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.

An Upcoming Scene from Later Tonight

Lights up. We are in an apartment party—that is to say a party going on in an apartment. It is Halloween, or very near it. While the apartment is a decent size it seems cramped with the dozens of people, many made larger by their costumes. Every person is holding a drink, and the floor and furniture shows the evidence that they've held many more. An upbeat holiday song is playing.

I've gotten there late and I'm trying to catch up. I've been talking to friends and meeting a few new people, but I keep seeing you across the apartment. I keep thinking and over-thinking what casual and clever thing I could say to start a conversation. Eventually, after the friend you were talking to leaves, and after probably too much time has passed, I walk over to you.

ME: Hi, how's it going?

YOU: [walks away]

ME: We'll talk later then?

Black out. End of scene.

Tweet

"'Two good-looking single young men, prime of their youth, world at their fingertips. Time to watch the Peanuts special! [Everywhere old men weep.]' Yeah?"

"What?"

"What."

"Why are you putting that last part?"

"Like old men are crying because the folly of youth and youth is wasted on the young and all that."

"It sounds like they're into us."

"No it doesn't."

"Dude, it sounds like they're into us."

"That is not how people will take it."

"That is exactly how people will take it!"

"OK OK OK, what if I changed it to 'people,' 'old people.'"

"I don't know why there needs to be any mention of any old anybody."

"You need a button!"

"The Peanuts is the button!"

"That's not a very good button."

"Then you work on that button, you don't add another one."

"I can add as many buttons as I like."

"This tweet is turning into one of Steve Harvey's suits."

"This tweet is going to be real good, OK now, let's see. OK but I want this to say something, you know?"

"It says enough without the old men thing. People will naturally think of old men."

"What?"

"People will naturally think about how old people would look at us and tell us we're wasting our lives."

"I'm not saying we're wasting our lives."

"No, I know."

"I'm saying we're wasting our evening."

"No, I know."

"Dude?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are we?"

The Last Laugh

It was different, it wasn't supposed to be like this, they were the ones who were supposed to get attached, not her. It came from out of nowhere, not suddenly, over a few days, but still when it started she didn't know from where.

"Come on," her friends said, "we're going out tonight."

To the place where the freshmen dwell, that terrible string of bars, into the chasm. They shaved and plucked and forced her to do these things, slinked themselves into skintight skirts and stilettos. And looking in the mirror she knew, even if she wasn't ready, that she looked good.

So she lied about being from Missouri. She lied about how long she'd been in town. She lied about her relationships. She danced what she could and when she didn't feel like it she sat down and her friends pulled her back on.

"Woo!" they said. "This night is about you!"

When someone leaves there is always a reason. She wanted to know, it didn't matter how mundane or morose, how hateful. It was there, she knew it, it was always there. Things like this are difficult but that's the choice you've made. She didn't tell him to go.

They were in line for food, Cory she thought his name was. He went on and on about his major or a friend's major or a friend's car or something. She thought about her bed, how big it was, how empty, how emptier it would feel with her in it. And when she placed her order Cory or Cameron or whoever gave her a look and laughed, said she didn't need all that. She laughed at him harder.

Sharing Pins

I stuck pins through my fingers, we all did. Only small safety pins, and only through the very top layer. Sometimes it was so shallow the skin would break immediately. But soon we all got fairly good at stick in the pins. Then you'd fasten it shut, pretend like you had some sort of power, the power to make pins stick to you. We didn't think about how dirty they were, we didn't think about not sharing. We didn't think about who started it or why we did it. We were kids and kids don't think and that is why everybody wants to be one. We didn't realize it at the time.

Sympathy Bloody Sympathy

"Sympathy for you is like a Band-Aid after the guillotine. It just won't do nothin'. You're gonna slump there and you're gonna bleed and there's nothin' this little bandage is gonna do. You'd feel foolish for even tryin', thinkin' that what you're doin' makes a difference. And so it is with you and my sympathy, or lack thereof. The second I start tryin' to understand where you're comin' from is the second I start lookin' like a chump. It ain't gonna change your situation. What's it gonna do for you? And I'll be washin' blood off my hands for a week."

Two Germans

Sitting next to Germans wondering which sister is older. They both are blonde and have strong jaws but then I think that might be all Germans. But maybe I'm thinking Aryans and I have to shake that word out of my head.

They're visiting from Hamburg and I fight the urge to call them hamburgers and feel good about it. I don't want to be most Americans, oh you're from Hamburg, would that make you hamburgers, us Americans love our hamburger, wink wink.

This is their first time in America. They haven't been to New York or Los Angeles, San Francisco or Boston or Washington, D.C. They wanted to come to Chicago, and when they're done they'll go home. I ask why Chicago. I say things like Empire State Building and Golden Gate Bridge and Liberty Bell. They said they didnt want to go to any of those other places, that they already felt like they'd been. All they knew of our fair city was a renamed skyscraper and I suddenly panic that I couldn't pick out Germany on a map.

Through the Rafters

It was a fairy tale area, that's what I was told. A girl proposed to another girl back there and she'd said yes. Other people had been seen making out. Hanging white Christmas lights reflecting through the windows. Old chalkboards or chalkboards made to look old, peeling paint, a broken swing. Twine was frayed and tied to things, leaves were everywhere and they'd only just begun to fall. And above your head the rafters, stars strewn sparingly in the sky, the moon behind the clouds. The moon is a harsh mistress.

A pretty girl looked at me, that was something. Earlier I'd heard her, she was talking, from Brazil, no accent, maybe she's moved when only a baby. She said wasn't it a picture, like something out of a book, something you might think would be annoying until you actually saw it, in the middle of it, until the leaves were on you, too. I said it was nice, I was jealous, and yes she was exactly right. She asked me to take a picture of her and her friends. I took some, too many, I think they started laughing. She took the camera back and turned her back on me and only turned around to say thanks.

I sat on a DIY table and took my phone out. There was a conversation from earlier I could pick up. There were maybe friends in the area. There were people I could talk to. There were so many people. The glow of the screen was brighter than any star or moon or whatever was left of their light through the rafters. And someone tapped me on the shoulder and said that weren't they right, and wasn't this place out of a fairy tale, and looking around I decided I didn't have a decent reason to disagree.

Somewhere Safe

We held hands and waited for the storm to hit, waited for the sirens to start and the wind to howl. We sat there quietly and didn't say much other than "Are you OK" every minute or so, as if that did something and changed things. We were in an empty bathtub, in the basement, we thought it was hilarious that there was a tub down there when we moved. There were creaks and groans and moans and rain fell.

"Should we pray?" she asked me. "Pray for what?" "I don't know," she said, "just in general." I wasn't sure I knew how to pray anymore, but I suppose there's no wrong way to do it. "Do we have to do it out loud?" I asked. She smiled and squeezed my hand.

If we were silent before we were wrong. The silence that followed is the kind that comes from inside, from where noises aren't even made, the kind that hollows you out. I prayed for her and for our families, for people I didn't know, and for things like trees and birds and neighbors. I didn't think to mention myself so when I opened my eyes "Did you think of me?" "Of course," she said. Our hands were red and painful, neither of us realizing how tight we were holding on. And from above we heard the sirens calling out, telling us to take shelter and get somewhere safe. And looking at her and my red hands that's exactly how I felt.

Lonely

People asked if he was lonely. If all those nights were getting to him. He thought it was a strange question to ask. A question where you already know the answer. You do, and you're just waiting for the other person to say it. You want them to say it, want them to allow it, their life should be OK for you to talk about. And so you ask the question, leading directly to where you want to go. And so people asked him if he was lonely. And he told them, No, but I'm learning.

Getting Out

And I wanted out. Getting out was nothing new for me. Dad rolled his eyes while I explained my age. When parents roll their eyes they aren't always wrong. So I decided I'd think on it. Thought that maybe I was in the part of the run where my lungs started hurting. And that it wouldn't be much farther until they didn't hurt at all. But that can be a lot for a guy like me. I don't want to think of reasons to stay in, I don't need to. If I were like him, older that is, and had people depending on me. Right now I just got me. And so maybe that settles it. Stop and give my lungs a rest.

Mom, she didn't say much. Told me to follow my heart, said it was up to me, she'd support. Though the way she didn't look at me. I could see she understood but still didn't like talking about hurting someone. But we've all been hurt before. Chances are I won't stop now. Chances are she's better off.

The World's Only Dog

Outside a couple walks their dog under umbrellas and I think how rare it is. To see two people, man and woman, walking one dog. And maybe it's just me and where I live. I see a girl walking I think, There's a girl walking her dog. I see a guy and it's, There's a guy walking his girlfriend's dog. In my mind every girl owns a dog and every dog is owned by a girl. The boyfriends are extensions.

And I've come to think that's what they want anyhow. Girls, that is. If they can't get a boyfriend they'll get a dog, and if they have a dog they'll get a boyfriend, and then the boyfriend can walk the dog, and everything will be full of love. I do not understand how a girl can see any dog and react as though it is the first dog she has ever seen. That it is the world's only dog. That never before has something been small and furry and walked on four legs. That is most animals.

We are too positive, too friendly, too nice, too encouraging, and I'm quite certain most of it is false. It is empty, it means nothing. You post a status, you like a picture, you tell everyone they're beautiful and it's so easy. It's what's hip, it's a pair of shoes, it's a puppy in a bag. And it's a trivial way to deal with people's lives.

Mojito

I was spitting bits of mint into my glass. I don't think you're supposed to eat them, I've eaten them and they don't taste too good. This tasted fine. She'd handed me this drink, mo-HEE-toe, she pronounced it in an ethnic kind of way, her tongue stuck just a little out. I would've been plenty good with plain rum even though I don't like it much. She wanted to do something nice though and who was I to stop her. But I will say this, that every time I take a sip from my glass I'd rather not be spitting something back into it.

She said wasn't it nice to be together. She was in town for the weekend, staying with me. Had other places she could've gone but she chose mine and that meant something. I told her yeah, it was nice to be together. Time gets so that you forget the things you used to not need to remember. They were just there, they just were, she was always around. But things change, people go, and suddenly you know what memories are. She was like that, but she was getting realer every second.

I poured from the pitcher. It was that level right beneath ice cold, it's watering down but started strong so you don't care. I even spilled a little on the couch and laughed it off and she said I'd changed. Made me start to thinking if I did, and if she had. She looked, sounded, smelled, was the same. She must've been. But then I thought I was the same, too, and she was always smarter than me.

It was one of those nights makes you wish you had a screen door. We belonged in quiet, but somehow sitting there we made our own. All we had to do to catch up was sit there and breathe. And I told her maybe we didn't need to do it. She asked what I meant. I said this, maybe we didn't need to do this anymore. That there was a way to fix it. Where we didn't need memories or special drinks because every moment would be now. And somehow that didn't sit right with her. Like she didn't think things were broken.

She got up and left, called a friend and took her bag and said she'd see me soon. And me only just telling her that she could always see me soon. I picked up that pitcher, torn green leaves suspended in an off-white sea. There was enough for two more drinks and I drank them both. And I don't know what I would've done with that screen door. Probably ripped it off its hinges. I can see it now. Looking out onto some field, dirt road cutting through, a hundred thousand dandelions blown into the wind.

Rind

You loaned me a pencil and I ate an orange. I couldn't wash my hands before I used it. Afterward I smelled it when you weren't looking. Would you notice?

You took your pencil back and I tried to hide the rind. Acidic and bitter sweet, it takes a while for soap to do its job. I said thank you and looked from the side. You smelled something, too, and held the pencil to your nose. Was that a clench before you pocketed it?

The Plan and Practice

They say I do things when I'm asleep. They've seen me eating, they've seen me walking around. Once they told me I only stood there, looking out, not blinking, not awake. They say it's getting more complicated, the things that I'm doing. Stacking chairs, packing bags, sharpening knives. They say it looks like I have a plan. I'm silent and watching, seeing and saying nothing. They say I might hurt somebody. I believe them. But I could hurt anyone and anytime. We all could. I only wish I'd only do it when I was asleep. My subconscious is more real than myself. Yours is, too.

I am planning for something. I am practicing for something that is about to come. Rehearsing an act or my reaction. During the day I don't ask questions, and nobody tells me much. And if something happens I could only say that it wasn't my fault. That I was asleep, and as I did these things they only stood and watched. That they wanted to see what I would do. And when I woke up they would say, What were you thinking?

Movie

I am in a living movie. I only pay attention from edit to edit. You are a supporting player. I might recast you. The genre shifts from day to day, from moment to moment really. I have tried to create one for all of us, but while he is in a comedy she might be in a tragedy. You have missed cues and adlibbed too often. I think you need to focus.

I am focused. I have written and rewritten to the point of pure poetry. You would not know it. It is very real. My interjections and my improvisations have been scalpeled into works of art. That is what I would like to live in. Art imitating life, life imitating art. Is there a reason they cannot be one in the same?

I think someday I might regret my decisions. What will I write then? If I am writing do I have to regret? Can I not write something else? I am in a movie and you are in it with me. And I think I must recast myself.

Lamplighter

We took turns throwing bottles into the air, watching them smash onto the pavement, laughing. It was just the right amount of recklessness and destruction to make us feel young and alive, which we were. They caught the right amount of lamplight and they never hit cars. When they broke they broke into pieces you could never put back together, all that was left was labels. We felt good and were happy and should have left it there.

I'd seen too many movies. I wanted to break one against a pole, pretend to be defend myself, attack someone. Smash, point, come on, let's go then. It didn't work like the ground worked. The bottle twanged with a thud against the steel. It would not break, could not break, and me just altered and foolish enough to keep trying. I didn't realize how long I'd been standing there, how alone I was, how loud the bangs really were.

I threw the bottle at the sidewalk, frustration, malice. I looked up and there you were, whoever you are, looking at me from your bedroom window. And you shook your head, disappointed, never met me, lowered your blinds and turned out the light. And it was just the lamp and me, until I walked home, however long that was.

Midnight Breakfast

With the cabinets slamming and the sotto cursing it's a wonder I was even half-asleep. There you were, a door away, making some ungodly midnight breakfast. Was that the time? Surely it was hours later. The plodding process of insomnia alleviation, nothing to do but lie there, think of nothing, don't think at all, keep your eyes closed, wait. A hard task to be sure. Makes it all the harder with the cracking of eggs and the bacon come-hither.

"Shit," I heard you say, "goddammit." A loud sizzle. Something burning, something dropped? I tried to ignore you, tried to ignore everything, stare ahead and let the edges fade. My arms and legs were sore, my ears were cold, my feet were covered by extra blankets. There was no reason not to be asleep. By all accounts I was tired, exhausted even, yet every time I went to shut my eyes the lashes knocked against each other and left me helpless. Our bodies can betray us.

"Fuck." A splat, an egg. Stop making things out, stop listening! What had happened? Gone all day, trouble at work, I really didn't know. I could have gotten out and asked you, interrupted your meal. This is where I am now. Not wanting to interrupt your late night bacon and eggs. This is where we are.

I was finally fading fast, I could tell, I was nearing the finish line, starting line, it didn't matter, wherever I was I was almost there. And then, as if back in freshman English, I jerked. Some place inside was telling me no, don't go, stay away, stay here. The smell was fading fast, I knew I had to act. So I threw off the covers and opened the door.

Dirty dishes. Crumpled paper towels. Television glow from down the hall. And all I had to do was walk down it and ask a simple question.

What Have You Been a Part Of?

What have you been a part of? Was it large? Small? Was it something between you and your closest friends? Was it something between you and your closest self? And isn't that the question.

When I saw the crowns of color only then did it sink in. Oh, I thought, it isn't about me. Oh, I thought, I am a part of something. Oh, I thought, there are other people in this world, with lives as thorough and complicated and painful as mine.

What have I been a part of? I'm not sure. At least in the grand scheme of things. But for one night I held the hands of my fellow man and felt something wonderful. I guess it's all downhill from here.

Coming Around

I meet Ellie for a drink at what's supposed to be a sushi place. I wanted to go to a bar but she wanted to go to this sushi place. When I get there I see they sell wraps, salads, carved meats, and hardly any sushi at all. It doesn't fit into the town. It's trying. There are lots of people there, it must be the rush time, and none of it feels right. There are TVs on and the people were watching them, a reality competition, strangers stabbing each other in the back. Ellie's already drinking, wearing a black dress. She's eating something, a wrap, but sushi, a big sushi wrap. I can't make up my mind because I don't know what anything is or how much it costs, it's one of those menus. We talk about why we moved back home. She talks about money and "finally coming around." I agree with her, say a version of the same thing, it sounds better than the truth, but I'm realizing that most things do. I also realize that Ellie's dress looks exactly like the servers'. She stands up, says she has to go, she's working later tonight. She goes around some corner and I watch after her like she'll ask me to follow. In a minute she comes back around, changed, wearing a gold dress, it looks Victorian, it's so ornate, so beautiful. She starts clearing people's plates. I decide I should pick something up on the way home.

Ten Minutes into Central Park

Ten minutes into Central Park I spot my first shirtless, cutoffs-wearing, middle-aged rollerblader, finally. I say first because I assume there will be more. Here he is in some area paved with hexagon stones, blading in a circle, listening to his wraparound headphones, and every now and then he mouths a phrase or brings arm or two up in some kind of choreography. I've probably seen him go around twenty times. Who knows how long he's been here? Who knows how long he'll stay? I'm waiting for someone to look at him. No one's looking at him. Maybe they're thinking, "Oh, there's ol' Steve again, good ol' Steve Cratch. Never been the same since his wife left him yesterday. Still takes care of himself though. Look at that! He should be wearing wrist pads." And I look up and he's gone. Gone back to his one bedroom on the Lower East Side, back to the stoop, back to a shirt. I'll probably never see him again.

Hearing lots of Brits. Italians, too. Carry on.

Hey, hula girl, hurling your hula all over your sweet bod. Actually, I can't tell how attractive you are. But you are in short shorts and socks and a bikini top, and your breasts and face seem nice enough across Bethesda Square. I don't see anywhere for us to give you money. Are you just practicing? Ooh, now you're doing high kicks. Now you're sitting in a "V" on the dirty ground putting stickers around your legs—oh, there's the tips sign. A foreign woman laughs. This girl must have a job, or jobs, or another skill. She must be good at something else. Mustn't she? Obviously one cannot make a living hulaing a hoop up and down various body parts, that doesn't pay your New York bills. This means one of two things. One, the hula hoop is her one passion, her soul pursuit, her raison d'être. She's slowly working her way up the hula ladder (but really, does anyone fly to the top of that ladder?), and she comes out here every day to practice and get noticed. That's One. Two, it's just something she's kind of good at so she may as well make some money off of it. In which case, what's stopping me from busting out my clarinet in Millenium Park? Probably that I don't really need the money or the embarrassment. I can play in my house or in my car. You don't always need a reason other than you like it.

Look at these fucking kids with their helmets and their pads and their clothes. They have no idea how to rollerblade.

The gentleman on the bench to my right. An older, white-haired, mustachioed, Caucasian gentleman. The other is a younger Asian gentleman. Speaking I don't know what the hell they're speaking. At first I thought it was English with a brogue. Then Irish. Then the Dark Tongue of Mordor, which should not be uttered here. Whatever it was (the Asian is gone and the other—who is not as white-haired as I previously thought—is silent) it was very guttural, very glottal, very much back of the throat and fat of the tongue. He's reading a book entitled De rette jaren. Norwegian. Danish. I hope it's Norwegian.

"You couldn't ask for a nicer day out here," someone says. Well, you could, but it would be kind of a dick move.

Didn't She

She was toppling over, nearly. She was inches off the ground. There was leather wrapped around her legs, she wore underwear conceived by demons to make it work. Her neckline plunged, her breasts were falling out. There was a line along her chin dividing where her skin ended and the makeup began. Her hair was so straight, so whatever, it took so long to get it that way, just to lay there, to do nothing. She smelled how she wanted to smell, which way back when was what whoever told her. She tripped as she got her chili fries. She ate them off the ground, feet throbbing, buttocks showing. She looked so good though, didn't she?

Entrapment, the Breakfast of Champions

You asked if I liked breakfast all day. You phrased it as such: "Breakfast all day???"

I said yes. Cereal in the morning, eggs in the evening, pancakes in the afternoon. There wasn't a sweet or savory option that wasn't known to me, not a doughnut I wouldn't try, a bacon slab I wouldn't wrap around something. Coffee? Another cup, please. Orange juice? Extra pulp. In fact, bring me a glass of pulp. As Bart Simpson once asked, "You dunkin' your sausages in that syrup, Homeboy?" Yes, I am.

You said that was weird. It was the last I heard from you. And so I add chocolate chips to the batter.

Surface Area

Every night he poured a full glass of water and kept it on his bedside table. In case he woke up feeling parched. He never did. And every morning he looked into the glass. He saw the water covered with flecks of dust and tiny particles of things unknown. The surface, the smallest amount. And every morning he threw the water away.

Noise

I look at this list of people who've all got my name. Twice as many people had their conferences and decided that this one name should be the name given to their little boy. I've always liked my name. And growing up you rarely meet another who shares it. But when it's there, printed in a list on a piece of paper. Well, it's like saying something over and over again, isn't it? Doesn't matter what word it is. If you repeat it enough, it starts to lose all meaning, and sound like just another noise.

Permanent Red

It didn't look the way I thought it would. I looked like it did in the movies, the old ones from the 70s. there was a thickness to it, some globular vicsocity. It was a color I was certain wasn't found in nature. No berry, flower, tree, or shrub, no feather or skin or scale. It flowed, exponentially. I knew that at some point it must run out, that the rate in which it was lost would overcome the rate in which it multiplied. I knew that there was nothing I could do, nothing that anyone could do, nothing that could be done. There is something in rcognizing a tragedy and letting go. There is a picture to be painted.

Best Sound

They said that earbuds damaged your hearing, he'd read it somewhere. Something about decibels? Sound so good from a gadget so small and none of it good for you. How was he supposed to get from Point A to Point B?

The world had become common. Or maybe his eyes became clearer. Surely the world had always been this way. The sidewalks still grey and the trees still disappearing. But all of it was transformed when the two white phones popped in. Blurring is a transformation, yes?

Over-the-ears were too hot. His head got itchy, the noise was too canceled. It was best when there was a little left, a little taste of the outside world, floating on top. It's true, he didn't want it all to go away. He only wanted to make it better, sweeten it, until things changed. But he was worried now that by the time things did, he would not be able to hear it.

The Digits

"Wait... are you serious?" She looked serious, she certainly sounded serious, but I thought I better ask just to make sure.

"Yeah," she said, "I think it'd be kind of hot." She said it. She just said it, just like that, like she was just stating a fact and not releasing a secret. Or issuing a challenge, more like.

"I don't know," I said, eyeing the room. "Wouldn't that be weird?" I was apprehensive and I had every right to be. I looked at the bar, full of young women. This is something most guys dream of, but surely this was a trap.

"I think it would be hot." She didn't lean in. For some reason I wanted her to lean in, to insinuate a bit more, to play around a little. But she just flat out said it, she said it the way she might say "I think this coffee would be hot." Maybe I was putting too much importance on it, maybe it wasn't that big of a deal. It obviously wasn't to her.

So I looked around a little more seriously. Which one of these girls could I talk to? I had to pick one where I had a decent shot of getting her number, I didn't want to go out there and fail and then retreat with my head down. I wanted her to know that I was game, I was sexy, I was strong and confident and all those things she thought I was. This was the proof: Yup, stick around awhile, this guy's got something.

It's not that there weren't enough girls there, because there were. And it's not that they weren't attractive, because good lord. The establishment was filled with the girls I'd always thought I'd wanted but never really went for. That feeling never really goes away. And it's not that I didn't think I'd get a number. I know myself now, I know my strengths, and I would have scored those digits. I was worried I'd like it too much. That she would see how much I'd like it. That I'd find a girl, we'd hit it off, I'd get the number, and then I'd want to call it. That I wouldn't want to walk back across the floor. I was worried she'd start something I couldn't stop. So I said no, changed the subject, bought more drinks. She didn't look disappointed. She didn't really look like anything. And I couldn't stop looking around the room.

I Loaf You

"I like my relationships like I like my bread," she said. "Light and airy."

"Ha!" he laughed.

"Yes! Some like a hard, crusty bread. None of that for me."

"But the holes," he reasoned. "That's where the light and air comes from. It'll be full of holes." He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. Oh! Oh, this one's a keeper!" she turned and shouted to no one in particular. "I'll have what he's having!" They laughed and laughed.

"Love is what happens when you're too tired to argue anymore."

"That's nice," she said, "who said that?"

"My father." He stopped laughing and awkwardly stared at the candle in the center of the table. "Love!" he shouted as if nothing had happened, "Love! should be like a thick-cut Italian loaf. So, so soft, able to sop up all of life's goodness."

"Mm!" she said with a mouth full of wine, and "Oil!" upon swallowing. There was a brief pause. "Salt and pepper!" they both exclaimed. They were having the time of their lives, I'm told.

The server arrived, setting down a basket, its contents covered by an impeccable white cloth napkin. The dry-mouth of anticipation seemed to last all night as they carefully drew it back. Underneath?

"Breadsticks!" They laughed, and cheersed, and ate.

 

There Must Be A Word

There is loss, extreme loss, and pain. There is an emptiness that seems to consume, a hole that fills you up. There is grief in a form most absolute. And though I would like to, I do not feel it.

There must be a word. There must be a word for wanting to partake in grief which you do not feel. I can look and understand so much. I have lost in my life, but I have not lost this. And yet I wish I had. Is that perverse?

It could be a yearning for empathy. It could be a need for catharsis. It could be a ploy for attention. It could be, simply, an excuse to give love. Tragedy binds far more than blessings every will. Must I seek out tragedies in order to express myself?

There is darkness. There are people who pull you out. Perhaps that is it.

Loveseat

"Ooh! Wait. I have agave nectar."

"That sounds good!"

"Mm, no... wait..." Could he hear me? Like, at all? "That'll just make it sweeter."

"Did you not know that already?"

"But then again..." I'm going to go with no, no he couldn't hear me.

He handed me my drink. It was sweet. And bitter. "There's bitters in there, too," he said. Ah.

We sat there on his couch. Or really I sat on his couch and he sat on the chair next to his couch. "Why are you sitting there?" I asked. I didn't think I asked in any kind of, shall we say, "way." I thought I just pretty much asked him. I wasn't mad or anything. I was curious! Seemed weird to me. But he just scowled at me and sipped his... I'm going to say it, terrible drink and didn't say anything for a minute. OK, maybe not terrible, but definitely not what I could call good. But he took the time to try to make me something when I asked for something and so who am I to complain?

We ended up streaming some music on the TV. Talked for a little bit, drank, put on more music, more suggestions. Every time we got up we went back to the same positions; me on the couch, him on the seat. And when it got to be late (kind of) and I told him I had to go he seemed so shocked. "Really?" he asked. "Really?" As if I told him, OK, I'm going to turn into a dog now. "I thought you were staying over."

I mean, I probably would have. I wanted to, I did, earlier in the night. I wanted to sit, and have his arm around me, and stay there with him. In the morning he couldn't made eggs and put agave nectar in them or something, I didn't care. But he was so far away.