Too Far Away to See

She was waiting for fireworks, not knowing that they'd already happened. She'd kept her eye to the same spot on the horizon, watching. But they were too far away to see, too far away to hear. There was a part of her that knew. Of course, she thought, why would I ever think I could see them from here? How could I? How could I?

She waited until morning. She gripped her blanket tight. And as the sun rose and daylight was a fact she told herself that was the reason. Of course, she thought, I could never see the fireworks by day. It isn't where I am. It's when I am.

How Are You Feeling

When I went it was right when SARS hit. As in, between takeoff and landing SARS became a thing. So suddenly the whole world was scared, disgusted, worried that they would be next. And what would happen when we came back?

Everyone wore a mask. Violently ill, wear a mask. Have a cough, wear a mask. Worried about either or both or anything in between, wear a mask. I got the impression some people wore masks just so they'd fit in. Everyone on their way to surgery.

We couldn't even see our parents when we returned. They whisked us into a debriefing room, took us down to face the reporters. And they poked and they prodded, "How bad is it?" "Were you scared you might catch it?" "Is anyone ill?" "How are you feeling?"

How are you feeling. We told them we felt fine. We told them the truth. How regular it was, how a crowd of white masks coming toward you was nothing to be alarmed about. But I realized, young as I was, that they weren't asking to make people feel better. They were asking to make them feel worse.

So-Called Sun

I remember you telling me that there was more to life than being unhappy all the time. That it was all a matter of perspective. The sun is always shining somewhere, some nonsense like that, all you have to do is find it. And I stand here repulsed, I really do.

What you do not understand is that for a person like me there is no trying. Trying does not enter into it. It is not through any fault of my own, I can choose it no more than I could choose to create this so-called sun you say exists. It is a fact, and one I cannot alter.

Take a drive. Read this book, it helps. You know what your problem is? Let me tell you about my day. Thinking about it that way won't help. Words of encouragement. Patronization disguised as patronage.

I'm not asking the impossible, I'm not asking the world. I'm asking that you use this sun to see things my way. To understand that there is a "my way," that there are a million more ways, that in fact most of the ways of the world are not yours. And that sometimes being unhappy is OK. And that, most of the time, it isn't what I want. Please sit with me. Please listen. Please, listen.

Shirts

Each morning he woke up staring at shirts, and each morning the alarm was set an hour early in case he stared too long. What would he do, who would he see? Would he have seen them before, and how long ago? How much time would be spent indoors, outside, in transit, in a grocery store or coffee shop and in what part of town? Would it rain? Was the risk high enough for an umbrella? Did he need anything extra, did he need an entire bag? Did he have too many shirts? Did he have not nearly enough? And eventually he thought so much about the day ahead he forgot all about the days that came before.

Emptied

Slipped on a patch of ice and down I went, and the garage can came tumbling after. My entire life in a week on the patchy driveway I shared with six other houses. Coffee grounds and pizza boxes, bottles I couldn't be bothered to recycle. Crumpled up bills and soggy paper napkins. I used so many paper napkins and never really knew it until then. All the things I'd thrown away brought up again and iced. I had to touch them, my leftovers, all those forgotten pieces, relive them in my soaked and aching hands and jettison them again. Sore on my ass, khakis stained with cold dirt, I threw a bottlecap into a pothole and wondered if it would ever, ever be fixed.

A Room After the Wedding

All she had to do was find one guy and stay in his room. "You taking me home or what?" It was as simple as that. A guy could never do it but a girl could, she could. And she had to, to save the hundred bucks. And wasn't it more fun that way, flying across the country for a weddin where you might not even have a room to spend the night? She was attractive, cute, smart, fun, a wild dancer. She could find some rented tux, some suit to take her home. Out of her comfort zone and into the fire.

The Quiet Time

After the guests have gone, the cold food's been put away, the last piece of bread, the last bit of salad. After we decide that there's vodka in there, after we decide to throw the rest of it away. After the music replays, the infomercials begin, after I've seen this one already. After today, after a week, after a whole year. The days that sneak up on you that begin again tomorrow. The early mornings and late evenings very much like this one, after the throws have been thrown and the last can wait. After I decide that enough is enough and never again and quickly so soon forget. After you make it home safe.

Time for Such a Word

When you speak of the word you say I'll hear it in silence. But in that time I know myself the best. I know what silence is, I can wrap my head around it. What I need is the word in noise, in chaos, in cacophony. To cut through the madness and bring clarity and reason. To tell me why it is so noisy, how it got that way. Until then, you keep your words to yourself. Let me enjoy my silence in peace.

Constellation

Orion's dad had a belt, too, I bet. I'll teach you to shine so right, I'll teach you to twinkle you faggot. After that how could he not light the way? How could he not be history?

He probably worked at a faraway moon near a black hole, Orion's dad. The outskirts of the galaxy, millions of miles past where most stars worked. Where only re toughest, the bluest, the most desperate of stars worked. He probably trudged to work every morning, the prospect of being sucked and collapsed into nothingness on his mind. He probably saw a lot of good stars go out that way. Imagine that thought greeting you each cosmic day.

Orion asks him too many questions. What are we made of? What do you do? Where is all of this going? And his dad gets tired, gets more tired, gets angry. When I grow up I want to be a constellation. You think you can just be a constellation? You think that's how this shit works? You have to kiss some stardust to get ahead in this universe. It's goddamn difficult, and it's difficult every day. And there's Orion, just shining and shining, growing brighter and brighter, having stories written about him. And off he goes to work, knowing that if he died no one would know for years.

If Anyone

Take me with you, she pleaded. No, he said. I don't even know where I'm going. Who knows where I'll be, what I'll be doing, who I'll want by my side, if anyone. But, surely, she said, I could be by your side until that time. Until you tell me to leave. But you see, he explained, I'm telling you to leave me now. And if you cannot now, you'll never then.

Invasion

I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was when she slept. So at peace, so natural, so herself. But then I would have to admit I was watching her. Small price to pay, I suppose, to pay her the compliment. And the invasion a small price to hear it.

Roller Rink

I never had my fun at the roller rink. So I bought it to make it fun. But after trying and trying I realized I just didn't like roller rinks. I didn't like skating, and I didn't like the people who skated. And there's nothing wrong with that. But then again, there's nothing wrong with buying roller rinks and razing them to the ground.

Crash

"Every time our lines meet I think I'm gonna crash." It was a nice thing for him to say, whoever he was, to whomever he was talking. And though I didn't recognize him from myself I could tell he meant well. I meant well. That I only had to figure things out and I had plenty of time to do it. And her line, where was it? Was I so certain I could see it at all? I was so embarrassed. I muttered something else and decided he would be who I was tonight. And she could wait, even though she shouldn't.

The Friends That They Walked in With

And his hand in hers is rough and her nails dig into his. The slightest of discomforts, familiarities, something to remember. She was there with someone else and so was he, friends, though they didn't know it at the time. When you walk in with someone you walk in with everything. There was a decision to be made, the ratio of alcohol to ice water, conversation and aloofness, things were getting complicated. And if you'd asked him how his night was going he would act like he didn't hear to buy himself some time. And she had multiple trips to the bathroom to text her best friend what she should do. And the friends that they walked in with talked and got along just fine, had things in common, said words at the same time, made plans to meet up on another night. And the music grew louder, and the air was hot, and so much was said with so little, the smallest look, and that's what they were afraid of.

We're All Rudolph Really

There's a moment early on in Rankin/Bass's Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Clarice, a young doe, tells Rudolph he's cute. He cries out "She think I'm cute! She thinks I'm cuuuuute!" and flies off the ground. That is love and adolescence. That is it perfectly encapsulated.

And then he lands, and moments later the dirt falls off his nose and everyone laughs at him. Rudolph, with his stupid red nose. Look at him. What a loser. What a joke. And what a perfect encapsulation, too.

What Are the Odds

"See, the problem," he said, "is that this city is filled with too many people who went to college together. They have their friends, they're keeping their relationships, because they don't know they're terrible."

"Well," she said, "that's not exactly fair. You don't know that they're all terrible."

"Think about your college boyfriends."

"'K."

"Do you still wish you were with any of them?"

"God no."

"So—"

"But," she said, "you can't apply that to everyone. Each relationship is different."

"Ew," he said. "Gross that you said that."

"Agreed."

"Think about the person you were. Are you that person now? I know I'm definitely not."

"I guess I'm not either," she said. "But neither were they. The boyfriends. They're probably all changed now, too."

"OK."

"So wouldn't it make sense to stay in it and grow together?"

"No one wants to grow together when you're twenty. I couldn't care less about growing when I was twenty. Did you care about growing when you were twenty?"

"Well..."

"No, of course you didn't. You know what you did care about?"

"What...?"

"Say it. Come on, say it."

"...I cared about sex—"

"She cared about sex, ladies and gentlemen!"

"But that's included in the growth! That's not a separate part. You want all parts growing."

"Ooh, yes indeed you do."

"Ew," she said, "shut up."

"OK, so growing," he said, "that's fine, I'll agree with you, OK, I'm all for growing. But to decide to grow with someone at age twenty, before you've really seen anything or done anything or gone anywhere is stupid. And not only stupid, but a disservice, it's a disservice to you and your partner."

"I never liked the word partner."

"Yeah," he said, "neither did I."

"But what if that's the person you're meant to be with?"

"The odds of that are so, so, so, so small."

"But they exist."

"Well, of course they exist," he said. "They're odds, they exist everywhere for everything. But those odds... You don't know the world. You think you do. But you don't. And the you find out that you never really can. You're still a kid, and staying with the girl from your philosophy class who you made out with at some frat row party, because you like the same music, and you're both staying in the city, and you're both from the Midwest. It's a foolish way to live your life."

"Yeah, but that's what you are at twenty," she said. "A fool."

"It's just... It's a big city. And there's so many people. And everywhere you look someone's holding someone's hand. And it's a difficult thing to break into, you know?"

"Yeah. Well. Here," she said. "I'll hold your hand."

Me to a Father

I walked over to the escalator. There were two men in yellow vests standing in front of it. An orange sign I didn't make out. "This thing safe?" I asked.

"I'd put my kids on it," the mustached one said.

"Ha," I said. "Do you like your kids?"

He looked at me. "You're not a parent, are you?"

I looked at him, and took the stairs.

Great Big Gordon

"What a fat load that Great Big Gordon is." Dara watched Gordon dragging through the hallway, a Jansport strap sliding off of one shoulder. "This guy's a heffalump."

"A tubby-tubby-two-by-four," added Jennalee, and all the girls snickered in agreement and chanted it as he walked past. "Tubby-tubby-two-by-four! Tubby-tubby-two-by-four!" Gordon kept his head down. He knew better than to look where he was going.

He was the kid who read a book as he walked to class with a backpack filled with everything he'd need for the day. His locker was empty, save for a few loose papers and some crumbs from a month-old snack. Stopping there meant stopping in between Chelsea Albany and Mark Finster, listening to them talk, watching them kiss, because he couldn't help himself. And when he wasn't reading he ran to class. And he wore headphones. The kids wondered and whispered about what he was listening to—

"probably his parents having sex"

"probably weird nature noises"

"probably some terrible song that he played himself"

"I bet he plays a wooden flute"

—but if they could hear it they would realize it was nothing. Really, it was easier for him if he wore the headphones. It was easier for them.

Gordon was large for his age, he was hefty. At some point during the middle of last year an awful boy named Kyle referred to him as "Great Big Gordon" (after commenting about his extra pizza slice at lunch) and the name stuck. Perhaps it was the alliterative g sound. Perhaps it was the sledgehammer cruelty of children. But when Gordon went home he was given things like chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and it wasn't his fault. Is a child supposed to say no when asked if he wants pop with dinner?

Gordon got good grades. Gordon played video games. Gordon played the clarinet at home. Sometimes his mouth got dry because he'd breath through it too much. Sometimes he had nightmares about sinking into the ground, all the way through the earth, and when he'd emerge on the other side he would be the only person there. He asked his parents for a dog. "What, are you gonna walk him?" Gordon drew pictures before he went to sleep. He wrote stories. One was about a boy, exactly like him in every way.

Kyle bumped into him in the hall, hard enough to knock him down. "Watch where you're going, Great Big Gooorrrrrdooonnnnn!" Kyle laughed. Mark was with him and he laughed, too. Gordon had wanted noise-canceling headphones but they were too expensive.

His next class was English. They were reading Romeo & Juliet. He was the first one there and saw all the character names written on the chalkboard. They were supposed to sign up to read a part if they wanted. He had practiced reading aloud in his room the night before. He wanted to know the words going in, he wanted it to make sense. Gordon took the chalk in his hand, rubbing it between his thumb and finger, the point of almost breakage.

The teacher, his favorite, Mrs. DiFranco, walked into the room. "Ah, young Gordon," she said, with her large boots and her long scarf. "Who are you going to be?"

Outstretched

And the way his hand outstretched, implying I needed any help at all. Just five spread fingers there laughing at me, the incredulous extra push forward they made when I didn't take them. And maybe I wanted to be on the ground, maybe I was happy there, maybe that's where I belonged. And who was he to say I needed to get back up. And what was this sudden fascination people had with helping anyway. When did the world become such a bright and shining place. When was everything everyone did worthy of praise and admiration. And when did I get to be like this, hurt and lonely on a cold hard floor. His hand still asked for mine. It was not going anywhere. I hated him for that.

Droplets

I thought that glasses would protect my eyes. That ther elements would knock against them, be disheartened. That they would offer some sort of protection. But the truth is they are like cages. Trapping rain droplets, specks and bugs, debris and air. And then there's no way for anything to get out, and I poke and prod at my eyes as if there were nothing there. The scratches, some, must be my fingernails, even though that probably isn't true.

There have been times where I've been swimming, and coming up for air I open my eyes. And for a moment everything is clear. The droplets sharpen, they make everything so clear. And for a moment I believe I can see. But then I blink and everything is changes. The world is the blur it once was, it's how it always is.

Overheard on Birds

"Birds are very strange. The way they stand is very strange. Have you ever watched them walk? It's weird.

...

Birds also can't control their sphincters. That makes them as light as possible. That's why they shit on everyone from the sky. I don't think they're going to want shoes.

...

I'm not paying for that. I will cut your funding.

...

It's not that I don't like birds. I'm opposed to shoes for birds. Those are two entirely different things.

...

No, I haven't read 'The Lorax' in a long time. And I've never watched the movie. Maybe I'll do that tonight.

...

Oh. Well, maybe I'll watch a different movie then. That sucks. I like 'The Lorax.'

...

Sure.

...

Hi, Kevin!

...

Oh. You got me. Your Kevin voice is pretty good."

Before You Get Hit by a Car

"Hello?"

"Cassie, hi, it's me, it's, uh, Jordan." I forget that we all know who's calling now.

"Hey, Jordan, what's up?"

"Um, I just, uh, I just almost got hit by a car—"

"Oh my god!"

"—I think—?"

"Oh my god, are you OK?"

"Yeah. Well, I mean, I'm talking on the phone."

"Oh, right."

"Yeah. So, um..."

"Yeah?" I'm out of breath, I'm dizzy, I think I'm dizzy, I'm impulsive and rash and without plan. "You... sure you're OK, Jor?" I love it when she calls me Jor. I'm not OK. Maybe I am.

"Yeah, no, yeah, it's just—I'm fine. Really, I am."

"OK," she said, "good."

"It's just a thing like that... I mean, it really came close to hitting me, Cass, like, really close."

"It sounds awful."

"And, uh... I mean, I guess I don't know what would've happened had it hit me, you know, I don't know if I would've broken some... legs, or worse, you know..."

"Yeah."

"Or, like... died. Right? I mean, I could've died."

"Right."

"Potentially."

"Was it going that fast?"

"It was going really fast."

"Oh my god."

"So anyway, I..." Just take a deep breath and get it over with. You've been pulling on this bandage for years. "Anything could happen, you know? At any time. You can be crossing the street and... bam." Nothing. Silence. "And after I crossed the street, and almost went bam, I wanted to..." breath, "call you and say that you... you mean a lot to me." Close enough. "And that's the kind of thing you tell someone before you get hit by a car."

More nothing. More silence. And then.

"That's really sweet, Jordan."

If only I could see how she was saying it.

"Yeah. Well. Couldn't hurt, I figured."

If only I hadn't waited so long.

"Yeah."

If only.

"I gotta run now, actually—"

"Oh, oh yeah, sure—"

"Sorry."

"No, no, no, it's fine, yeah. Yeah."

"But uh..." She could say anything. She could say absolutely anything in this moment. "Thanks for calling," she chose. "I'm glad you're OK."

"Ha. Yeah," I say. "Me, too."

A Little Filth

It's a smell I only know as "my unwashed head." My nose burrowed deep inside my winter hat. I know of no other place it exits. But if I smelled it anywhere else, somehow I would know. I'd think, Ah yes, that's my head, all right, that's my unwashed skull and hair.

They say—or, well, I remember being told—that you can't notice your own scent. Each of us, clean, has our own odor, our own neutral, and it can be quite difficult, if not impossible, to pick out your own. But as soon as you add a little filth there is no mistaking it. Yourself. Or, that's what I've found. Yes, some combination of the dirt and the skin and the sweat and the fibers keeps my coming back for more.

I don't spend all day at my desk smelling my old hats. I'm not groping my musk in the bathroom. I am simply trying to understand what makes me me, to become better acquainted with all the things that I am, the inside and the out. Surely I cannot be alone in that. Surely you, too, have slid a finger in between your toes, a shirt sleeve under your nostril, and thought, There I am.

Buddy

I wake up and he's on my chest looking at me. Feed me, he's purring. So I get up and feed him.

Minutes later he's on my morning paper. I'm reading about the gallery I won't make it to, trying to put together half sentences he's blocked.

Black coffee, the bathroom, his paw under the door.

Trying on ties. This one? No. How about this one? Next. How about now? Yeah, that's the one. Now stay home. Can't, buddy, I've got work to do.

What would he say if he could answer the phone? Does he like being left alone all day? Do I?

He's waiting by the mailboxes when I get home. Starts to dart in front of my car. I slam on the brakes. Was there a bump?

Open the door. There he's waiting. Jumps up onto my lap What took you so long? Slowly, slowly, I drive to the garage. Feed me, he's purring. Feed me, I say.

Profile

She works in marketing. Her name is Maggie and she works in marketing. Maggie the marketer likes wine. After a hard day of marketing Maggie likes to go home and have a glass of wine (or six!). She goes home and has wine and her dog is also there. The dog is cute and she loves it more than anything. Dogs are so much better than boyfriends. Boyfriends might want wine, and although the dog might also want wine Maggie doesn't have to give it any. She wants all the wine for herself. It was a hard day of marketing.

Maggie likes adventures. She likes shenanigans. She might even be looking for a partner in crime (she is!). She is a laid back girl who likes to laugh, have fun with her friends and family, and can keep up with you when it comes to sports. She may even like a rival team! She lifts, and hangs out with her girlfriends, and has traveled but would love to travel more. She has a serious case of wanderlust. She is trying to get to thirty countries before turning thirty. She is on number twenty-four (glasses of wine, that is!). She is also a whiskey girl.

R.I.P. Bennie 1992-2013 you are home now she will never forget you.

Maggie thinks people shouldn't take life too seriously. Maggie thinks you should be yourself because everybody else is already taken. Maggie thinks that if you can't stand her at her worst then you don't deserve her at her best. Maggie thinks you should be the change you want to see in the world. Maggie thinks she was born to run. Maggie thinks she's just Jenny from the block. Maggie thinks she donut know and she donut care. Maggie thinks Bueller... Bueller...?

She is blessed to have some of the greatest and craziest friends in the world and she doesn't even know where she'd be without them. Sometimes they go out and party and sometimes they just like to stay in and chill. Sometimes she chills by herself (unless you count the wine). Life is short and precious and you can't afford to waste any of it. Maggie is classy, sassy, and a bit smart assy. She has one of those black dresses where part of the front is mesh and she likes to wear it out with her girls. Marketing may be hard sometimes but it's worth it to know that she's making a paycheck.

Maggie takes care of herself. You have to work hard if you want to play hard! She runs, lifts, and is looking for someone to run and lift with her. She likes to do yoga at the planetarium. She looks up at the stars and planets and thinks that she should get a new pair of leggings with stars and planets on them.

Don't freak out, those little boys are just her nephews. Although she is a proud dog mama. He's so cute and adopted!

Suburban raised, city living, wine pizza skiing plane music wine sun swimming baseball basketball football wine dog dog wine dog wine burger taco wine.

Maggie doesn't know. She has no idea. And neither does Maggie. And neither does Maggie. And neither does Maggie. And neither does Maggie.

Take Part

He plays along. He's got nothing better to do than to eat cereal and watch bake-off reruns. They're a world apart, it's easy to type a few letters and seem interested. He doesn't care enough to not take part and that, he has found, is the key. It's not that you need to care enough to do it, you need to not care enough not to. And so he can type in the words and say what she wants and maybe he even gets something out of it. Happiness? No. Satisfaction? Not quite. But it's something, something is there. And he realizes that, for better or worse, he'll have to do it again in order to put a name to it.

Waiting

Every morning I'm waking up colder. The weather is changing, my heat doesn't work. It's something I prefer, going to bed cold, piling blankets on top. But the blankets aren't working. The warmth doesn't come. It doesn't stay like it used to. It leaves little by little every night. And so begins the waiting. Because there's only so many blankets I own. Only so much heat that comes out. Only so many layers I can wear before they all start splitting. And so I will wake up colder and colder, next to a side of the bed still cool.

A Most Unfortunate Infinity

Surely someone would have said something by now. Surely I would have noticed. But people are nice, and often too nice, so a thing like this might slip through the cracks. They may push it down.

A spot. A balding spot. Right there at the back of my head, right where they are on all the other heads of all the other sad men. I spent so much time worrying about whether I was losing hair from the front I didn't even think to check for the back. I didn't think about the back at all. Hoisted!

I grab my wife's hand mirror and lock the bathroom door quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion. I stand in front of the vanity, hold the mirror in back, creating a most unfortunate infinity. Spots and spots wind on forever, forming a trail, mocking my heredity, leading to my shame.

Perhaps it isn't really there. Perhaps it is only the place where my hair parts, the place where the hairs naturally split up and go their separate ways. Quickly I part other sections, getting them in the mirror as best I can. But none of them, no, none of them look as thinned as that damned spot.

Did she know? Had she noticed? Was she, too, trying to tell herself it wasn't there? Was she looking for a way to break it to me? Was she wondering why I hadn't said something about it? Was she really that blind? Did she care about me at all?

I put the mirror back in the drawer, the brush and hair ties on top as they were. I am going about this as if I've done something wrong. And though, of course, I had no choice in the matter, I can't help feeling it. I can't feel any other way.

That Kind of Night

Notes and outgoing calls. Things people said and things I thought of. Too many texts, too many true things. That was the kind of night it was. Not the kind you plan for because can you really? You're out with a couple friends and suddenly you've met the owner of a Mexican restaurant and he's passing out tequila shots. Not the kind you shoot, the kind you sip, the good stuff. And you always have one in your hand because he keeps passing them out, his restaurant is doing very well. Flashes of things you said to pretty girls, you liked her coat, it was like a cool Santa Claus coat, and your friend said you're blowing it but that's all you wanted to say. Can't a guy compliment a girl on her coat without wanting anything in return? The place has changed, it's not how you remember it, the music is louder, the people are more. Everything starts to wash together and suddenly you're in a loft in SoHo. The car home is going to cost a lot, you didn't attract anyone and you're not crashing here, you think these guys, they might like you a little too much. But it's OK, everyone is living and alive. And if you keep drinking water and stay up just a little longer you might not feel like dying. You might even see the sun rise.

Good Things and Bad

Good things come to those who wait.

Sometimes.

Sometimes good things come to those instantly. Sometimes the people aren't waiting. Sometimes they wait forever inside an average life. Sometimes good things happen to very bad people. They make them happen. They want them more. Maybe they don't.

Then bad things come to those who wait. Bad things come at a moment's notice. Bad things happen to good people, bad people, precautions or no. Badness does not discriminate. It likes to fuck with people.

Preparation only goes so far. Living a good life only does so much. Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans? No. Life is you making those plans. Life is what happens. And you cannot try to find the meaning. You must make your own. That's the real power, the power we don't always realize we have.

We're part of the universe. It's easy to forget.

Cold Earth

It's the first time I've been in a bed in months. It's harder than I remember it being. You think the ground is hard, the cement, the cold earth. There can be nothing harder than someone else's mattress, someone else's sheets. A unnatural and more personal way of reminding you you don't belong.

Homewrecker

Slut, home-wrecker, home-wrecking slew. Giant great succubus cankerous cow. Piece of vile garbage trash with day-old magazine sample sour tonic perfume. A goblin-troll if there ever was one, a nightmare of her own invention. A thing so dark and deep, a thing so empty and hateful, she laughs at misfortune and eats black holes. Putrid fungal nasty gossiping vain selfish gold-digger, whose interests lie only in getting one step ahead and another bed tallied. Sad, sorry, and alone. You can't choose who you love. Why did she have to go and do it?

Ingrown

I scratch at the little dark bump, scraping away the skin, revealing the hair underneath. It sprouts, unfurls, it's been itching to get out. Looking at the hair on my body, the speck of blood under my nail and the drop of it growing on my leg, did I really need to release it? Did I need one more hair? Couldn't I have let it grow inside me and die? If it needed to burst out it would do so on its own. Not everything needs help.

Pregame

I'm just jealous because I don't have fifteen friends. Maybe I do, if I scraped the bottom of the barrel. But it's close quarters, these two small rooms, and the heat that we can't control. But what's a man to do? It would have been rude not to invite Cary, she was sitting right next to Ben, who was sitting right next to Mikey. Then there was François, visiting from France, and they weren't about to leave him alone. Soon a handful turns into a barrel and I don't know the majority of people there, in my own home. I can understand why he did it. They were his plans. And I can't say I was an afterthought, though I don't really know, and there would be no reason not to think I didn't mind. We're all just so close, physically, feeling so much hot breath. And everybody happy, and everybody drinking, and everybody loud, and everybody asking if they can put their jackets in my room. 'Tis the season for putting on a smile and saying you're having fun.

A Mask

So I'll put the cream on, I'll cleanse my face and apply, I'll let it set for twenty minutes and then wash it off with warm water and then I'll feel better about myself. I'll be smoother and cleaner, fresher and leaner, I'll be free from this dead stuff clinging to me, free from myself. Freedom from yourself, bottled at fourteen dollars a pop. Welcome to the future, it is a terrible and wonderful place.

Going Mad

It could have been the curt responses, or the silences. They years of not saying "Thank you." It could have been our dwindling sex life that I couldn't seem bothered to reheat. But, if I'm being honest, I think it was when I went to kiss her good night and coughed in her face. I laughed. It was an accident. But everything from there just seemed to go sour. It was a tickle in my throat, it was her perfume. The scent I'd insisted she buy. The scent she wore just for me. How many times did my brain tell her one thing and my body another? I'd like to see those tally marks. Those prison walls, covered in groups of five, the etchings of a man trying to keep from going mad. Which is, I guess, what we were trying to do all along.

Light They Give

The candle wax hardened in moments, suspended in a state of dripping off the dining table. I'd made my point. It was hot, but I could stand it. It could be scraped off the wood, but not off the tablecloth. It solidified an inch off the edge, but not a bit more. The carpet was ruined, dinner was ruined, light smoke curlicued toward the ceiling. A chandelier hung, fake candles perched within it, each one with a flickering fake flame. It's a shame, the light they give off, that's all it does. It only lights a room.

Being Aware

What are you doing?

What.

You're ordering another drink?

I ordered another drink.

We're going.

OK.

I mean, we're winding down.

I see that.

Everybody has an empty glass. Or an almost empty glass.

Good for them.

You know what I mean.

Tell me what you mean then.

We're about to go. You can see that we're about to go.

So.

So you don't order another drink.

But I did.

But you shouldn't.

But I did. And I'm going to drink it.

I just don't know why you'd do that.

I really didn't think about it.

Exactly. You didn't think about it. Why don't you think about it?

About what.

Anything. Other people. Me. Other people.

I just wanted a drink.

More than you wanted to be aware.

I drink so I don't have to be aware.

Hahahahaha. Well. Now I know.

Why I Like Cabs

"I like cabs because I like ignoring people. I like sitting in the back and being chauffeured, not feeling like I have to talk. I like feeling that I'm better, I like the power it gives me. So, no, I don't participate in this 'sharing' economy. I don't Lyft and I sure as hell don't Uber. I don't want to talk to the driver. The driver is the driver and although we are probably equals at that moment we are not. I don't care if they're nicer, if their cars are nicer. I don't feel nicer. And that's the point."

RHS

I took the quiz and it said I was red hot. The letters were big and bold and red and I felt they were true. The comments and opinions sounded real, real women, first names and last initials, modern love for modern men. And I scored in the top bracket, the high end, the red hot. I, the quiz confirmed, am a red hot lover.

I didn't feel like a red hot lover. I didn't feel like some Don Juan. A piece of paper that says you're a thing doesn't mean a thing unless you got something to back that thing up. If I know what to do, all the moves, all the words, that only gives me so much. I have to put up the rest.

"Red hot, huh?" Why was I doing this out in public?

"Oh, uh." She was pretty. Red hair. Lots of red happening tonight. "Yeah, I guess," I laughed.

"You leave that quiz out in all the bars?"

"No, no. Just doing it to pass the time." She seemed to believe me, which was good because it was the truth.

"Those quizzes aren't written by real women, you know. Not real women."

"I know," I said. Did I? "Like I said. Just passing the time."

She sat down. "Mind if I pass the time with you?"

"No. Please. Do. Bartender?"

He walked over. "What'll you have?"

"A Redheaded Slut."

"Make that two." A little sweet for my taste. But my taste hasn't done much for me yet.

 

Evening Out

Hard is what you'd call it. When one turns into two turns into five. Somewhere along the line it slips away from you. You feel good, feel great, feel too great, feel bad. Then you wake up and remember and feel worse.

It's not the slipping I mind. It's not the involuntary letting go, the total lack of control. It's the shaking hand, the uneasy mind. The glass you have to pour just to even out. Then you feel normal. Then you feel like yourself. Even though you're not sure who you are anymore.

Cool Down

She unfolds a small red Chinese fan, starts wafting her eau de Ricola and magazine sample. How anyone could be hot on a day like today is beyond me, long johns or no. And for a brief and sudden moment I want to know everything about her. But for a more sustained, truthful moment I wish she would put that damn fan away.

"Ooh," she says, reading my mind. "I've been so cold all day, so cold. Nice to actually need to cool down."

Until It's Too Late

I keep my coffee cup on the floor because I know I'll knock it over. I've been sequestered to the old schoolhouse desk, the working slab just bigger than a piece of paper, my necessary 15" laptop encompassing everything then some. She is sitting at a table for four, two dirty coffee cups about her, an identical glowing apple. It's a big table, and if I keep my arm on my desk's armrest I 1) develop cramps and 2) can't really even use the arm.

People die every day. They die crossing the street. They have brain aneurisms for no reason.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah you mind, or yeah..."

"Yeah. You can sit."

A rocky start but a start nonetheless! Doth not the weest babe eventually walk?

I pick up my jacket, my bag, my computer, my cup. My new wood chair is far more comfortable than the one attached to my desk and I wonder if this is an interesting topic of conversation.

Do you think these woods are different? You should sit in that seat over there to see what I mean.

I can do better. So I let ten minutes of silence go by.

"What are you working on?"

"Huh?" She pulls an earbud out from under her lovely grey beanie. "Oh. It's a grant."

"Oh, cool!" I say. "Very cool, yeah, very cool. What's the grant, what company do you work for?"

"A non-profit." Classic shutdown. I know them well.

"Awesome," and I go back to my Facebook. I'm wasting time, procrastinating, looking at Christmas gifts for my family because I know I will wait until it's too late.

"How about you?" She's asking me a question she's asking me a question.

"Screenplay, I'm a screenwriter." Why. Why did I just say that just now?

"Oh yeah? Written anything I've heard of?"

"No," I answer truthfully, "but I will," I finish with a lie.

And then it hits me. Why couldn't I write something? Who's to say a movie isn't inside me somewhere? We all have one story to tell, it's just a matter of finding it, willing it into existence. And then I think that perhaps my story hasn't happened yet. That whatever I have to tell is still somewhere down the line. That I have days and years and thousands of decisions left ahead of me before I get anywhere near it, before the prologue even hits. And I know she can read this on my face.

"You OK?" she asks, and as I'm about to answer I knock over my coffee.

Girls Dig Me, Guys Want to Dig My Grave

Not that it's anybody's business but my own but I'm doing just fine. The trick, see, is to keep it all locked up, all of it. Good, bad, ugly, yes, all of it, then they never know anything's wrong. Then you're one of those enigmas, a mystery man, you're the cool new kid with the cool leather jacket disrupting the social circle, causing chaos on the jungle gym. You're a spy, you've many talents, you're the strong and silent type that chicks just can't get enough of. They'll want you to protect them, they'll think you can, they've never met anyone like you. The guys, now, on the other hand, they might not like what they see, maybe they've met a few too many like you, maybe they're trying to do that themselves. Those boys, they lack a thing called tolerance and refuse a thing called compromise. They're in it to win it and all the while losing. Deep down, hell, they're probably even aware. They see you and out comes the alpha dog, out comes the bag of tricks, off go the gloves. It's working against them. The girls will eat it up, they'll eat their fill. And all you gotta do is not say a word.

Paler

Right now he don't have any worry, he don't have any wonder. He spends his nights walking. He takes in things around him: house, car, cat. He sees kinship in the people he sees so late. The word undead comes to his mind.

He sees his skin get pale. Every day get paler, paler. Soon he knows he will be see-through. Soon the vessels will pop, arms embossed. Soon everyone will see what's inside. Soon everyone will know.

So he keeps it late. Fewer out and those that are understand. People go through the same thing, walk through the same night. Only some call it different.

Where I Live

"Why are these under your bed?" She slid out a stack of pictures. Prints, photographs, old movie posters. "Are you going to hang them up?"

"I plan on it." Which was the truth. I'd put them there for the time being, while I situated everything else. But time being turned into time itself, and that was where they lived. The finishing touches.

She took the Butch Cassidy poster. "Hey, I gave you this."

"Sure did," I said.

She held it up over my bed, moved it to the dresser, the space above my desk. A place where it should live. She went back to the bed. Back to the dresser. Back to my messy desk.

"Why did you come over?"

She turned to me. "You asked me to come over."

"That's not really an answer." I watched the knuckles on the frame turn white, the slight scratching of nails against the glass cover. She leaned the picture on the wall.

"I guess I'll go then."

She took the bag she'd filled and left. I picked up the poster, Butch and Sundance, frozen right before their death. And flipping it over I saw the heart she drew, faded and there after all these years. I loved the way she drew hearts, I'd always tried to copy her. But I could never quite do it.

Time Machine

I was surrounded in crumbs, the sun coming up, the flesh of my mouth roof peeling from the heat of hot pizza. It was the end to my day, the kind that makes Sunday feel like Monday, the kind that reminds you that you're old. Probably a good thing. It was her 21st birthday, although you'd swear she'd turned it long ago. A 21st birthday means a night of free drinking means a night of keeping up. Never What are you having but What are we having. Pours and rocks and shots and spills and a sticky hand. When a bar closed it only meant we had to find one that was open, we had to get a couple bottles to keep in our jackets. A party is a good excuse for anything and it often is. I, for one, decided to go back in time to when I never did these types of things and do them. For one night only I was barely legal, I was unbeatable unstoppable unsinkable, I was unaware that there was anything known as a tomorrow. And turned around and in the dark and left alone I was overcome with a hunger so deep and dire I had no choice but to walk the mile to the 24-hour convenience store for rations, which I made as the day dawned and ate on my bed as it stared me square in my distorted face. Overfull, sauce-burned, flakes of pepper on my sheets, I could fend off sleep no more. And in the fraction of a second before I succumbed I knew that in fact another day was coming, that it was already here, and that I was missing it. And what a depressing thought that is to have as you begin to dream. Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.

Crisis

When they say time slows down during a crisis they know what they're talking about. Like when you hit a rock on your Razor scooter and it takes ages for you to hit the driveway. Or when she says she doesn't love you and your next class may as well be on the moon. Or the time between "It smells like pot in here" and your answer, even if your answer is the truth.

You suspect the worst. You brain slows everything down so it can process. You are trying to make sense of a nonsense thing. The test results can't be positive. The grade can't be that low. That is not the garage door opening below you. But they are positive, and how do you move forward? They are that low, and is there extra credit? That is the sound of the door, and where are your pants?

Time should slow down during good times. When the pinata bursts, when the song is played, when she says yes and for the next twenty years. You have no problem contemplating the wonderful. The wonderful is supposed to be there, the wonderful should be the norm. But there's so much of it you don't even realize. And it's only when something horrible happens that you remember how great your life really is.

Dog Food Avenue

The road next to the brewery smells like my old dog's dog food. That was, what, fifteen or so years ago. Did I give him food every day? Walks were more my job. But that memory is lodged back there, that smell, and then I can see it and hear it and remember when I found that mouse in the bag and suddenly I miss my dog. And my friends are waiting for me inside and it's a birthday party and we've rented out the taproom. And tonight is supposed to be about youth and beer and girls. And all I can do is hold back tears and take breath after breath after deep, deep breath.

Sun, Moon, or Mars

I know I should be able to tell them apart. I know there are vast, significant differences. One is day, the other is night, and yet I am having difficulty distinguishing between them.

I do not know quite when it began. All I know is one day I looked up. Don't stare at it, someone said. Stare at what? The sun, I was told, don't look directly at it, not for very long. But to me it looked like any other thing. It was was no brighter nor bigger than a common lamppost. And when someone told me it had fallen into night I could not tell. They said it was full, the moon. I swear I could not see it anywhere. And now I squint at the heavens for some sort of reason why. Are there stars anymore? Are there planets?

People call me crazy. How are we alive if there's no sun, they say. How, if there's no moon. No one seems to understand that I do not doubt their existence. I am not saying there is no such thing as sun, no orb known as The Moon. But, to me, they are gone. No different from that glowing red dot some millions of miles away. I know that they are there. But that is simply all they are.

The Joy I Take in Dying

"I doubt I'm any better," I say and we walk over to Street Fighter II. I've chosen this bar arcade—a barcade, or beercade, as it were—for our second date. Something a little fun, something a little goofy. The lights and the noises and the beers make for a good atmosphere. I'm enjoying myself and she seems to be, too. She's not very good at anything, but neither am I. There's a certain charm in equally sucking at something.

She chooses Chun-Li, the lone woman, and I choose Ryu because I always choose Ryu. She beats me quickly, laughs, beats me quickly again, squeals. "Are you letting me win?" she asks. That's a complicated question. Let her win for what reason? Because she's a girl and I think she's needs help winning? Because she's terrible? Because I've been hiding my talent this whole time? None of these are true, but I can't quite answer no. However, "No," is what I say.

I suppose it's condescending. Selfish, too. I am playing slightly under my level, just enough, so that she beats me and I can watch her be happy. Can I say this on a second date? Hell no. A smile so wide and an eye so bright, any excuse I can get to look at them I'll take. And if that means throwing my favorite arcade game then so be it. But it sounds crazy, to say something like that, to say it so soon. "Too many beers!" "Not enough," and she takes our empties for another round. She orders two more and gets talked to by some guy. She says something and comes right back.

Soon I am lying in a pool of my own blood, the gleaming "K.O." hovering over my mangled Japanese body. She holds up her glass for a toast, gives me an awww face, and smiles. "Man," she says, "you're bad at this."

Innkeeper

There are a few lights and half a bulbs are broken, a few ceiling fans but only half are spinning. The slow pulse and push that you experience without feeling. The jukebox is filled with classic rock. I painted houses one summer and that station was always on, the same playlist day after day, no one else wanting to change it. I get the feeling that not a lot changes around here either.

The bartender opens up a beer without asking and slides it to me. That's followed quickly by a shot of whiskey. It dribbles onto the counter and she doesn't wipe it up. I say I like her ring. It was a present from her grandmother. That is, she got it when her grandmother passed. They'd always wanted it, she and both her sisters. They were jealous it was given to her. She had plans to share it with them but doesn't think she'll go through with it.

She asks if I like her hair. It was just done today, dyed a bit redder, cut a bit shorter. She feels like a new woman with Richard gone. For good this time, someone asks. She nods. She finally told him he couldn't be in her house anymore, told him he had to go. Told him what she'd do if she ever saw him again, heard he was in town, heard he was in a fifty mile radius. He hit her one last time and said he was better off anyway. She said of all the times she hit her that was the only time she didn't hate. It meant it was over, and how could that be bad?

Everybody is on a basis that is past first name. First look, first breath, first thought. The regulars have a way of communicating where they don't need to communicate much at all, not in ways that are heard or seen. That's what happens, she says, when you spend decade after decade with people. That's the upside to never going anywhere. At least you know one place really, really well. She smiles. I can feel the others smiling, too, even if they're not.

My beer is close to being done but I still haven't finished my whiskey. She calls me a sippin' sister. She pours two more shots and says to hurry up. I finish mine off and take the second one. She takes hers and raises it. Always toast when drinking with someone, she tells me. What should we drink to, I ask. Ain't you got anything in your life worth drinkin' to, she says. I say, Let's drink to you then, but she informs me that it's bad luck to drink to yourself. Maybe that explains the last few years, I say. She smiles. OK then, I say, to knowing places well. That seems to sit right with everyone.

Boot

They give me a big glass boot and tell me it's free if I finish it, the beer inside. If I don't? I ask. Thirty dollars. Seems a bit excessive, but so is my appetite for the sauce. Time restraints? Thirty minutes. A dollar a minute seems just about right. I say I like those odds, they look like they've heard that before. Famous last words. Watch out, someone tells me, when you get to the foot. It'll slosh up at ya.

I start fast and hard and reckless. I'm on top of the world when it hits me, a boulder in my stomach, the heaviest weight in the world, and I'm not halfway down the calf. In the high-twenties' minutes left and no way I could ever finish. Everyone is looking at me and the dance floor is filled with old people doing the polka. They are in another time and place. They don't have to worry about things like this.

Every minute or so I bring the boot to my mouth and pretend to drink. If anyone's noticing the level isn't going down they're being nice and keeping their mouth shut. I wish I could keep my mouth shut. How hard is it to do that? How hard is it not to lift a big glass boot? Finish and it's free? You can't afford not to do it. There is something in the oom-pah-pah that starts my stomach rumbling.

A moment later and I'm in the bathroom, sick. When I come out most have scattered, gone back to better things, and the remainders tell me that's it, it's over, if I can't keep it down then that's all she wrote. I get out my wallet but someone says that it was already taken care of. I look around and no one's looking at me. No one claims responsibility. People have forgotten I existed. The lively tuba and the hope of a long future with a beautiful woman are all that's left.

Plus One

No, you don't understand, I got rid of my plus one because I thought it would be a good way to meet people. Force me to introduce myself, you know; make pleasantries, ask questions, be interested and interesting. But now that I'm here I see everyone at least knows someone and nothing is easy at all. Also my decision to not buy alcohol was a poor one. And they say that coming with people keeps you in the corner, but at least in your corner you have someone to talk to, you got your corner buddy. Two can approach two easier than one can but maybe that's just what I want to think. And everybody around me has a bottle or a glass. I thought maybe that would make someone offer me something, seeing that I didn't bring anything of my own. Giving people a chance at being friendly and inclusive but I guess I should've known better. And I look around to see someone like me, another one, someone standing there too scared to talk or move, kin in discomfort. But this other one doesn't seem to be in this room tonight. What would I even say? Hello?

Fragrance

Garlic and mint, my signature mouth fragrance. A delicious yet shortsighted meal, a quick yet fleeting cure. I think of alcohol breath remedies, wonder if any of them are real, wish I had some pennies or potato chips.

"Hi," I say, and I swear she shrinks, not so small that I cannot see her but shrinking all the same. "I have to go to the bathroom," I say, and I go.

What am I going to do here? Hope a stranger has some gum? Wash my mouth out with soap? I would it kill me to choose a swanky club with a bathroom attendant for once?

After I've minutes I go back and she's gone. Can't say I blame her. There's nothing worse than thinking somebody doesn't want you, even if that person stinks.

The Rime of Simon Penske (yes like the trucks)

When I get a little tipsy

I get a lateral lisp-y!

I may be quite drunk

But I still go some funk!

Now watch me shake my hipsies!

Plates of Strangers

It's a difficult relationship, fries and me. They are my desert island food (nutrition notwithstanding, and even then it's iffy). They are the first on my plate to go, they get added even when there's a surcharge. I have been known to take a friend's plate out of a server's hand so I could finish them. I have been known, in darker years, to finish them off the plates of strangers.

I am not one of those girls that says, oh, shall we split an order of fries. If I get fries will you have some, will you have some. I have never thought about the fat or the calories or the salt intake. I do not differentiate much between an expensive cone of Belgian frites and the oiliest or driest fast food cartons. Sack fries are some of the best gifts in the world. Dropped fries which you find in the morning, an army of ants lining up for the feast, is a crime. Have I dusted the ants off in a fit of desperation? No. Have I eaten them off the curb? I am not at liberty to say. (Yes.)

When I wake and I am not hungry, when my first meal is dinner, I start to worry. When I feel more for the last few crispy stragglers than I do about the fullness of my stomach, I am concerned. Addiction is a strong word. It belongs to things like alcohol, cigarettes, and eating broken glass. It becomes a silly word when given to a silly thing, and I would not do that.

I do regret. Often. I will be chewing my final bites and wondering why, wishing I wouldn't. And I tell myself, this time could be the last time, this time in fact is. And for a while, bless my heart, I even believe myself.

Mirrors and Scales

I'm gonna go ahead and be controversial.

Oh please no.

I'm about to say something you won't like.

This is where someone comes to save me.

I think white men of today have it hard.

This is where the laugh track goes.

I'm serious.

This is where the gasp goes, when they realize you're the villain.

I'm not the villain.

No villain thinks he's the villain.

I have an explanation.

I would love to not hear it.

Up until now white men have had it easy.

You don't say.

At the expense of a lot of other people; women, minorities—

Literally everyone.

And I'm not refuting that.

Oh god go on.

But a lot of that was built in.

White privilege.

Right, white privilege. So many of them didn't know it was happening.

Really.

I didn't.

OK.

I am only now beginning to understand how easy I always had it. Or if not that, how difficult it was and is for others.

This is where they go aww.

But now people are getting back at us.

And you've lost them again.

Getting back at people like me, who had no idea it was happening in the first place.

Oh dear god no.

Or if not getting back then being antagonistic.

Make. It. Stop.

Or if not antagonistic then throwing it in our faces.

Please help ANYBODY.

I feel like you're not getting what I'm saying.

I'm getting what you're saying. You're the one who's not getting it. Honesty is painful sometimes, people get mad at mirrors and scales for doing their jobs. The reason you're uncomfortable has nothing to do with anybody else but you. The reason you're uncomfortable is because you feel bad. Which is a good thing. It means you're learning. Like you said, you had no idea how difficult it was for other people. How easy you had it. How your world was slowly formed over hundreds of years to ensure how easy you'd have it. But now that world is changing and it's not even that things are slightly harder. It's that things aren't masked anymore. You're starting to see everything for what it really is. And that's different, and scary, and to you it seems unfair. Because you didn't ask to be white and you didn't ask to be male. You didn't ask to be born. Well guess what. Neither did anyone else.

Saltwater

Two weeks from now I will be in California. Sipping margaritas on the soft white sand. I've never been but I don't think I'm far off. Orange trees, palm trees, pomegranate trees on every corner. The new taste of swimming in saltwater.

Two weeks. That gives her almost as much time to change her mind. I should have set a closer date, I should have said, "I'll be there tomorrow." I was thinking too carefully about how to be spontaneous. Maybe that's why she said yes. Say yes now, get out later. Maybe she thought I would come to my senses. Joke's on her, I have none.

I am going to bed early and getting up late. I am taking naps. I am trying to get through this fortnight as quickly as possible. Leaving my phone in the other room, leaving it at home entirely. If I'm not there to answer her call then maybe that call will never come. I am already imagining calls.

Why say yes? Why propose the idea? If you're not going to go through with it. We were both in our right minds, we both knew what we wanted. What we want. Things change, I suppose. You think it's one thing and it ends up being entirely different.

All Die Carelessly

All die carelessly, all predict nervously, repeatedly. Without an authority to swear by all is forsaken. But in comparison against timeless distinctions, whoever twists, whichever suffers, is relieved. And prevention is nothing but a forgotten prison. It is an imposing, frail world.

Very Me

I ordered two rum punches that the bartender wouldn't set on fire. I said tell me more about this new guy. His name is Tom Wolfe, she said. Like the writer? Yes. He liked having the name of a famous author even if he'd read none of his works. I couldn't argue, neither had I.

The drinks were fruity and sweet, the kind of thing that gets you in the end. I said I'd gotten to the point that whenever something seems harmless I assume it's quite harmful. She laughed and said that was a strange thing, but I've got a few years on her. She'll learn. I'd already had half.

She asked me the same thing and I said Sarah, no famous last name, she struggled with reservations like the rest of us. Oh, making reservations already? It was just a figure of speech, I said, although it really wasn't that, and also it was the truth. We were going to nice restaurant, clubs, places where I had to wear a jacket. She said she thought it was funny that I had picked this place to meet. Didn't seem very me. I couldn't argue.

Would it have made a difference, I asked. A place like this, a reservation, a coat and tie. She swirled her unseasonable tropical beverage. Of course not. Did I really think it was about reservations? I couldn't answer her because I did. I felt foolish. And that meant Sarah couldn't see my foolishness, or saw it and refused to say. Not that I could blame her. Doing one thing and saying another, we've all been there before.

False Horror

Supermen and slutty cats. Iron man and vampire bats. What a night! A father and son are mad scientists, and there's an entire Star Wars family. Too many princesses to count, less ninjas than last year, more of the turtle variety. Canes and swords and knives abound.

Moms carrying glasses of wine, older kids with colored cups. Pillow cases and plastic pumpkin bags, kids take two when told to take one but you have to admire the initiative. This is candy night, the beat of nights, and we must get all we can. A lot of people are carrying horse masks.

It is perfect that it happened tonight, the night of make believe, the night of others, when blood and gore is to be expected. The parents congratulate me and the children are frightened and I always forget why. A sticky feeling on my cheek reminds me of the blood.

"Like the getup, man."

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"Scary!"

My blinds are drawn and my hands are steady. Tonight is nothing other than what it is. Only a night for pretend, false horror, a night when no one bats an eye. Except for some children, God bless them. Inside waits for me a gruesome mess, a cleanup far worse than any party, a realization far worse than any fact. Inside I have to face what I have done. But in the meantime, I can pass out chocolate and enjoy these slight fringe benefits and be the monster everyone expects.