, the viewfinder and press that little button than it is to manipulate your whole body, you know? You should try modeling sometime."
Galen laughed self-deprecatingly. "Not me."
"Why don't you get your girlfriend to do this?" she asked desperately.
"She doesn't mind me having you pose for me."
"So? Why can't you take pictures of her instead?"
Galen put the camera down on the table, like a precious thing, and faced Jaime. He lifted a hand, ran his thumb down her cheek. She froze. "Because although Melissa is gorgeous, she's not beautiful the way you are. You are so goddamn photogenic, Jaime, you have no idea. Lissa... her beauty is in the way she moves, the way she lives, and it doesn't hold in photos. Yours does. It's in your lines."
Jaime colored. "My body isn't that great." She was tall and slender, with small breasts and a jaw just a bit too prominent.
"Your body is amazing," he scoffed. "It's not perfect, of course, but no one is perfect. If you were perfect it would ruin everything. You're just right, believe me."
She relented and smiled a little, looking at him. He looked like Buddy Holly, with those glasses and that curly dark hair. He really did belong in another era. Most of his photographs were black and white, yet another testament to that. She liked hearing his sincere praise; his speaking habits were so clear, with so little hesitation and stumbling over words. That was the thing about Galen. He was so literate, somehow, and he always knew what he wanted to get across.
A knock on the door. "Come in," said Galen, and Melissa entered. She was curvy, thick-waisted, with chin-length curling brown hair and a lipsticky grin. She was more or less the opposite of Jaime's blond delicacy.
"Not working, I guess?" she said conversationally.
"We're taking a break," Jaime enunciated. She wiped her mouth and glanced down at herself: her legs and feet were bare. Sometimes she wished Melissa wasn't so trusting.
"How goes the photography? I brought you some apples." She was, Jaime saw, carrying a brown paper bag, and set it down now (precariously by the camera). "Green apples in there. Your favorite, Galen."
"Thanks, love." Galen moved to her and they kissed, in the carefree manner of lovers. He picked up the camera again, to protect it from the bag, and Jaime couldn't help but smile. "You are thoughtful," he said. "Here, Jaime--" he handed her an apple-- "once you're done with this we can start up the picture-taking again. All right?"
"Okay." She wanted Melissa to leave, with her overbearing dresses and hair and makeup and God knew what, she just wanted her to go.
Something up there answered her prayers, because Melissa said, "I'm gonna go unload the rest of the groceries from the car. I'll leave you two alone."
"No, you don't have to," Galen began, but Jaime cut him off.
"Okay, go ahead, Melissa."
They made eye contact for a moment. Then Melissa nodded and left, shutting the door of the studio behind her.
There was silence for a moment. Galen looked at Jaime.
"She could have stayed, you know. We're not working. It wouldn't have done any harm."
"I didn't want her being around," Jaime mumbled, looking down. She wasn't hungry, and her apple was soft, which she hated. She set it down on the table. Then, with ferocity, she jerked her head up and gazed into Galen's blue eyes. "You know what? I'm ready to go back to work." She took off her T-shirt boldly.
Galen, always willing to shoot, gestured toward the gauze.
"No gauze. Forget it. Go ahead and take your nudes."
His eyebrows rose for a moment; he looked as if he were having a fascinating internal conversation, and Jaime, unabashedly naked, watched him. Galen.
"All right," he said as if to himself, nodding a little. "All right. We can do that."
"Okay," said Jaime.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
filler poem
she was listening to bob dylan when the car crash happened
several cars ahead of her; traffic stopped
it made her pout a little, and tilt the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick
(she was going to see anthony)
and she saw, then, the man behind her who was taking the opportunity
of the jam
to hold up a note:
i love you
written backwards so that she could read it
it covered his face and she couldn't see who it was
but she always wondered who the man in the blue sedan was
several cars ahead of her; traffic stopped
it made her pout a little, and tilt the rearview mirror and reapply her lipstick
(she was going to see anthony)
and she saw, then, the man behind her who was taking the opportunity
of the jam
to hold up a note:
i love you
written backwards so that she could read it
it covered his face and she couldn't see who it was
but she always wondered who the man in the blue sedan was
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Alex Baer
It is a high school reunion and I'm feeling nervous. I haven't stayed in touch with many people, although Jimmy, Alisha and Katherine have called occasionally. Looking around the gym now, I see what seems like hundreds of people, even though my graduating class was only eighty. We were a small school.
"Oh my God, Yvonne?" someone says to me, putting their hand on my shoulder. I turn around. It's a girl I recognize, but can't name for a moment-- then she says, eagerly, "It's me, Vivi. You still look exactly the same!"
We embrace uneasily and exchange pleasantries. "You look great," I say, though she looks at least thirty. But she's fit and aggressively pretty. Then again, I remember, Vivi always looked older than she was.
It turns out she's got a job and a steady boyfriend and oh my God there's Theo, I have to go say hi to him! So she flounces off and I look around in desperation. I don't want to seem totally out of my league, though I am. I don't even know why I went to this.
Fortunately, I see Alisha and she waves me over and helps me pass the time for a bit, before she sees someone she hasn't talked to yet. Alisha, tall and glossy, has always been outgoing and charismatic. I envy her-- but too much of a social life would be too much for me to handle.
Someone pokes me. I've already talked to Jimmy (Kathy, copiously pregnant, decided not to come), and he's not the poking type anyway. I twist my head to see who did it and can't tell. "Who was that?" I say into the crowd.
Alex Baer, who I always thought of with both first and last names, grins, exposing Gyllenhaal-like teeth. "Hey, Yvonne. Nice to see you again." His face is just the same, but he's gotten thinner and paler. He looks a little sick.
"Hi, Alex." We hug. We weren't close friends, but we were friends. He dated Kathy for a little while, so I got to know him then. He's a sweet man.
"What's new with you?" I ask and he tells me a little. He's had a few relationships, off and on, but now he's single again. He's been taking classes and taking jobs and has half a house, renting, with "Louie, you remember him? We're roommates now. Actually, he's right over there." Louie's a round-faced black guy with an ingratiating smile, and I like him.
Alex sounds less ill than he looks and I find myself beginning to be more at ease. He's an attractive guy, I realize all of a sudden when he takes off his glasses for a moment. Maybe one of the most attractive guys here. It gets my adrenaline rushing and I talk so nonsensically that I'm blown away completely when he says, "Yvonne, what do you think of leaving this party and going to get a drink? I've already seen everyone I want to see, and I'd like to catch up with you some more." He says it very politely and pleasantly.
"Sure thing," I say before I can think about it any more. I go to find Alisha and Jimmy to say goodbye, and tell them with excitement bordering on hysteria that I am going to have a drink with Alex Baer. They wish me luck. He was popular, back in the day, and often lusted after. In fact, I think I had a crush on him in tenth grade.
I hitchhiked with Jimmy, so it's not a problem going in Alex's surprisingly clean car to the bar which he says, with authority, is the best in town. Since I'm not social, I tend to avoid bars; I mostly drink alone. But Alex Baer has a way of making me feel like I'm being listened to, and so I talk more than I've talked in months.
Before I know it I'm on my third drink and telling him about my philosophy on life. "I think everyone has more than one soulmate. And you know when you meet one. Your heart kind of sings, you know? That's my theory, anyway, since my heart hasn't sung when I met anyone yet." I laugh, hoping that he doesn't take that to mean I'm not interested. I've never been smooth when it comes to such things.
Alex smiles. "I've had the heart-singing thing, a few times. It never lasts, though. I've learned to doubt it, a little." He sips his drink. "I kind of doubt that real love exists. All that exists is enjoyable sex and the occasional heart-flutter."
"But we can't stop hoping, can we?" I say.
We drink some more. "Fuck," Alex Baer says after some time, "I've got to drive. Or you. Have to drive. But neither of us... we're both pretty drunk."
"How far is your place?"
"Not too far; that's why I come here."
"Mine's too far to walk to." I giggle a little.
"Well, maybe we could walk to my place," Alex offers hesitantly.
"Or drive, and tempt fate."
"Has anyone ever told you you look like Kirsten Dunst?"
"Is that good or bad?"
"I think she's sexy."
"I never knew if you were straight or not," I say. It seems like a good segue.
"Well, I've never had much of a desire to fuck a guy," Alex Baer says.
"I have," I say, feeling giddy. I am very drunk.
Alex is much more coherent than I am, and decides to walk us home. He pays a friend who works at the bar to park his car at his house. "Have you slept with her?" I ask as he takes my elbow. It's still light out, maybe five.
"We had a thing going for a little while, but not anymore," he says, gnawing at a fingernail.
He steers me to his place. The walk seems very long, although of course it isn't. Perhaps half an hour passes-- it's getting darker when Alex, fumbling, takes his key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. "Louie's probably still at the reunion."
"What'll he think that I'm here?"
"He won't assume," says Alex Baer.
He doesn't show me around the house, which is small and crowded. He points out the kitchen, bathroom and living room, and parks me firmly on the sofa. "I'll make coffee," he offers and turns on the TV for me.
He's very considerate, and the couch is not uncomfortable, despite its sparseness. I find myself starting to drowse.
"Yvonne? D'you want a cup of coffee?"
I take it and sip. It burns my tongue and jolts me a little. The alcoholic buzz has started to fade, and this replaces it.
Alex Baer sits beside me and gulps at his drink. I smile at him. His jaw is stubbly and there's a residue from a rash on his cheekbone. "Been stressed lately?"
"Hell, yeah," Alex says, surprised. He grins sheepishly, those flirty canines exposing themselves again. "Yeah, I've been kind of... stuff's been going on. It's intense."
"I understand."
"Louie should be coming with his little car in the next couple hours," Alex thinks aloud, "and then he can take you home. Unless he picks someone up, that is."
"Like you did."
We laugh companionably, and he comments, "You know, being drunk really changes you. You're much more outgoing."
"I know. I'm pretty dysfunctional usually. Being drunk sort of kills the part of my brain that tells me to be shy. D'you know what I mean?"
Alex nods.
"But then you never had that problem."
"No, actually, I've had my shy moments."
"Alex," I say. "Update me on your life. Girlfriends? Jobs? Hobbies? Trips? Tell me. Give me the details, I mean."
"Well," says Alex Baer thoughtfully. "I already gave you the rundown. I've been studying linguistics at the college, dating some people, working at the college library sometimes-- I go to the school just out of state, as you know, I wanted something new. Nothing too exciting or, you know, long-lasting." He finishes his coffee and rises to put it in the sink. "What about you?" he asks, returning.
"Studying political science, working as a waitress. At the state uni. I haven't dated anyone in, like, six months."
Alex Baer looks into my eyes. I notice that his are a washed-out blue. But of course I knew that, didn't I?
Neither of us says anything for a while. I finish my coffee and follow his example. We watch TV; he lets me flip channels when a commercial break comes on. We don't like all the same shows, but we like enough.
At length Alex looks at his watch and says that Louie is probably a hopeless case, and asks me if I want to stay. "I'll call his cell," he says, "but in the meantime."
"Sure," I say, "sure." I'm not drunk anymore, and hence kind of freaked out. But Alex is still friendly, and maybe he'll forgive me if I do something really stupid because I'm shy.
It turns out Louie will be out (he hopes) all night with a friend of Polly's from school who is very, very attractive, he says, and so I can sleep in his bed if I want to, though he doubts I'll want to. His voice smiles and I feel a little better, almost a little excited. I'm alone with an attractive man, after all.
"So where do you want to sleep?" he asks.
"I, um..."
"You could sleep with me if you want," he says, "but we won't have sex."
"Oh."
I must look pretty bummed out, because Alex Baer puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a serious look.
"Trust me, I'm looking out for you."
"Tell me why."
"No," says Alex Baer.
Fuck it, I think, and I put my hands on his jaw and pull him in. We make out for maybe five seconds before he
jerks away, gasping. "Fuck, Yvonne, fuck. I can't do this."
"Why?" I withdraw like a sea creature.
"Look," says Alex, "it's not you. You're pretty and, and kind of hot. But I can't do this."
"How come? Are you attached and not telling me?" I don't see why he led me on. I think I might cry soon.
"No, no, not attached. Not at all. Quite the opposite." He laughs harshly.
I notice that we still have most of our clothes on, minus shoes and jackets. And that it's only maybe nine in the evening. Somehow it seems a lot later, a lot more intimate.
"Come on, Alex, you can tell me. I won't tell anyone."
Alex scrutinizes me, his expression unchanging. I try to look trustworthy but only succeed in looking depressed.
"You'd never talk to me again."
"Of course I fucking would! Listen to me. I'm not going to judge you." It's not like he's pregnant or something. What could possibly be wrong?
He turns the TV up; I move closer to him and he whispers, staring fixedly at the screen, quickly so as to get it out and over with, "I'm HIV positive."
Involuntarily I move away, and then, realizing what I'm doing, move back and give him an awkward shoulder-hug. "Oh my God, Alex. How?"
"No one ever confessed to me. I must have slept with someone infected, of course. There's not that high a chance of getting it, really, it's just my luck."
I'm speechless. I run through my head everything I know about AIDS, which isn't much. HIV is not AIDS, exactly; mostly gay guys get it; you can get it from blood transfusions and breast milk; it makes your immune system so weak that a cold could kill you. Christ alive, I think. "How long's it been?"
"At least three months," says Alex Baer.
Not knowing what to do, I try and cuddle up to him, human comfort, but he pushes me away suddenly.
"Yvonne, you should go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it came to this."
I stand up. Put on my shoes and my coat. Alex, without realizing, is standing too. I stand on tiptoe and kiss him on the mouth before he can stop me and then smile weakly and walk out the door. Now it's officially night, and cold out too. How the hell am I going to get home?
I stand uncertainly for a few minutes, and then a taxi drives up. "Someone called?" I go into the warmth of the little yellow car, realizing that this is no coincidence. The driver is a pleasant older man and he takes me home sympathetically without talking too much. I tip him a buck.
As I unlock my door and enter my cold, dark apartment, the light of the moon shining in, I think of Alex and my heart does not sing anymore. But it aches with pity.
As I take a shower and pour myself another drink and then go to bed alone with my comforter, I want to talk to someone, any third party, about it. But I promised.
I wonder if Louie knows. I wonder if anyone knows. I wonder how we are all going to make it through the next decade.
And I decide, almost without realizing it, that I am not going to abandon Alex Baer.
"Oh my God, Yvonne?" someone says to me, putting their hand on my shoulder. I turn around. It's a girl I recognize, but can't name for a moment-- then she says, eagerly, "It's me, Vivi. You still look exactly the same!"
We embrace uneasily and exchange pleasantries. "You look great," I say, though she looks at least thirty. But she's fit and aggressively pretty. Then again, I remember, Vivi always looked older than she was.
It turns out she's got a job and a steady boyfriend and oh my God there's Theo, I have to go say hi to him! So she flounces off and I look around in desperation. I don't want to seem totally out of my league, though I am. I don't even know why I went to this.
Fortunately, I see Alisha and she waves me over and helps me pass the time for a bit, before she sees someone she hasn't talked to yet. Alisha, tall and glossy, has always been outgoing and charismatic. I envy her-- but too much of a social life would be too much for me to handle.
Someone pokes me. I've already talked to Jimmy (Kathy, copiously pregnant, decided not to come), and he's not the poking type anyway. I twist my head to see who did it and can't tell. "Who was that?" I say into the crowd.
Alex Baer, who I always thought of with both first and last names, grins, exposing Gyllenhaal-like teeth. "Hey, Yvonne. Nice to see you again." His face is just the same, but he's gotten thinner and paler. He looks a little sick.
"Hi, Alex." We hug. We weren't close friends, but we were friends. He dated Kathy for a little while, so I got to know him then. He's a sweet man.
"What's new with you?" I ask and he tells me a little. He's had a few relationships, off and on, but now he's single again. He's been taking classes and taking jobs and has half a house, renting, with "Louie, you remember him? We're roommates now. Actually, he's right over there." Louie's a round-faced black guy with an ingratiating smile, and I like him.
Alex sounds less ill than he looks and I find myself beginning to be more at ease. He's an attractive guy, I realize all of a sudden when he takes off his glasses for a moment. Maybe one of the most attractive guys here. It gets my adrenaline rushing and I talk so nonsensically that I'm blown away completely when he says, "Yvonne, what do you think of leaving this party and going to get a drink? I've already seen everyone I want to see, and I'd like to catch up with you some more." He says it very politely and pleasantly.
"Sure thing," I say before I can think about it any more. I go to find Alisha and Jimmy to say goodbye, and tell them with excitement bordering on hysteria that I am going to have a drink with Alex Baer. They wish me luck. He was popular, back in the day, and often lusted after. In fact, I think I had a crush on him in tenth grade.
I hitchhiked with Jimmy, so it's not a problem going in Alex's surprisingly clean car to the bar which he says, with authority, is the best in town. Since I'm not social, I tend to avoid bars; I mostly drink alone. But Alex Baer has a way of making me feel like I'm being listened to, and so I talk more than I've talked in months.
Before I know it I'm on my third drink and telling him about my philosophy on life. "I think everyone has more than one soulmate. And you know when you meet one. Your heart kind of sings, you know? That's my theory, anyway, since my heart hasn't sung when I met anyone yet." I laugh, hoping that he doesn't take that to mean I'm not interested. I've never been smooth when it comes to such things.
Alex smiles. "I've had the heart-singing thing, a few times. It never lasts, though. I've learned to doubt it, a little." He sips his drink. "I kind of doubt that real love exists. All that exists is enjoyable sex and the occasional heart-flutter."
"But we can't stop hoping, can we?" I say.
We drink some more. "Fuck," Alex Baer says after some time, "I've got to drive. Or you. Have to drive. But neither of us... we're both pretty drunk."
"How far is your place?"
"Not too far; that's why I come here."
"Mine's too far to walk to." I giggle a little.
"Well, maybe we could walk to my place," Alex offers hesitantly.
"Or drive, and tempt fate."
"Has anyone ever told you you look like Kirsten Dunst?"
"Is that good or bad?"
"I think she's sexy."
"I never knew if you were straight or not," I say. It seems like a good segue.
"Well, I've never had much of a desire to fuck a guy," Alex Baer says.
"I have," I say, feeling giddy. I am very drunk.
Alex is much more coherent than I am, and decides to walk us home. He pays a friend who works at the bar to park his car at his house. "Have you slept with her?" I ask as he takes my elbow. It's still light out, maybe five.
"We had a thing going for a little while, but not anymore," he says, gnawing at a fingernail.
He steers me to his place. The walk seems very long, although of course it isn't. Perhaps half an hour passes-- it's getting darker when Alex, fumbling, takes his key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. "Louie's probably still at the reunion."
"What'll he think that I'm here?"
"He won't assume," says Alex Baer.
He doesn't show me around the house, which is small and crowded. He points out the kitchen, bathroom and living room, and parks me firmly on the sofa. "I'll make coffee," he offers and turns on the TV for me.
He's very considerate, and the couch is not uncomfortable, despite its sparseness. I find myself starting to drowse.
"Yvonne? D'you want a cup of coffee?"
I take it and sip. It burns my tongue and jolts me a little. The alcoholic buzz has started to fade, and this replaces it.
Alex Baer sits beside me and gulps at his drink. I smile at him. His jaw is stubbly and there's a residue from a rash on his cheekbone. "Been stressed lately?"
"Hell, yeah," Alex says, surprised. He grins sheepishly, those flirty canines exposing themselves again. "Yeah, I've been kind of... stuff's been going on. It's intense."
"I understand."
"Louie should be coming with his little car in the next couple hours," Alex thinks aloud, "and then he can take you home. Unless he picks someone up, that is."
"Like you did."
We laugh companionably, and he comments, "You know, being drunk really changes you. You're much more outgoing."
"I know. I'm pretty dysfunctional usually. Being drunk sort of kills the part of my brain that tells me to be shy. D'you know what I mean?"
Alex nods.
"But then you never had that problem."
"No, actually, I've had my shy moments."
"Alex," I say. "Update me on your life. Girlfriends? Jobs? Hobbies? Trips? Tell me. Give me the details, I mean."
"Well," says Alex Baer thoughtfully. "I already gave you the rundown. I've been studying linguistics at the college, dating some people, working at the college library sometimes-- I go to the school just out of state, as you know, I wanted something new. Nothing too exciting or, you know, long-lasting." He finishes his coffee and rises to put it in the sink. "What about you?" he asks, returning.
"Studying political science, working as a waitress. At the state uni. I haven't dated anyone in, like, six months."
Alex Baer looks into my eyes. I notice that his are a washed-out blue. But of course I knew that, didn't I?
Neither of us says anything for a while. I finish my coffee and follow his example. We watch TV; he lets me flip channels when a commercial break comes on. We don't like all the same shows, but we like enough.
At length Alex looks at his watch and says that Louie is probably a hopeless case, and asks me if I want to stay. "I'll call his cell," he says, "but in the meantime."
"Sure," I say, "sure." I'm not drunk anymore, and hence kind of freaked out. But Alex is still friendly, and maybe he'll forgive me if I do something really stupid because I'm shy.
It turns out Louie will be out (he hopes) all night with a friend of Polly's from school who is very, very attractive, he says, and so I can sleep in his bed if I want to, though he doubts I'll want to. His voice smiles and I feel a little better, almost a little excited. I'm alone with an attractive man, after all.
"So where do you want to sleep?" he asks.
"I, um..."
"You could sleep with me if you want," he says, "but we won't have sex."
"Oh."
I must look pretty bummed out, because Alex Baer puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a serious look.
"Trust me, I'm looking out for you."
"Tell me why."
"No," says Alex Baer.
Fuck it, I think, and I put my hands on his jaw and pull him in. We make out for maybe five seconds before he
jerks away, gasping. "Fuck, Yvonne, fuck. I can't do this."
"Why?" I withdraw like a sea creature.
"Look," says Alex, "it's not you. You're pretty and, and kind of hot. But I can't do this."
"How come? Are you attached and not telling me?" I don't see why he led me on. I think I might cry soon.
"No, no, not attached. Not at all. Quite the opposite." He laughs harshly.
I notice that we still have most of our clothes on, minus shoes and jackets. And that it's only maybe nine in the evening. Somehow it seems a lot later, a lot more intimate.
"Come on, Alex, you can tell me. I won't tell anyone."
Alex scrutinizes me, his expression unchanging. I try to look trustworthy but only succeed in looking depressed.
"You'd never talk to me again."
"Of course I fucking would! Listen to me. I'm not going to judge you." It's not like he's pregnant or something. What could possibly be wrong?
He turns the TV up; I move closer to him and he whispers, staring fixedly at the screen, quickly so as to get it out and over with, "I'm HIV positive."
Involuntarily I move away, and then, realizing what I'm doing, move back and give him an awkward shoulder-hug. "Oh my God, Alex. How?"
"No one ever confessed to me. I must have slept with someone infected, of course. There's not that high a chance of getting it, really, it's just my luck."
I'm speechless. I run through my head everything I know about AIDS, which isn't much. HIV is not AIDS, exactly; mostly gay guys get it; you can get it from blood transfusions and breast milk; it makes your immune system so weak that a cold could kill you. Christ alive, I think. "How long's it been?"
"At least three months," says Alex Baer.
Not knowing what to do, I try and cuddle up to him, human comfort, but he pushes me away suddenly.
"Yvonne, you should go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it came to this."
I stand up. Put on my shoes and my coat. Alex, without realizing, is standing too. I stand on tiptoe and kiss him on the mouth before he can stop me and then smile weakly and walk out the door. Now it's officially night, and cold out too. How the hell am I going to get home?
I stand uncertainly for a few minutes, and then a taxi drives up. "Someone called?" I go into the warmth of the little yellow car, realizing that this is no coincidence. The driver is a pleasant older man and he takes me home sympathetically without talking too much. I tip him a buck.
As I unlock my door and enter my cold, dark apartment, the light of the moon shining in, I think of Alex and my heart does not sing anymore. But it aches with pity.
As I take a shower and pour myself another drink and then go to bed alone with my comforter, I want to talk to someone, any third party, about it. But I promised.
I wonder if Louie knows. I wonder if anyone knows. I wonder how we are all going to make it through the next decade.
And I decide, almost without realizing it, that I am not going to abandon Alex Baer.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
i prefer this sans caps
some people inspire me and also cause me to despair because i will never be as good as them, also because i add spontaneous e's to the ends of words when i type and then have to go back and delete
a poem
gyration in midflight was, they claimed, impossible to convince them of
they shied away
and we had to chase and coerce and plead, even
eventually agreement was discovered
with copious bribing and coaxes
and compromising
we would pay if they broke fine bones
and we achieved our beautiful scene to photograph
with joy and pride
they shied away
and we had to chase and coerce and plead, even
eventually agreement was discovered
with copious bribing and coaxes
and compromising
we would pay if they broke fine bones
and we achieved our beautiful scene to photograph
with joy and pride
Monday, February 20, 2006
warning: potentially scarring material below
While Albert and Cindy were together Albert was always afraid that, when sucking on her nipples, he would inadvertently bite one off. He had dreamed about it often, the odd texture of the severed thing in his mouth, the screaming and shock and profuse, spurting, crimson bleeding. It was terrifying, and not something you could tell your pretty girlfriend about. The best way to cope with it was of course not to suck on her breasts, and so eventually Albert stopped. It made things a lot better.
But then Cindy asked him why. "I liked it," she said. He couldn't come up with a satisfactory explanation.
They had been dating for six and a half months. They broke up within weeks.
But then Cindy asked him why. "I liked it," she said. He couldn't come up with a satisfactory explanation.
They had been dating for six and a half months. They broke up within weeks.
dna dilemmas
I am always afraid that I am going to fall apart. I find it hard to believe in DNA, to admit that people can create other people that work well. So many people have genetic problems, it makes me worried-- I could have some flaw I haven't discovered yet. Maybe I've been alive for fifteen years without much of a hitch, but there's still plenty of years to go and you never know what you will discover.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The rollerblading story, v. 1
He saw her there every day without fail. Rollerblading along with a vacant expression on her face, paying no attention to where her feet went, moving with natural grace. She never fell, which made Eliot a little regretful. He would have liked to help her up.
Eliot loved skating; the ice rink was too far, so he went to the roller rink instead. He didn't mind the obsolete music or the kids that came up to his knees and always fell, startlingly, onto their backs and then got up again with dazed looks and tooth-missing grins. He was by now an expert. He used rollerblades, not rollerskates, as did the girl.
She was pretty, he thought. He had never been much of a Casanova at school. In fact, he'd never really had a girlfriend at all. He had been the fat kid; now he was average weight, muscled even, what with all the skating, for hours sometimes. He would of course have shifted to the streets and begun exploring his town, making friends, maybe, if it weren't for the skating girl, who drew him back to the rink still.
After about four months (she had, he guessed, moved to town and quickly located the rink, as any dedicated skater would) he managed to get up the courage to speak to her. They were almost alone, discounting a competent old woman and about four small children with their hassled mother. "You're pretty good at this," he said, squeakily.
"Thanks," she replied after a pause in which she looked at him, startled, and he blushed. "Um, you are too."
Her voice was gentle, melodic. "I'm Eliot," he blurted out.
She lifted a graceful eyebrow. "That's nice." Then she pushed off again.
Eliot felt crushed for a little while. But his admiration of the girl stubbornly pulled itself up (with gravelly hands), dusted itself off, and declared itself unwounded. She was still beautiful and clever and mysterious. She didn't want him to know her name because she naively thought it added appeal, not realizing how much she already had. She didn't speak because she was listening, because she was thinking, pondering, maybe even wondering. Eliot grew steadily more enamored of her.
Two weeks later he tried again. "Hello," he said, trying to be cordial as he put on his skates expertly. She had arrived, for once, at the same time as he and was putting hers on as well. Somehow being on flat feet made her disappointingly human. But he didn't really mind, not really.
"Hi," she said.
"I'm Eliot."
"I know."
"Um." Eliot was blushing again, probably. "What's your name?" he tried.
She glared. "Amanda," she finally relented.
"Nice to meet you." He held out a sweaty hand.
She nodded regally, stood, and glided away.
It took a little longer for Eliot to bounce back from that, but nevertheless he managed to. He skipped skating for a while, went to a different rink, but felt the loss keenly. So he returned one day. Amanda was there, of course. He was a little let down that she hadn't quit because he had-- but maybe she had! Maybe she had but knew he would be back today! And why not?
"I haven't seen you for a while," she said when he caught up to her. It was the first time she'd initiated conversation. Eliot felt so encouraged by this that he had to pull out his trump card, the question he'd been saving up for months and now was about to explode out of him.
"Um, can I... can I buy you a drink." His tongue darted out over his dry lips. Adrenaline pumped through his body. He brushed a hand across his forehead.
Amanda gave him a scornful, scathing look. "Sorry, I'm not interested in nerdy rollerbladers."
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
ABC CBA
Free and tame is he
Traversing the planet
But then coming home
With song and with poem
With cement and granite
He returns to me.
Traversing the planet
But then coming home
With song and with poem
With cement and granite
He returns to me.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
[just to let you know]
Writing is going on but mostly in regards to a short story contest I would like to enter. After a few weeks normal flow of stories should resume. Apologies and so on. Expect good stuff in future. Note minimal usage of pronouns. And stuff.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
First experiment in the future tense
Jonas will look at Janet with those eyes like marbles and she will feel penetrated, somehow.
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