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.