[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Amanda gave me this prompt: I'm finished with being careful. I gave SAM this prompt: "I do the best I can. Everything else is everybody else's problem." -Alison Janney]
When I complained about smelling like coffee, my mother told me that she spent a summer working at a movie theater, and, over time, she grew to loathe the smell of butter. I had to admit that, if you have to smell like something, coffee isn't a bad choice. Better than butter. I enjoy the coffee smell, actually, the bitterness of it, the slight tang it gives to anything you come in contact with. Even when the scent fills my room after a feverish, sweaty dream, I don't mind it.
I had a boyfriend who smoked, once, and it was kind of like that, only more pleasant. It got into everything- hair, clothes, blankets, car, bodily fluids, it was an echo everywhere that lingered for months after he was gone. I wondered if I was like that: could you taste the coffee in my sweat, on my skin, at the roots of my hair? Nobody was ever close enough to notice. Was it a smell someone could get used to?
We do get close to each other at work, but who could tell there? No one had complained in class, yet, or in the library, but I was also customarily carrying a cup at those times. It wasn't something that kept me up at night, but it made me wonder. Was I the girl who smelled like coffee? Would some future man be disgusted by that? Or would he get misty eyed every time he walked by a Starbucks, thinking of me?
Not likely. I wasn't the type anyone pined after.
When I walked by the smokers' congregation, leaving the library after a night of research, even now, Darryl's face would still come to mind. Darryl's soft, stupid face, with those eyes that I could never say no to. Sweet, handsome Darryl, with all the promises he made, all the beautiful words that I'm sure he meant every syllable of right up until the day my sister had the day off and so did he. Some things you can't erase.
I had retreated from life after that happened, burying myself in school work and working extra shifts at the coffee shop, trying to make up for in volume of human contact what I lacked in intimacy. It was a quiet, soulless existence, enjoying little, my days desiccated and dry, always too busy to be social, packing days and evenings with events that left me exhausted, dropping into bed only to restart the mad rush the next morning. I was in the middle of one of those days, coming off of morning classes, planning to help with the afternoon rush, then taking off for an evening meeting about a book of poetry I was going to co edit. I had taken enough psych classes to know what I was doing, but not so many that I could make myself stop.
I squeezed into the work routine, finishing an iced with a swirl of Rorschachian chocolate, running up to the register to help a Mom juggling a baby, a three year old, and a purse, then dashing back to refill the sweeteners and napkins. I baked, I served, I spun, I loaded grinders and roasters and refilled cups. I remade an iced tea for a skinny teen that had spilled hers after taking it from my trembling hand. I noticed him as I buzzed about, hunger starting to gnaw at my insides, making me feel lightheaded and a little removed from myself.
He had his hipster badges on, MacBook top with clever sticker in view, thick glasses and erratic facial hair, well highlighted paperback on the table next to his coffee. We were supposed to engage with anyone who had been there a while, ostensibly to see if they wanted something else, but subtly to hint that someone else might want the seat. I looked over at tall, willowy Marina, who gestured with her head towards him. He's yours, the gesture was supposed to mean, and I knew, coming from her, it meant more than one thing. Marina was uncomfortable around single women, and fixing me up had become her latest project.
I walked up to him, a little unsteadily, and waited for him to look up. He did, and he was cute, in a lost puppy sort of way. He looked innocent and kind, and it took him a moment to focus on my face. I tried to stand up a little straighter. He certainly liked coffee, too- his large was almost gone.
"Can I-can we-can I get you something?," I stammered.
He smiled.
"You can get me a list of Trajan's five greatest accomplishments as a Roman emperor," he said drily. He had an amused look on his face, like he thought he was funnier than he really was.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a refill," I said.
"Ah. No, I'm actually fine, thank you," he said. He smiled again, and I felt something.
I had made such a practice of walling these feelings off, denying them and boxing them away like old Christmas decorations, that I had to exert effort not to do it again. I'm finished with being careful, I decided at that moment. I have done enough treading gently around men who might be single, trying hard not to reveal anything, never letting on that I'm not taken, that I have insecurities, that I cry at midnight sometimes for no reason. I argued with myself briefly, pinning my insecurity to the floor like a wrestler. I was sick of talking myself out of things, fed up with protecting myself against potential heartbreak.
"Would you like to go out sometime? Like, maybe, for coffee?," I said, immediately reddening as I realized how dumb that sounded. It wasn't the dumbest thing I had ever said, but it was in the top 5.
"I would think you'd have had your fill of coffee," he said with a low chuckle. His eyes were lovely, broad and blue. Yep, it was definitely a something that I was feeling. I felt a tiny cramp of hunger and prayed silently that my abdomen not make any noises.
"That's true," I said quickly. "I'm sorry- I'm stupid- I mean- what I meant-"
He laughed again, a musical sound, warm and friendly. "I understand. Dinner tonight?"
"I have a-a thing...um...a meeting."
"OK," he said. "Tomorrow?"
"Sure," I heard myself say, and I felt a weight drop away. It was time. I wasn't willing to spend the rest of my life mourning that idiot.
"You're done with that?," I said, gesturing towards his cup. He drained the last swallow, then handed it to me.
"Sure am," he said. As I leaned in to take it, I noticed he smelled faintly like the woods. I liked that. That was a good thing to smell like.
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
100 Word Song: "Right Cross"
[When my main muchacho Lance and his anodized pal Leeroy agreed with "The Stranger" as this week's song selection, I was so in I was nearly behind Lance as he poured his sweet tea this morning. This story is called "Right Cross"]
"I don't even know you when you're like this," she said. I clenched my fists.
"Like what?," I said, trying to sound calm.
"Like this," she said. "Why are you so angry? He was just flirting with me!"
She didn't understand. It was disrespectful. I was standing there, and this suit puts his hand on her perfectly tanned forearm. I had to hit him. I couldn't do anything else and still live with myself.
"What makes you like this?," she said.
I couldn't think of anything that made sense, so I didn't say anything.
"I don't even know you when you're like this," she said. I clenched my fists.
"Like what?," I said, trying to sound calm.
"Like this," she said. "Why are you so angry? He was just flirting with me!"
She didn't understand. It was disrespectful. I was standing there, and this suit puts his hand on her perfectly tanned forearm. I had to hit him. I couldn't do anything else and still live with myself.
"What makes you like this?," she said.
I couldn't think of anything that made sense, so I didn't say anything.
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge: "Now Warming Up..."
{Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word challenge this week is prepared to allow the nomination to proceed via a voice vote. The word is actually a phrase, "road trip", and this story is called "Now Warming Up..."} {Please note: this story does contain a single bad word. If bad words give you the vapors, why don't you get off the Internet and start reading a nice pamphlet.}
"It's you, Cheese."
"Chuckles" hung up the phone with a rattling slam.
"Dammit," I said. "Doesn't he know I've pitched 6 times on this fucking road trip?"
"Doesn't know," Chuckles said laconically. "Or doesn't care."
I got up and stretched. My arm ached horribly. We heard the whistle and thump of another line drive finding the right field corner, and the rising roar as the home crowd cheered. Petey, the bullpen catcher, crouched down to give me a target. I took the mound, grimaced, and threw. The glamorous world of a pro athlete, I thought.
"It's you, Cheese."
"Chuckles" hung up the phone with a rattling slam.
"Dammit," I said. "Doesn't he know I've pitched 6 times on this fucking road trip?"
"Doesn't know," Chuckles said laconically. "Or doesn't care."
I got up and stretched. My arm ached horribly. We heard the whistle and thump of another line drive finding the right field corner, and the rising roar as the home crowd cheered. Petey, the bullpen catcher, crouched down to give me a target. I took the mound, grimaced, and threw. The glamorous world of a pro athlete, I thought.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
SPE: "Man In The Moon"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, SAM gave me this prompt: "What if there really was a little man on the moon? Who is he? Why is he there? And why does he always have such a silly expression on his face?." I gave Christine this prompt: "I'm in a hurry."]
We left early, because she wanted to. We always did what she wanted to do, because she had a force about her, a way of making it impossible to say no. She wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, until she got what she wanted. She wanted the picture, prince and princess in rented clothes, so we did that, and she wanted to dance, to be seen. So we did that, too, and then she wanted it known that she was leaving early, not for some lame, parent protected gathering, but alone, with me, leaving the rest to the listener's imagination. So we left.
We drove north, towards the seacoast beaches, because that's where she wanted to be. We listened to George Michael and Peter Gabriel, because they were her favorites. When we found a parking lot that was semi abandoned, we parked there. We walked across the street to a pizza place, their lonely fluorescents seeking customers that weren't there yet, the girl behind the counter congratulated us on our wedding. I didn't correct her.
We ate, then walked on the beach, her perfect brown toes barely touching the wet sand, carrying her shoes like we were making a jewelry commercial. We went back to the car, kissing for a while, then finally, when she said we had to stop, putting the seats back and looking at the sky. The moon stared down at us both, fat and tan and full. I opened the moon roof. We listened to the waves crashing on the beach. My hand found hers. I held on to her in the darkness. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.
"I used to believe in the Man in the Moon," she said.
"You did?"
"Yeah. When I was five or six. My Daddy told me he would always be up there, watching me. Protecting me."
"You believed him?"
"When I was five, I did," she said a little too sharply.
We were quiet for a while. A car passed by behind us, disturbing the purity of the moonlight. I thought about what her friends thought we might be up to. She had a bit of a reputation. Were they envious? Or disdainful? Probably a little of both.
"You don't need anyone to protect you now," I said.
"I need you," she said.
"I can't really protect you," I said.
"You do your best."
"But what if that's not good enough?"
"It will be," she said confidently.
We were quiet again. I assumed that, as long as we were clothed, the police would leave us alone. So far, I was right. I stared up into the night, thinking about the photons that were hitting my retina. I knew the moon didn't glow, it just reflected sunlight that we couldn't see. I remembered reading that if the sun were to explode, as if we lived in a disaster movie or a comic book, we wouldn't know for several minutes. I wondered if we would really know at all.
The distances involved in talking about cosmology always staggered me. Some of those stars you could see, far away from the moon's omnipresent glow, had sent their light towards Earth when Christ lived, or when Tutankhamen did, or when dinosaurs ruled the world. It seemed like an impossible burden, all these millenia leading inexorably to me, sitting here. Generations of families, carrying the genes forward, babies begetting more babies, for century after century. I didn't feel worthy of all that history.
"When that girl congratulated you? At the pizza place?"
"Yeah," she said. "That was funny."
"Why didn't you correct her?"
"I wish she was right."
"Really?"
"I don't know. Kind of."
"That's nice. I wish she was right, too," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "I really feel like we could be, you know?"
"Yeah. I've never felt anything like this before."
"I really feel good when I'm with you. Safe," she said.
"Safer than the Man In The Moon?"
"Way safer," she said.
I looked at my watch and pulled my seat upwards. I reached over and fastened my seat belt.
"Already?," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "Your dad said midnight, it had better be midnight." Her father, imposing and Texan and ramrod straight, an Air Force officer who knew one way of doing things.
"I wish I didn't have to go home," she said.
"I know," I said. I started the engine, and the Peter Gabriel tape came on. I looked around and prepared to back out. She was looking up at the sky, still laying down, the moonlight creating shadows beside her aquiline nose.
"I really do want to get married," she said. "Someday."
"But what if you stop loving me? What if you learn to hate me? What if you fall in love with someone else?"
"That couldn't happen," she said, and took my hand. I drove away slowly, keeping an eye on the moon behind us, knowing she was lying, and wondering if I was, too.
We left early, because she wanted to. We always did what she wanted to do, because she had a force about her, a way of making it impossible to say no. She wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, until she got what she wanted. She wanted the picture, prince and princess in rented clothes, so we did that, and she wanted to dance, to be seen. So we did that, too, and then she wanted it known that she was leaving early, not for some lame, parent protected gathering, but alone, with me, leaving the rest to the listener's imagination. So we left.
We drove north, towards the seacoast beaches, because that's where she wanted to be. We listened to George Michael and Peter Gabriel, because they were her favorites. When we found a parking lot that was semi abandoned, we parked there. We walked across the street to a pizza place, their lonely fluorescents seeking customers that weren't there yet, the girl behind the counter congratulated us on our wedding. I didn't correct her.
We ate, then walked on the beach, her perfect brown toes barely touching the wet sand, carrying her shoes like we were making a jewelry commercial. We went back to the car, kissing for a while, then finally, when she said we had to stop, putting the seats back and looking at the sky. The moon stared down at us both, fat and tan and full. I opened the moon roof. We listened to the waves crashing on the beach. My hand found hers. I held on to her in the darkness. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.
"I used to believe in the Man in the Moon," she said.
"You did?"
"Yeah. When I was five or six. My Daddy told me he would always be up there, watching me. Protecting me."
"You believed him?"
"When I was five, I did," she said a little too sharply.
We were quiet for a while. A car passed by behind us, disturbing the purity of the moonlight. I thought about what her friends thought we might be up to. She had a bit of a reputation. Were they envious? Or disdainful? Probably a little of both.
"You don't need anyone to protect you now," I said.
"I need you," she said.
"I can't really protect you," I said.
"You do your best."
"But what if that's not good enough?"
"It will be," she said confidently.
We were quiet again. I assumed that, as long as we were clothed, the police would leave us alone. So far, I was right. I stared up into the night, thinking about the photons that were hitting my retina. I knew the moon didn't glow, it just reflected sunlight that we couldn't see. I remembered reading that if the sun were to explode, as if we lived in a disaster movie or a comic book, we wouldn't know for several minutes. I wondered if we would really know at all.
The distances involved in talking about cosmology always staggered me. Some of those stars you could see, far away from the moon's omnipresent glow, had sent their light towards Earth when Christ lived, or when Tutankhamen did, or when dinosaurs ruled the world. It seemed like an impossible burden, all these millenia leading inexorably to me, sitting here. Generations of families, carrying the genes forward, babies begetting more babies, for century after century. I didn't feel worthy of all that history.
"When that girl congratulated you? At the pizza place?"
"Yeah," she said. "That was funny."
"Why didn't you correct her?"
"I wish she was right."
"Really?"
"I don't know. Kind of."
"That's nice. I wish she was right, too," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "I really feel like we could be, you know?"
"Yeah. I've never felt anything like this before."
"I really feel good when I'm with you. Safe," she said.
"Safer than the Man In The Moon?"
"Way safer," she said.
I looked at my watch and pulled my seat upwards. I reached over and fastened my seat belt.
"Already?," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "Your dad said midnight, it had better be midnight." Her father, imposing and Texan and ramrod straight, an Air Force officer who knew one way of doing things.
"I wish I didn't have to go home," she said.
"I know," I said. I started the engine, and the Peter Gabriel tape came on. I looked around and prepared to back out. She was looking up at the sky, still laying down, the moonlight creating shadows beside her aquiline nose.
"I really do want to get married," she said. "Someday."
"But what if you stop loving me? What if you learn to hate me? What if you fall in love with someone else?"
"That couldn't happen," she said, and took my hand. I drove away slowly, keeping an eye on the moon behind us, knowing she was lying, and wondering if I was, too.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
FFF: "Don Sutton"
(This week's Flash Fiction Friday comes from, well, me. This story is called "Don Sutton".)
Baseball isn't a metaphor for anything, but there I was, laying on top of a rickety cot, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, thinking about Don Sutton. I saw Don Sutton pitch once. I was a kid in a Boy Scout uniform, running loose around the park in the dog days of one of those long Red Sox summers where the team is out of contention before Memorial Day. I realized you could stand right behind Sutton as he warmed up in the visitors' bullpen, so I went and stood there, awestruck as a major league pitcher practiced his craft no more than 10 feet from me. Sutton didn't seem all that fast, and compared to the greats, he wasn't, but it was remarkable to watch him throw, every toss with a wrinkle, a break or curve that would turn a mighty swing into a four hop grounder to short.
I didn't know at that time that Sutton was on the downside of a long career, no longer able to pile up strikeout after strikeout, instead relying on changing speeds and control. Guts and guile, the sportswriters said, replacing a young man's overwhelming power with an older man's knowledge and patience. I also didn't know then that Sutton had a reputation for altering the ball, nicking it or applying something to it to make the ball dive or soar. Throwing the ball over the plate, but from an angle they weren't expecting, at a speed they weren't ready for, baseball as Zen, the speed of a ball that isn't there. Looking back on it, I understand him. I feel like a veteran hurler now, looking for any tiny edge just to survive, looking towards the bullpen for relief but seeing no one warming up.
It was hard to reconstruct the path that brought me here. My memories felt like newsreel footage, scenes and fragments that I can't knit together into a narrative. I could remember whole scenes, like watching Sutton pitch, and I certainly remembered the big mistake, the one that made all the others possible. It was a nightmare that you can't wake up from- seeing the scene, knowing you need to make the substitution, to put yourself into the scene and change the decision you made, but you can't. In the dream, you keep screwing it up, again and again. I never should have answered the phone.
"Norman?," said Miss Donna, the mother hen who watched over us, from the doorway. The sacrifice she made, watching over America's unwanted, was staggering.
"I'm getting up, Miss Donna," I said. I pulled myself upright. When the weather was good, we had to be out of the shelter by 9am.
"Alright, Norman. You hungry?"
"No, Miss Donna. Thank you, Miss Donna."
"You're welcome, Norman."
Laura called me in the middle of the night. I came and got her, and we were driving with the back windows open, not going anywhere, just going. She was sitting there, her back against the dashboard so she could look at me, her long bare legs extending between the seats into the back. She took my hand off of the steering wheel and held it over her heart. I could feel the fluttering under her narrow breastbone, the pounding that told me she was alive, and that I was, too. I could have groped her, moved my hand left or right, playfully, and she probably would have laughed and pulled my hand away. But I didn't. I just left my fingers there, feeling the steady beat of her heart. It had a nice, easy rhythm to it, like a subtle jazz drummer. Then there was a lot of loud noises and flashes, all at once. That's all I remember.
Baseball doesn't tell you about life, or fate, or karma, or anything else. It isn't anything other than what it is. It's a child's game played by men for ridiculous amounts of money. Like in baseball, you have to scrape for every advantage in life, utilize whatever you have to get the job done. That's what I failed to do, what I couldn't manage. I never saw life as a game of winners and losers. I was always too emotional. And just like pitchers do sometimes, after the bloops fall in, lucky hits and errors, baserunners all over the place, I got mad. You get mad, and you fire a pitch in anger, too straight, and someone mashes it, and you're left alone on the bench, cursing your own stupidity. Balls can't be unthrown, and mistakes can't be undone.
Baseball isn't a metaphor for anything, but there I was, laying on top of a rickety cot, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, thinking about Don Sutton. I saw Don Sutton pitch once. I was a kid in a Boy Scout uniform, running loose around the park in the dog days of one of those long Red Sox summers where the team is out of contention before Memorial Day. I realized you could stand right behind Sutton as he warmed up in the visitors' bullpen, so I went and stood there, awestruck as a major league pitcher practiced his craft no more than 10 feet from me. Sutton didn't seem all that fast, and compared to the greats, he wasn't, but it was remarkable to watch him throw, every toss with a wrinkle, a break or curve that would turn a mighty swing into a four hop grounder to short.
I didn't know at that time that Sutton was on the downside of a long career, no longer able to pile up strikeout after strikeout, instead relying on changing speeds and control. Guts and guile, the sportswriters said, replacing a young man's overwhelming power with an older man's knowledge and patience. I also didn't know then that Sutton had a reputation for altering the ball, nicking it or applying something to it to make the ball dive or soar. Throwing the ball over the plate, but from an angle they weren't expecting, at a speed they weren't ready for, baseball as Zen, the speed of a ball that isn't there. Looking back on it, I understand him. I feel like a veteran hurler now, looking for any tiny edge just to survive, looking towards the bullpen for relief but seeing no one warming up.
It was hard to reconstruct the path that brought me here. My memories felt like newsreel footage, scenes and fragments that I can't knit together into a narrative. I could remember whole scenes, like watching Sutton pitch, and I certainly remembered the big mistake, the one that made all the others possible. It was a nightmare that you can't wake up from- seeing the scene, knowing you need to make the substitution, to put yourself into the scene and change the decision you made, but you can't. In the dream, you keep screwing it up, again and again. I never should have answered the phone.
"Norman?," said Miss Donna, the mother hen who watched over us, from the doorway. The sacrifice she made, watching over America's unwanted, was staggering.
"I'm getting up, Miss Donna," I said. I pulled myself upright. When the weather was good, we had to be out of the shelter by 9am.
"Alright, Norman. You hungry?"
"No, Miss Donna. Thank you, Miss Donna."
"You're welcome, Norman."
Laura called me in the middle of the night. I came and got her, and we were driving with the back windows open, not going anywhere, just going. She was sitting there, her back against the dashboard so she could look at me, her long bare legs extending between the seats into the back. She took my hand off of the steering wheel and held it over her heart. I could feel the fluttering under her narrow breastbone, the pounding that told me she was alive, and that I was, too. I could have groped her, moved my hand left or right, playfully, and she probably would have laughed and pulled my hand away. But I didn't. I just left my fingers there, feeling the steady beat of her heart. It had a nice, easy rhythm to it, like a subtle jazz drummer. Then there was a lot of loud noises and flashes, all at once. That's all I remember.
Baseball doesn't tell you about life, or fate, or karma, or anything else. It isn't anything other than what it is. It's a child's game played by men for ridiculous amounts of money. Like in baseball, you have to scrape for every advantage in life, utilize whatever you have to get the job done. That's what I failed to do, what I couldn't manage. I never saw life as a game of winners and losers. I was always too emotional. And just like pitchers do sometimes, after the bloops fall in, lucky hits and errors, baserunners all over the place, I got mad. You get mad, and you fire a pitch in anger, too straight, and someone mashes it, and you're left alone on the bench, cursing your own stupidity. Balls can't be unthrown, and mistakes can't be undone.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
FFF: "Don't Tell The Children"
(This week's Flash Fiction Friday theme is back to school, or as we call it in our house, the most wonderful time of the year. This story is called "Don't Tell The Children".)
The calculus of what to wear on the first day of school was always a delicate one. It was a sad moment, driving through the sudden 8:00 traffic, passing the brightly colored girls and the dark denimed boys standing in clusters at the various bus stops. You could see the hope and fear on their tiny faces. They weren't the only ones.
After ten years in, I had easy classes that bonded early and got along well, distant classes that were at loggerheads until the very end, and every gradation in between. It never got easier, it just got different. I spent the last week obsessing about my first day's outfit, starting with my new shoes, smooth looking bone colored flats, then plunging into the morass of choices for clothing.
Dresses can seem too formal and overtly feminine, but pants can seem uptight and bitchy. You have to have authority, to look like you're in charge, while not seeming unapproachable and mean. You can't overwhelm them, but you can't look dowdy. The whole process was frustrating, because it shouldn't matter what you wore, within reason, as long as you did your job, but it took me as much effort as any anxious middle schooler.
I had settled on a long dress in muted colors and a gentle pattern, tasteful jewelry and very little makeup. I was counting on Dennis, our rotund principal, to make some sort of a barbed remark as soon as he saw me. I could tell that it drove him crazy that I wasn't married and never admitted to having a personal life. It was always, with him, an overly broad compliment that I knew concealed a double meaning. He wanted to know what I was about, and I secretly delighted in not allowing him to see.
I parked in my usual spot, alighting from my car with my bag and my cooling latte. I walked up the steps towards the front door, the first few students making their way in beside me. Dennis was usually right inside the front door, booming out his greetings to one and all. I came up to the front doors, scanned my ID, and pulled them open. The lobby already smelled like fall- disinfectant, sweat, and fear.
Jim Reynolds was already there, the tall, thin, preternaturally calm assistant principal. One of the crueller jokes the faculty circulated was that, when he stood next to Dennis during an assembly, they looked like the number 10. He was engaged in a fevered conversation with Miss Peabody, the nosy blueblood school secretary. He half turned when he saw me come in.
"Elin...er....Ms. Hirsch, good morning. Have you heard?" It was a regular rumor around the building that Jim and I were having a torrid affair, being the two singletons on staff. And I hadn't dismissed the idea- he was classy and smelled good and looked strong. But we both imagined the complications and laughed off the idea.
"Heard what, Mr. Reynolds?" We tried not to use first names within range of little ears, but they all figured out our names anyway.
"Dennis...Mr. Gold didn't...he isn't....his wife had to call 911 this morning. She found him on the bathroom floor. He wasn't breathing."
I stopped short, my heart suddenly pounding. "My goodness," was all I could say. It wasn't what I wanted to say, but when I was in school mode, I disconnected my four letter word module.
"We're waiting on word from the hospital," he continued uselessly.
"We've decided not to tell the children," Miss Peabody put in. She liked to think she was part of the management team.
"Of course," I said, shocked, backing away as the two returned to their conversation. Dennis had hired me, new in town and fairly fresh out of school with very little experience to my name. He always had about him a clammy desperation, the kind of man who could be counted on to peek down the front of your dress if something fell on the floor and you bent to pick it up. I knew what he could say and do, and what he couldn't, and while he never violated any rules of any kind, I always had the feeling he wanted to. He was needy, and sweaty, and he stared at you too long. He never seemed to understand how to talk to women at all. I didn't dislike him, but I didn't really like him, either. He was my boss, and he was just so sad and lonely. It was impossible to think of him with anything except pity. I wouldn't miss him if he were gone, but I hated myself for that thought as well. I thought about him on the bathroom floor, perhaps still in his boxer shorts, his body huge, still and silent like a wall of sand, while his wife waited for the paramedics. Was she panicky with fear, or did the have the same tiny voice in her head whispering "finally" that I did? Unhappy men had to die just like everyone else, I supposed, but it seemed somehow unfair that he'd never get to see how cute I looked in these shoes.
The calculus of what to wear on the first day of school was always a delicate one. It was a sad moment, driving through the sudden 8:00 traffic, passing the brightly colored girls and the dark denimed boys standing in clusters at the various bus stops. You could see the hope and fear on their tiny faces. They weren't the only ones.
After ten years in, I had easy classes that bonded early and got along well, distant classes that were at loggerheads until the very end, and every gradation in between. It never got easier, it just got different. I spent the last week obsessing about my first day's outfit, starting with my new shoes, smooth looking bone colored flats, then plunging into the morass of choices for clothing.
Dresses can seem too formal and overtly feminine, but pants can seem uptight and bitchy. You have to have authority, to look like you're in charge, while not seeming unapproachable and mean. You can't overwhelm them, but you can't look dowdy. The whole process was frustrating, because it shouldn't matter what you wore, within reason, as long as you did your job, but it took me as much effort as any anxious middle schooler.
I had settled on a long dress in muted colors and a gentle pattern, tasteful jewelry and very little makeup. I was counting on Dennis, our rotund principal, to make some sort of a barbed remark as soon as he saw me. I could tell that it drove him crazy that I wasn't married and never admitted to having a personal life. It was always, with him, an overly broad compliment that I knew concealed a double meaning. He wanted to know what I was about, and I secretly delighted in not allowing him to see.
I parked in my usual spot, alighting from my car with my bag and my cooling latte. I walked up the steps towards the front door, the first few students making their way in beside me. Dennis was usually right inside the front door, booming out his greetings to one and all. I came up to the front doors, scanned my ID, and pulled them open. The lobby already smelled like fall- disinfectant, sweat, and fear.
Jim Reynolds was already there, the tall, thin, preternaturally calm assistant principal. One of the crueller jokes the faculty circulated was that, when he stood next to Dennis during an assembly, they looked like the number 10. He was engaged in a fevered conversation with Miss Peabody, the nosy blueblood school secretary. He half turned when he saw me come in.
"Elin...er....Ms. Hirsch, good morning. Have you heard?" It was a regular rumor around the building that Jim and I were having a torrid affair, being the two singletons on staff. And I hadn't dismissed the idea- he was classy and smelled good and looked strong. But we both imagined the complications and laughed off the idea.
"Heard what, Mr. Reynolds?" We tried not to use first names within range of little ears, but they all figured out our names anyway.
"Dennis...Mr. Gold didn't...he isn't....his wife had to call 911 this morning. She found him on the bathroom floor. He wasn't breathing."
I stopped short, my heart suddenly pounding. "My goodness," was all I could say. It wasn't what I wanted to say, but when I was in school mode, I disconnected my four letter word module.
"We're waiting on word from the hospital," he continued uselessly.
"We've decided not to tell the children," Miss Peabody put in. She liked to think she was part of the management team.
"Of course," I said, shocked, backing away as the two returned to their conversation. Dennis had hired me, new in town and fairly fresh out of school with very little experience to my name. He always had about him a clammy desperation, the kind of man who could be counted on to peek down the front of your dress if something fell on the floor and you bent to pick it up. I knew what he could say and do, and what he couldn't, and while he never violated any rules of any kind, I always had the feeling he wanted to. He was needy, and sweaty, and he stared at you too long. He never seemed to understand how to talk to women at all. I didn't dislike him, but I didn't really like him, either. He was my boss, and he was just so sad and lonely. It was impossible to think of him with anything except pity. I wouldn't miss him if he were gone, but I hated myself for that thought as well. I thought about him on the bathroom floor, perhaps still in his boxer shorts, his body huge, still and silent like a wall of sand, while his wife waited for the paramedics. Was she panicky with fear, or did the have the same tiny voice in her head whispering "finally" that I did? Unhappy men had to die just like everyone else, I supposed, but it seemed somehow unfair that he'd never get to see how cute I looked in these shoes.
SPE: "The Gentle Fog"
{For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, November Rain (k~) gave me this prompt: "Marshmallows in the snow". I gave Wendryn this prompt: "Whatever you want to do can be done before midnight...Nothing good happens after midnight." -Vanna White}
It was one of those days when the house was too small. Paranoid and claustrophobic, we all started snapping at one another, like wild animals packed too close together at the zoo. "She pushed me!" "She said something mean!" "She won't be quiet!", then my husband, hung over and irritated, rumbling too loudly, "Everyone be quiet!"
I tried to speak to him about it, but that just induced another battle, so I dropped it. Sulking in the kitchen, I listened to him speaking to them, attuned for the raised voice that would signal more discord. I felt wrung out, like a limp dishrag. Outside the kitchen window, it was snowing in a desultory way, like the sky couldn't make up its mind. I thought about drinking a glass of wine, ashamed of how appealing the idea sounded at 12:15 pm.
I was interrupted by our youngest, the bundle of love, noise, and exposed nerves called Angeline. "Daddy says....daddy says....," she began excitedly. When something wound her up, which was almost always, she stumbled over her words. "Daddy says he'll roast marshmallows if you go get the things!"
I focused on her eyes, cornsilk blue below her tangled brown hair. We were all in our Sunday best, which for us meant whatever we had slept in Saturday night.
"The things?," I asked.
"Yeah! The sticks! And...um...the marshmallows."
"Daddy said that?"
"He DID," she said confidently.
I stepped past her, looking into the morass of half eaten breakfast dishes and sprawled family members that was surrounding the television, broadcasting a program about impossibly pretty teens and their madcap adventures that neither was watching.
"Is that true?"
"Yes," Harry said without opening his eyes. "I'll fire up the grill and we can have them after lunch. Angel wants to." If our younger daughter asked him for his right arm, Harry would start looking for the bandsaw.
"When is the last time we grilled?," I said. "Labor Day?" I hated to splash cold water on everything, but someone had to be the voice of reason.
"Trust me," he said, barely smiling. The last time I fell for that, I wound up pregnant.
"Alright," I said with as much authority as I could summon. "I want you two to clean up the breakfast dishes and brush your teeth and your hair. I'll come home with lunch and marshmallows. No treats unless you clean up first." My surly tween, Elizabeth, looked up at me from underneath her bangs. The older she got, the more I wanted to call her Violet, like Sarah Vowell's character in The Incredibles.
"What if we don't want stupid marshmallows?," she said softly.
Angeline was underfoot, already reaching for a bowl with a few lonely Lucky Charms floating in it. "Marshmallows aren't stupid!," she objected immediately. That was the way they were. One would assert that water was wet, the other would immediately deny it. I saw the tension build on Harry's face. For some reason, he was absolutely intolerant of bickering.
"Easy," I said to them. "Be quiet, now. Less talking, more cleaning." I turned to leave, then stopped and turned back.
"You two will be good for your father?," I said.
"Yes, mommy," Angeline said in her singsong voice.
I pulled on some boots, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and drove to the store under scudding gray skies. I hoped they would stay calm for him. Leaving the three of them together always provoked a nervous prickle in my stomach. Harry was their father, but he had this inchoate rage, this uncontrollable fire. Suddenly, whether it was the drinking, or more stress at work, he overreacted to anything they did, screaming and cursing, a reaction way out of proportion to their actions. He promised he would try to control himself, but he never managed to.
When I got back home, the tires crunching over the hard packed snow, I was looking forward to finally eating something, and then gently, lovingly, falling into the arms of a first glass of wine. I could see it, the light reflecting off of the surface, the gentle swirls as I picked it up, the tart bite of it against my tongue and throat, and the gentle fog that followed, allowing me to drift into a slow nap to kill off the afternoon.
I had lunch and the marshmallows in one hand, with my other hand reaching for the knob, when I heard it. Elizabeth was screaming, her voice distorted and raw like on a bootleg concert recording. Her voice pierced me, my heart pounding, my muscles dissolving to jelly in seconds. She was saying something about how she hated him, and she would never ever do anything he said ever again. I heard his bass, rumbling with threat and menace, and along the edges, Angeline's high shriek of "Stop it! Stop yelling!"
I dropped the food and was through the door and moving towards the stairs, full of rage and guilt and the beginnings of a pounding headache. I separated the combatants, using all the strength I had not to scream back at both of them, then made my way back downstairs. Angeline had snuck past me somehow and was back downstairs, standing in front of the door, the cold outside air blowing through her still tangled mane. She was holding the bag from the grocery store, bits of snow melting off the bottom and falling on her tiny feet. She looked at me, her tiny face enormous and red and puffy now.
"Mommy?," she said before sniffling twice. "Mom-mommy?"
"Yes, baby," I said as sweetly as I could.
"You left the marsh-the-the-the marshmallows in the snow, Mommy."
"Yes I did, Angel. That was silly, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Mommy. That was silly," Angeline said.
Friday, August 17, 2012
100 Word Challenge: "Ready?"
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is still extant, not yet having been asked to report to the coach's office and bring its playbook. This week's word is "Wrought", and this story is called "Ready?"
"What hath God wrought," I said. She was playing with her hair, tying it back.
"What?," she said.
"It's Biblical."
"It sounds like something Sam Jackson said in Pulp Fiction."
"It kind of does. It's also what Samuel Morse sent as the first telegraph message."
"You know a lot of worthless shit."
"Yeah. It's a gift."
"What does it mean?"
" 'What hath God wrought'? What has God made. It expresses wonderment at beauty."
"You talking about me?"
"You're beautiful."
"I know. You ready?"
"Yeah."
We pulled out our pistols, cocked them, and walked into the bank.
"What hath God wrought," I said. She was playing with her hair, tying it back.
"What?," she said.
"It's Biblical."
"It sounds like something Sam Jackson said in Pulp Fiction."
"It kind of does. It's also what Samuel Morse sent as the first telegraph message."
"You know a lot of worthless shit."
"Yeah. It's a gift."
"What does it mean?"
" 'What hath God wrought'? What has God made. It expresses wonderment at beauty."
"You talking about me?"
"You're beautiful."
"I know. You ready?"
"Yeah."
We pulled out our pistols, cocked them, and walked into the bank.
100 Word Song: "Idiot"
Leeroy and his humanoid pal Lance challenge one and all this week to write a 100 word tale based on Diana Krall's version of the jazz standard "Peel Me A Grape". This story is called "Idiot".
My wife, bleary with fatigue, headed for the coffee maker, stopped dead on her way across the kitchen.
"You're peeling her grapes?," she asked with incredulity.
Eva, our 4 year old granddaughter, had heard me walking by and said from under her rat's nest of tangled hair, "Want grapes, Poppy." I prepared a bowl of grapes, setting it on the table before her. She looked and said, "No, Poppy. Peeled grapes." So I took the bowl back into the kitchen and began removing grape skins.
"You're an idiot," my wife said, using the same tone Eva had.
My wife, bleary with fatigue, headed for the coffee maker, stopped dead on her way across the kitchen.
"You're peeling her grapes?," she asked with incredulity.
Eva, our 4 year old granddaughter, had heard me walking by and said from under her rat's nest of tangled hair, "Want grapes, Poppy." I prepared a bowl of grapes, setting it on the table before her. She looked and said, "No, Poppy. Peeled grapes." So I took the bowl back into the kitchen and began removing grape skins.
"You're an idiot," my wife said, using the same tone Eva had.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Trifecta Writing Challenge: "For Shy"
Those fans of the three base hit at the Trifecta Writing Challenge have issued a challenge centering on the word "home", and a story from 33-333 words. This story is called "For Shy"
I'm not a crier. I have my moments. But I'm not a routine crier. Some women are- a sad story, a bad review at work, and boom- waterworks. But me? Even at my PMS flame throwing best, not a tear. So I was genuinely surprised, almost angry, when I felt the tears welling as I left the table.
"I'll be right back," I had managed to stammer as I pushed away from my penne alla arabiata, backing out and away, walking delicately in my peep toe pumps across the soft tan carpet of the restaurant.
I had asked him what I thought was an innocuous question. "If you could live anywhere, where would you want to go?"
"New York...LA....Dallas....I don't know," he had said, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Wherever you are."
I pushed myself though the faux leather of the bathroom door and found an empty stall. My tiny clutch found the floor, and I slid out of the teetering heels. I turned and sat, staring at my bare feet. I grabbed some tissue and dabbed at my eyes.
I told myself all the time that I didn't need anybody. I made enough money, I had friends, I dated, I had fun, I had no one to worry about but me. It was my life.
But this one was different. He didn't push, he let me be me, but he was so easy to be around, so nice. I felt a security I hadn't felt since elementary school. I felt comfortable and at home. Erica teased me with the M word, and I denied it, of course, but more and more, I was starting to think she had a point.
I looked at the floor. A few items had fallen out, a couple of folded twenties, a lipstick, and a wrapped tampon that I was waiting to have a need for. I bent over and gathered the items. Not yet, I thought. Maybe someday, but not yet.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
SPE/FFF: "My Moon"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Cheney gave me this prompt: "I'm so glad to see that you thought of me." I gave Laura this prompt: 'No one ever does, and there is no final judgment, and we never reach the end of the marble bridge.' - Glenn Carle]
{I'm also double dipping this week, submitting this as my Flash Fiction Friday piece, this week centering on the moon.}
Shari brought the popcorn into the living room, placing the big bowl in the middle of the couch. I sat on one side of it, curling my legs underneath me, and Shari sat on the other side, sitting on one foot and sticking the other leg straight out. I could see the bright pink polish on her toenails as she flexed her foot in front of me. Shari had already started the DVD, and we were waiting for the previews to cycle through before putting the sound on and watching the movie itself.
"I'm so glad you thought of me," she said. She was fingering the necklace I had gotten her, which I had fastened around her perfect long neck before we changed into pajamas to watch the movie. The full moon was behind us, shining through the picture window, big and fat and white.
"It was your birthday!," I said with mock exasperation. "Of course I thought of you!"
"But you didn't have to," she said, looking out at the way the moonlight glistened on her parents' pool. They were out, but they made sure we understood they could be home at any time to discourage us from inviting company over. It was a little ironic- they thought I would do that, but I knew better, that it was their daughter, of the two of us, who might try it. Shari had a look in her eye, a look that was part I don't care and part I care too much.
Her phone trilled, and she shot her hand into her pocket. I had my phone, too, but it hadn't gone off all day.
"Hey......Stefan?....hey......no, just hangin' here with Jenna........oh, yes, totally. We're absolutely sitting here in our underwear," she said, rolling her eyes at me. I thought about the way she looked when she turned her back to me as we changed, sliding the soft night clothes over trim hips and large, full breasts that I would never have. Her body made men, not just boys, turn their heads.
"Yeah? What? Here?.......No, no way........No......My parents would FREAK if they came home and you were here.........No, Stefan. You can't. " She covered the phone and mouthed unnecessarily, "he wants to come over," and rolled her eyes again. Stefan, a blonde forward on the basketball team, tall and firm and very popular, liked her. Heck, everybody liked her. I was just a speed bump to them, an extra player, the third wheel. I watched enough standup comedy to know what "wingman" meant.
"We have our pajamas on and our hair up anyway. You wouldn't like to see us like this." That was laughable. Shari could wear a potato sack and boys would come crawling. I stared at her face. She came alive when she was talking to him, sitting up straighter, smiling, crossing her legs and bobbing the top one incessantly.
"Oh, shut up. You would not," she said. I stared out the window at the moon. I remember my father telling me when I was real little that everyone else in the country saw the same moon I did, and it made me mad. I wanted it to be my moon, nobody else's. I hated sharing anything with anybody.
"Yeah....Aw!.....You're so sweet!.......No. We're just going to watch a movie and talk. Girl stuff......Yeah, you'd be bored." It seemed like Shari was a totally different species sometimes. She heard things I didn't hear, saw things I didn't see. It felt like I was in a play, and I didn't know my lines.
The previews had ended, and the menu for the movie was playing, repeating the same couple of scenes over and over. A woman in a white dress sipped from a cup and looked off screen. A handsome guy with some stubble smiled. Two people were dancing in a big, empty hall, moonlight coming through enormous windows. I looked back outside. The moon was still there, ominous and steady.
"No way, Stefan. Nope..........There's no way...........No.......I know, but Jenna is here........she would TOO care.........You're so crazy!.......... No," she said. Why was she letting him keep arguing? No was no, right? There was a magazine article in her bathroom that said you should always let boys think they are winning an argument, but I thought that was stupid. Why let someone think something that isn't true?
"No," she said in a high voice, bringing both hands to her mouth and starting to flush. I tried to imagine what he could have said. She smiled wide and giggled. There was a patch of red skin, like someone was painting her, right above where her cleavage plunged into the thin tank top she had on. Just do it, I wanted to say. Tell him to come over, and take him up to your room, and I'll just sit here and watch the movie and eat the popcorn. I wanted to apologize for even being there.
"Good BYE, Stefan," she said finally, and disconnected the call, smiling and shaking her head gently. She looked at me. I didn't know what to say. I didn't understand what she was thinking at all. Her leg stopped swinging.
"I'm going to close the drapes, so we can see," she said, and she got up and went behind the couch. I watched her move, her top riding up when she reached up high. I looked at the oval of perfect, flat, bare skin that showed above the waist of her pants, the moonlight shining off it. I wanted to know what it felt like to be Shari, perfect and elegant and long and smooth and desired, even if it was only for five minutes. She closed my moon off from us, the TV now glowing brightly, filling the room with shadows as the beautiful people moved back and forth, acting out the same sequence, over and over, living their perfect lives the same way, again and again. Did they see the same moon I did?
I watched Shari sit down again in the dark.
"Push play," she said, and I did.
{I'm also double dipping this week, submitting this as my Flash Fiction Friday piece, this week centering on the moon.}
Shari brought the popcorn into the living room, placing the big bowl in the middle of the couch. I sat on one side of it, curling my legs underneath me, and Shari sat on the other side, sitting on one foot and sticking the other leg straight out. I could see the bright pink polish on her toenails as she flexed her foot in front of me. Shari had already started the DVD, and we were waiting for the previews to cycle through before putting the sound on and watching the movie itself.
"I'm so glad you thought of me," she said. She was fingering the necklace I had gotten her, which I had fastened around her perfect long neck before we changed into pajamas to watch the movie. The full moon was behind us, shining through the picture window, big and fat and white.
"It was your birthday!," I said with mock exasperation. "Of course I thought of you!"
"But you didn't have to," she said, looking out at the way the moonlight glistened on her parents' pool. They were out, but they made sure we understood they could be home at any time to discourage us from inviting company over. It was a little ironic- they thought I would do that, but I knew better, that it was their daughter, of the two of us, who might try it. Shari had a look in her eye, a look that was part I don't care and part I care too much.
Her phone trilled, and she shot her hand into her pocket. I had my phone, too, but it hadn't gone off all day.
"Hey......Stefan?....hey......no, just hangin' here with Jenna........oh, yes, totally. We're absolutely sitting here in our underwear," she said, rolling her eyes at me. I thought about the way she looked when she turned her back to me as we changed, sliding the soft night clothes over trim hips and large, full breasts that I would never have. Her body made men, not just boys, turn their heads.
"Yeah? What? Here?.......No, no way........No......My parents would FREAK if they came home and you were here.........No, Stefan. You can't. " She covered the phone and mouthed unnecessarily, "he wants to come over," and rolled her eyes again. Stefan, a blonde forward on the basketball team, tall and firm and very popular, liked her. Heck, everybody liked her. I was just a speed bump to them, an extra player, the third wheel. I watched enough standup comedy to know what "wingman" meant.
"We have our pajamas on and our hair up anyway. You wouldn't like to see us like this." That was laughable. Shari could wear a potato sack and boys would come crawling. I stared at her face. She came alive when she was talking to him, sitting up straighter, smiling, crossing her legs and bobbing the top one incessantly.
"Oh, shut up. You would not," she said. I stared out the window at the moon. I remember my father telling me when I was real little that everyone else in the country saw the same moon I did, and it made me mad. I wanted it to be my moon, nobody else's. I hated sharing anything with anybody.
"Yeah....Aw!.....You're so sweet!.......No. We're just going to watch a movie and talk. Girl stuff......Yeah, you'd be bored." It seemed like Shari was a totally different species sometimes. She heard things I didn't hear, saw things I didn't see. It felt like I was in a play, and I didn't know my lines.
The previews had ended, and the menu for the movie was playing, repeating the same couple of scenes over and over. A woman in a white dress sipped from a cup and looked off screen. A handsome guy with some stubble smiled. Two people were dancing in a big, empty hall, moonlight coming through enormous windows. I looked back outside. The moon was still there, ominous and steady.
"No way, Stefan. Nope..........There's no way...........No.......I know, but Jenna is here........she would TOO care.........You're so crazy!.......... No," she said. Why was she letting him keep arguing? No was no, right? There was a magazine article in her bathroom that said you should always let boys think they are winning an argument, but I thought that was stupid. Why let someone think something that isn't true?
"No," she said in a high voice, bringing both hands to her mouth and starting to flush. I tried to imagine what he could have said. She smiled wide and giggled. There was a patch of red skin, like someone was painting her, right above where her cleavage plunged into the thin tank top she had on. Just do it, I wanted to say. Tell him to come over, and take him up to your room, and I'll just sit here and watch the movie and eat the popcorn. I wanted to apologize for even being there.
"Good BYE, Stefan," she said finally, and disconnected the call, smiling and shaking her head gently. She looked at me. I didn't know what to say. I didn't understand what she was thinking at all. Her leg stopped swinging.
"I'm going to close the drapes, so we can see," she said, and she got up and went behind the couch. I watched her move, her top riding up when she reached up high. I looked at the oval of perfect, flat, bare skin that showed above the waist of her pants, the moonlight shining off it. I wanted to know what it felt like to be Shari, perfect and elegant and long and smooth and desired, even if it was only for five minutes. She closed my moon off from us, the TV now glowing brightly, filling the room with shadows as the beautiful people moved back and forth, acting out the same sequence, over and over, living their perfect lives the same way, again and again. Did they see the same moon I did?
I watched Shari sit down again in the dark.
"Push play," she said, and I did.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "Louder Than Anything"
Chuck Wendig, the best hope for a US medal in penmonkery in a generation, issued another Flash Fiction Challenge this week, 1000 words with one of three sentences provided as your lead. This story is called "Louder Than Anything".
Everyone else remembers it as the day the saucers came, but I remember it as the day a man in a suit shot my father. It wasn't normal for a 37 year old man to live with his father, but he was the only person who would take me in. He lived by the side of a busy highway in a crappy apartment that used to be a lousy hotel room. There were three rooms, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room with a kitchenette, but neither of us needed much. He paid rent and bought sandwich fixings, lottery tickets, and whiskey with his pension check, and when I managed to sell a story somewhere for enough money that my ex didn't take it all , I treated us both to a diner meal.
I had been up late, so I was asleep when it started. He was an early riser, because 48 years of punching a clock didn't leave you overnight, but he was kind enough most days to step outside to let me get a few more Zs. I dimly remember hearing the door open and shut again, then just as quickly open again.
"Steven!," my father said. "Get up! You have to see this!"
We were men, so we didn't talk much. "Do you want the rest of these chips?" was a monologue. So it was surprising for him to say that much. I swam my way up into consciousness, and fumbled for my glasses.
"See what, Dad? What's going on?"
"Just get up so I know I'm not dreaming. Great Caesar's Ghost, I've never seen anything like this."
I found my glasses, jammed them on my face and stumbled to the door. To say I was struck dumb, or stunned, or taken aback by what I saw is to do great violence to the language. There was a golden metal disc, maybe as long across as a semi trailer, floating in the air, as if Sir Isaac Newton had never been born, maybe 30 feet above the dirt patch that served as a parking lot for the inaptly named Chateau Apartments. It was making hardly any noise- a gentle hum, lower in pitch and somehow smoother than the regular drone from the highway. There were also four smaller discs, the same yellow color, about the width of a small car, that were floating around the larger one in tight concentric circles. The only thought I could form at first was, "no wonder he didn't say what it was. I'm not sure I could describe it either."
The cars on the highway weren't stopping- either they couldn't see it between the tree cover, or it was such a bizarre sight they convinced themselves they hadn't seen it. I looked briefly around the parking lot. There didn't seem to be anyone else around, save for Mr. Patel, who emerged blinking from the office, which was really just the nicest and largest of the apartments. None of us said anything, staring up at the floating discs, wondering when Michael Bay had taken over directing our lives.
I heard screeching, followed by the rumble and grind of tires on dirt. Suddenly the lot was filling with police cars, lights flashing, and other official looking sedans. Men and women in black suits started pouring out of the cars, the police mostly staring up at the discs, the suits fanning out quickly, knocking on doors, moving with brisk efficiency.
A man and a woman walked up to my father and I. The man looked sweaty, skinny and blonde with some stubble, a messy haircut and looking uneasy. The woman seemed much cooler, shorter than him but boxy in that way women do when they won't buy the right size. Her dark hair was pinned back and her face and square shoulders were all purpose.
"Uh, er, FBI," the man stammered. "Do you have any telecommunications devices?"
I thought about lying, or demanding ID, or saying anything, really, but the woman swept in behind me, snagging my ancient laptop from my duffel bag, and coming back out to stand behind her partner.
"I have to take this," she said. "You'll get it back."
That seemed to rouse my father from his stupor. "Who are you," he snarled. "You can't do this." He was a pot smoker from way back, and he instinctively distrusted authority.
"We're the FBI, sir," the woman said calmly. "We can do this, and we will. National security. Your son will get his laptop back. I promise."
"Fuck you, promise," my father said, and took a step towards the two. He was as gentle as a butterfly, but years of working with his hands made him look menacing. "Show us some ID or hit the streets, fuzz."
The dorky one took a step back, drawing a weapon from a shoulder holster, his manner suddenly smooth as glass, his hands rock steady. "Take two steps back, sir," the kid said loudly. "Right now, sir." I didn't know guns, but it was black, and full of menace.
"You think a gun scares me, boy?," my father said loudly. He took another step towards the pair. "I was shooting people before your Daddy got his hands inside your Mama's shirt. Now show me some-"
His words were cut off by an explosion from the kid's gun. It was loud, louder than it seemed like anything had any right to be. I heard a wet smacking sound, and part of my father's chest seemed to dissolve and become a dark hole. I heard my father's shuffling footstep as he took a step backwards, still looking at the kid, then fell over onto one side and let out a moan. "Jesus Christ, Thompson," the woman said.
Everyone else remembers it as the day the saucers came, but I remember it as the day a man in a suit shot my father. It wasn't normal for a 37 year old man to live with his father, but he was the only person who would take me in. He lived by the side of a busy highway in a crappy apartment that used to be a lousy hotel room. There were three rooms, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room with a kitchenette, but neither of us needed much. He paid rent and bought sandwich fixings, lottery tickets, and whiskey with his pension check, and when I managed to sell a story somewhere for enough money that my ex didn't take it all , I treated us both to a diner meal.
I had been up late, so I was asleep when it started. He was an early riser, because 48 years of punching a clock didn't leave you overnight, but he was kind enough most days to step outside to let me get a few more Zs. I dimly remember hearing the door open and shut again, then just as quickly open again.
"Steven!," my father said. "Get up! You have to see this!"
We were men, so we didn't talk much. "Do you want the rest of these chips?" was a monologue. So it was surprising for him to say that much. I swam my way up into consciousness, and fumbled for my glasses.
"See what, Dad? What's going on?"
"Just get up so I know I'm not dreaming. Great Caesar's Ghost, I've never seen anything like this."
I found my glasses, jammed them on my face and stumbled to the door. To say I was struck dumb, or stunned, or taken aback by what I saw is to do great violence to the language. There was a golden metal disc, maybe as long across as a semi trailer, floating in the air, as if Sir Isaac Newton had never been born, maybe 30 feet above the dirt patch that served as a parking lot for the inaptly named Chateau Apartments. It was making hardly any noise- a gentle hum, lower in pitch and somehow smoother than the regular drone from the highway. There were also four smaller discs, the same yellow color, about the width of a small car, that were floating around the larger one in tight concentric circles. The only thought I could form at first was, "no wonder he didn't say what it was. I'm not sure I could describe it either."
The cars on the highway weren't stopping- either they couldn't see it between the tree cover, or it was such a bizarre sight they convinced themselves they hadn't seen it. I looked briefly around the parking lot. There didn't seem to be anyone else around, save for Mr. Patel, who emerged blinking from the office, which was really just the nicest and largest of the apartments. None of us said anything, staring up at the floating discs, wondering when Michael Bay had taken over directing our lives.
I heard screeching, followed by the rumble and grind of tires on dirt. Suddenly the lot was filling with police cars, lights flashing, and other official looking sedans. Men and women in black suits started pouring out of the cars, the police mostly staring up at the discs, the suits fanning out quickly, knocking on doors, moving with brisk efficiency.
A man and a woman walked up to my father and I. The man looked sweaty, skinny and blonde with some stubble, a messy haircut and looking uneasy. The woman seemed much cooler, shorter than him but boxy in that way women do when they won't buy the right size. Her dark hair was pinned back and her face and square shoulders were all purpose.
"Uh, er, FBI," the man stammered. "Do you have any telecommunications devices?"
I thought about lying, or demanding ID, or saying anything, really, but the woman swept in behind me, snagging my ancient laptop from my duffel bag, and coming back out to stand behind her partner.
"I have to take this," she said. "You'll get it back."
That seemed to rouse my father from his stupor. "Who are you," he snarled. "You can't do this." He was a pot smoker from way back, and he instinctively distrusted authority.
"We're the FBI, sir," the woman said calmly. "We can do this, and we will. National security. Your son will get his laptop back. I promise."
"Fuck you, promise," my father said, and took a step towards the two. He was as gentle as a butterfly, but years of working with his hands made him look menacing. "Show us some ID or hit the streets, fuzz."
The dorky one took a step back, drawing a weapon from a shoulder holster, his manner suddenly smooth as glass, his hands rock steady. "Take two steps back, sir," the kid said loudly. "Right now, sir." I didn't know guns, but it was black, and full of menace.
"You think a gun scares me, boy?," my father said loudly. He took another step towards the pair. "I was shooting people before your Daddy got his hands inside your Mama's shirt. Now show me some-"
His words were cut off by an explosion from the kid's gun. It was loud, louder than it seemed like anything had any right to be. I heard a wet smacking sound, and part of my father's chest seemed to dissolve and become a dark hole. I heard my father's shuffling footstep as he took a step backwards, still looking at the kid, then fell over onto one side and let out a moan. "Jesus Christ, Thompson," the woman said.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
SPE: "Cement"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Eric Limer gave me this prompt: Write something about someone who establishes a new, important relationship and then immediately has to strain it -- almost to the breaking point -- by asking for a huge favor. I gave November Rain (k~) this prompt: "My dad's thing was, You know the thing you really know? That you never ever know." -Randy Jackson]
I'm not a crier. I'm really not. I'm not saying that I never cry. I have cried in the past. I just don't make a habit of it. It doesn't feel natural. Now Eric? He cries at the end of movies, when he spills coffee on the table, when clouds slip in front of the moon. He cries at the proverbial drop of the proverbial hat. Which is annoying, but it's fine. When you love someone, you love them, and the little things are just that: little things. He hates that I won't put DVDs away and that I take too long in the shower, and he manages to put up with me.
So it was weird that I was sitting on a bench in front of my building, bawling like I had lost my last friend. The call had come in, Claudia at my attorney's office telling me, in her quiet, officious way, that Sandra, the 34 year old mother of three, had backed out at the last moment and would not carry our child to term. It wasn't the end of the world. We had enough money, and in another month or two or three, another woman would be found and the process started over again. I don't know why the news hit me so hard.
Eric didn't ask me for much, but the longer we were together, the more he settled on one singular idea. He wanted to be a father, and the more we thought it over and talked about it, the more sensible and reasonable it sounded. We were far from the first gay couple to make this decision, so we went into the months of testing, references, and payments- payments on top of payments on top of payments. Eric got truly excited as we got deeper into the process, and the glow on his face made me fall in love with him all over again. Lots of people adopted, and there wasn't anything wrong with that, but something about a baby that was part of Eric, his blood, cemented the decision.
I had tied myself in knots looking forward to the process beginning this week, and the call shattered me. I wanted this for Eric, for us, and while I knew this wasn't the end, the buildup of hope leaked out of me like air from a leaky bus tire, and the emotional crash just overwhelmed me. Eric was waiting upstairs for me, expecting me to return after my jog, and I had to tell him, but I didn't want to face him with the news. I hated disappointing him, hated it more than anything.
I was winding down, my sobs giving way to snorts and sniffles, looking down at an ancient cigarette butt between my feet, when she came up the street towards me.
"Paul?" she said. It was Emily, who had moved in down the hall from us at the beginning of the summer. She was studying drama, waiting tables and slinging coffee like a million other girls her age, their eyes on Broadway and their hearts set on marriage and a house in White Plains or Bedford. It was cliche to befriend a straight girl, but she was kind, gentle and generous with her time. They met by the mailbox and became good friends. they watched Mad Men together, shared at least one dinner a week, kept spare keys, and would sign for each other's packages, all the tiny little gestures that made city life just a little warmer.
"Paul? Honey? What's wrong?," she continued. She shared the ups and downs of our relationship, and she gossiped with us about her own misadventures on the dating scene.
She knew what we had been working on, and has eagerly shared in our joy over bagels and coffee the morning before. I told her about the call, observing that while this wasn't the end, we had to find another woman and go through the testing all over again. She sat on the bench beside me, her shoes with their cute buckles lined up evenly beneath the hem of her long peasant skirt. Her hand found my sweaty back, and she rubbed gently in small circles. She wasn't Eric, but the tiny gesture warmed my heart.
"How long before you can find someone new?," she asked.
"At least a month. Maybe more," I said.
"Well," she said slowly. "What about me?"
I blinked and turned my head to look at her, her makeup subtle, her smooth face young and perfect. She crossed one firm bare leg over the other.
"What? What about you?," I said.
"What about me? To carry the baby?," she said. We both looked down at her midsection imstinctively, flat and broad beneath firm breasts and above comfortably wide hips. I never understood the appeal of women, but I had learned what instinct taught straight men to want. Emily's appeal went beyond her positive, fun outlook, her body advertising fertility to the trail of boyfriends who beat down her door.
"I couldn't possibly ask you to do that," I said. It was an enormous sacrifice.
"You're not asking," she said, her voice brightening. "I'm volunteering."
"Oh, Em. That's so sweet. But no. We couldn't."
"Why not?," she said. "It's not like I'm using it."
"Using what?"
"My uterus," she said with a soft giggle. "I'm young, healthy. I'm single. I eat well. I'm in good shape. And I'm nearby."
The idea stirred in my heart. "It's such a huge thing. Such a...burden. Such a sacrifice."
"I know," she said cheerfully. "My aunt had a baby last year, and I heard all about it on Facebook. She said over and over that she wished she had kids when she was young and strong. I think she was trying to tell me something."
"I'm pretty sure this isn't what they mean," I said.
"Sure," she agreed. "Mom wants me to get married off and start pumping out grandchildren, no doubt. But I can still do that later."
I grasped for the words. "You need to get blood tests, and take hormones, and..."
"I assumed," she said. "Who knows? Maybe I'm the wrong blood type, or who knows what. But I'm willing to try. It's a lot of work, I understand. Huge changes in my body, and in my life. No boyfriends, of course, for at least a year, and lots of explaining. Crying, throwing up, all that. And some real risk, of course. But I want to. It's something I can do for you. Something special I can do that you can't do for yourself. Something holy, something real, something meaningful."
I looked at her face, the smooth lines of her body, the earnest, emotional smile she was beaming at me. I thought about Eric, the crushing blow I was about to deliver suddenly tempered by Em's shocking offer. I wanted to tell her no again, that I would feel guilty for imposing the swollen burden onto her young shoulders. But we were asking someone to go through this for us, weren't we? Why not someone we already knew and loved?
"Let's try," she said, a single tear forming at the corner of her eye. She stood up, looking down at me, my face still puffy and raw from crying.
"Really?," was all I could say.
"Yes," she said, holding a hand down. I took it and stood up, and we walked inside together.
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
Scriptic Prompt Exchange: "Unlocked"
[ For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane gave me this prompt: "Nobody sells crutches or wheelchairs for the emotionally crippled." I gave SAM this prompt: "Whatever your kids are comes from you. So whatever irritates, look at yourself." -Art Garfunkel ]
I could always tell when she was angry. Her river of talk slowed to a trickle, laughter and casual conversation drying up in favor of curt replies and one word answers. When that happens, the storm is coming, and all I can do is wait it out. Nearly 30 years in, the pattern is clear. I have offended her, stepped out of line in any one of a hundred ways, and, soon enough, I'm going to pay the price. It is illogical, but there was no way of hurrying the process.
She got to the end of the hospital driveway before it started.
"What the hell is wrong with you?," she said, her voice low and bitter. That seemed rhetorical, so I didn't respond.
"I really want to know, Bill. What's wrong with you?" She flipped on her signal. The relay was broken, so it made extra clicks, more insistent clicks. I had told her I would replace it, but I hadn't.
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Bill, you're a grandfather now, for God's sake. You just witnessed probably the most important day of your daughter's life, and you're barely interested."
"I don't think that's fair to say," I said. I hadn't said much all day, true. There didn't seem to be much to add.
"You said seven words all day, Bill. Seven. And I bet you regretted even those." I had felt pushed aside by events. She was in charge, and Janie's husband had a big role to play, obviously. But my wife was in her glory as Janie's red face begged her for a salvation no one could give. She responded carefully, calmly, reminding her about the breathing, seeming to feel every contraction along with her daughter. She said she hated being depended on for everything, but I think she loves it. She loves to be necessary.
"I can't believe you counted." She kept track of things. Everything.
"How hard was it? There were SEVEN!" She was twitching, almost shivering with anger. I watched her calf muscle, still fine looking after all these years, flex slowly as she accelerated.
I looked out at the roadside, wishing I was anywhere but here. A woman in a red sweater laughed as she got into a low sports car. A man, hard and mean looking with a goatee, getting into the driver's seat, scowled at her. People always thought things were funny when they weren't.
"I didn't think I had anything to say. Any role. It wasn't for me. It was your show." She explained everything, listening carefully to the doctors then offering advice anyway, acting the role of the expert, as any woman who had ever been pregnant inevitably did.
"MY show?," she said. She nearly ran a red light when she turned to look at me. "It was your DAUGHTER's show! And you were completely absent!"
"I don't know what you want me to have done," I said. I tried talking softer, to subtly influence her to do the same. It never worked.
"DO? Jesus, Bill. Do something. Anything. Say something. Show that you have some feelings. Tell your daughter you love her. That you're proud of her. I've given up on you ever telling me that." I saw the thrust, like we were in a knife fight. I tried to dodge.
"She knows," I said quietly.
"No, Bill. No," she said. She accelerated through a yellow light, something that made her angry when I did it. "She doesn't know. I don't know. People don't know that you care about them unless you say so. Yes, you have worked hard to provide for her, and she appreciates that. She's said that. I've heard her. And I'm pretty sure you love me. And I know you love her. But once in a goddamned while, you've got to say it. Express it. In words. I know that's against your bullshit stupid nonsense male code or something, but I've stopped caring about that. Dammit Bill. If you love her, if you're proud of her, you've got to tell her. Tell me. Do something. Anything."
She sounded winded, like when she gets back from a run. We had been about to have some brunch at Lockhart's in the center of town when Janie had called us, and ever since then, it had been a blur of driving, and white hospital walls, and Janie's wails of pain as nature took its course. I understood what she was saying. I'm not stupid. But I couldn't explain my behavior. It just was. It felt hard wired, like I was just carrying out my instructions, line after robotic line. I thought about Janie, and her new daughter June, another woman into the fold. I was surrounded by women, demanding things of me that I didn't have, feelings I couldn't share, actions I couldn't take. I was trying to think of a way to explain it when I realized that we were home, and my wife had parked and gone inside already. Hopefully, she left the front door unlocked.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: Pathetic
The Flash Fiction Friday Fandango rolls onward this week, with Grant Miller's challenge to begin a 1000 word tale with the sentence "Call Me Maybe", which I'm told is a popular song. This story is called "Pathetic".
"Call me. Maybe? What do you mean 'maybe'? Oh, you'll call me. I know you will. Bye," she said, chuckling and shaking her head softly as she disconnected from the call. Marie had gone into the cabin to prepare for bed, and I walked over to the girl. She was sitting on the top of the picnic table, her long legs folded under her. She looked like an athlete, strong and graceful, with a hooded sweatshirt that had a soccer ball on it above tiny shorts.
"Mr. Laughlin?," she said, when I was far enough into the moonlight to be visible. It was a heartbreakingly clear night, still warm, but with the taste of fall around the edges. The moon was out, and the stars beyond it were sharp and defined.
"It is I," I said. That sounded stupid, I thought. She unfolded herself and stepped down onto the ground. Her legs were remarkable, long, straight, smooth, muscled and flawless. She had impossibly tiny feet in tiny athletic shoes with a sliver of sock visible. Her calves bulged, but just enough. She looked like she was turned out of marble instead of flesh. She probably wouldn't admit it, but she looked like she knew they were her best feature.
"You're the last ones," she said cheerfully. "That means I'm out of here." We were at a family conference sponsored by a number of churches, and the teens were shanghaied into serving as impromptu babysitters so adults could attend programs at night. They sat and gossiped at the communal picnic area as the children, hopefully, slept. Marie and I had attended a somewhat somnolent program about "Making God Real". I had enough trouble just making breakfast for two kids. God would have to make himself real.
"Any problems?," I asked, while I fished in my pocket for a bill. They were supposed to be volunteering, but I felt like the kid deserved something for her trouble. She could have done anything, but she was here. That was worth something.
"Evie had a little issue. She came to the door and said something about a bad dream. I went in and sat with her for a minute, and she went right back down. Not a peep out of the baby, though." I tried to imagine this girl, her shadow enormous in the tiny cabin, holding my daughter's tiny hand, comforting her fears. I felt a tiny stab of guilt, as I always did when anyone other than me had to provide her succor.
Typical, I thought. Evie had taken the new sibling hard, and was becoming increasingly emotional. "Thank you," I said. This girl was so tall, it was impossible to imagine her tiny and helpless like Evie.
"Oh, it's no problem at all. Evie's a sweetie pie. I did crafts with her this morning. I like her."
I got out the bill and tried to hand it to her. I saw a bird dash across the moon, like it was ashamed of something.
"Oh no," she said, taking a half step away from me. "I couldn't."
"Please," I said, "I insist. You're so good with her. I appreciate it." I watched her face, her eyes searching for a reason to take it.
She took the bill. "Well thank you, Mr. Laughlin. That's so nice. But I'm happy to do it. I love kids."
"Well, we appreciate it. You could have spent the time with your friends." You and your beautiful friends, I thought, laughing away your youth like you think you'll never turn into one of us, beset with spouses and kids and mortgages and work you hate.
"Most of my friends are doing this. But thank you," she said again. A brief breeze ruffled the edge of her shorts and she shivered.
"What are you going to do now?, " I said. She tucked a stray hair behind a tiny, perfectly formed ear.
"I don't know," she said, brightening. "A bunch of kids are going down to the beach and hang out. I think I'll go see if anybody I know is there." There was a stretch of beach sand along the shore of the lake. I tried to imagine it, all the young bodies, some pairing off, others engaging in ragged singalongs, their voices fading over the still water. Would there be alcohol? Pot? I didn't have anything against either, but I also knew how muddy decisions could be when you used them.
"Well, enjoy yourself," I said. What is it like to be young, I wanted to say. What does it feel like to look like you and have everyone turn their head when you walk over? What is it like to be the center of the world? Tell me, because I don't remember. If I ever knew.
"I will, Mr. Laughlin. Thanks again, and I look forward to seeing Evie again tomorrow morning."
She pulled her sweatshirt down, making her small breasts jut out. She turned and started to walk away. Don't waste these years, I wanted to say to her. Treasure this time, because you won't look like this forever.
"Thanks. G'night, now," I said. I watched her walk, the careful symmetry of her bobbing hips fading into the darkness.
"You're pathetic," Marie said from the screen door behind me. "Come to bed."
"Call me. Maybe? What do you mean 'maybe'? Oh, you'll call me. I know you will. Bye," she said, chuckling and shaking her head softly as she disconnected from the call. Marie had gone into the cabin to prepare for bed, and I walked over to the girl. She was sitting on the top of the picnic table, her long legs folded under her. She looked like an athlete, strong and graceful, with a hooded sweatshirt that had a soccer ball on it above tiny shorts.
"Mr. Laughlin?," she said, when I was far enough into the moonlight to be visible. It was a heartbreakingly clear night, still warm, but with the taste of fall around the edges. The moon was out, and the stars beyond it were sharp and defined.
"It is I," I said. That sounded stupid, I thought. She unfolded herself and stepped down onto the ground. Her legs were remarkable, long, straight, smooth, muscled and flawless. She had impossibly tiny feet in tiny athletic shoes with a sliver of sock visible. Her calves bulged, but just enough. She looked like she was turned out of marble instead of flesh. She probably wouldn't admit it, but she looked like she knew they were her best feature.
"You're the last ones," she said cheerfully. "That means I'm out of here." We were at a family conference sponsored by a number of churches, and the teens were shanghaied into serving as impromptu babysitters so adults could attend programs at night. They sat and gossiped at the communal picnic area as the children, hopefully, slept. Marie and I had attended a somewhat somnolent program about "Making God Real". I had enough trouble just making breakfast for two kids. God would have to make himself real.
"Any problems?," I asked, while I fished in my pocket for a bill. They were supposed to be volunteering, but I felt like the kid deserved something for her trouble. She could have done anything, but she was here. That was worth something.
"Evie had a little issue. She came to the door and said something about a bad dream. I went in and sat with her for a minute, and she went right back down. Not a peep out of the baby, though." I tried to imagine this girl, her shadow enormous in the tiny cabin, holding my daughter's tiny hand, comforting her fears. I felt a tiny stab of guilt, as I always did when anyone other than me had to provide her succor.
Typical, I thought. Evie had taken the new sibling hard, and was becoming increasingly emotional. "Thank you," I said. This girl was so tall, it was impossible to imagine her tiny and helpless like Evie.
"Oh, it's no problem at all. Evie's a sweetie pie. I did crafts with her this morning. I like her."
I got out the bill and tried to hand it to her. I saw a bird dash across the moon, like it was ashamed of something.
"Oh no," she said, taking a half step away from me. "I couldn't."
"Please," I said, "I insist. You're so good with her. I appreciate it." I watched her face, her eyes searching for a reason to take it.
She took the bill. "Well thank you, Mr. Laughlin. That's so nice. But I'm happy to do it. I love kids."
"Well, we appreciate it. You could have spent the time with your friends." You and your beautiful friends, I thought, laughing away your youth like you think you'll never turn into one of us, beset with spouses and kids and mortgages and work you hate.
"Most of my friends are doing this. But thank you," she said again. A brief breeze ruffled the edge of her shorts and she shivered.
"What are you going to do now?, " I said. She tucked a stray hair behind a tiny, perfectly formed ear.
"I don't know," she said, brightening. "A bunch of kids are going down to the beach and hang out. I think I'll go see if anybody I know is there." There was a stretch of beach sand along the shore of the lake. I tried to imagine it, all the young bodies, some pairing off, others engaging in ragged singalongs, their voices fading over the still water. Would there be alcohol? Pot? I didn't have anything against either, but I also knew how muddy decisions could be when you used them.
"Well, enjoy yourself," I said. What is it like to be young, I wanted to say. What does it feel like to look like you and have everyone turn their head when you walk over? What is it like to be the center of the world? Tell me, because I don't remember. If I ever knew.
"I will, Mr. Laughlin. Thanks again, and I look forward to seeing Evie again tomorrow morning."
She pulled her sweatshirt down, making her small breasts jut out. She turned and started to walk away. Don't waste these years, I wanted to say to her. Treasure this time, because you won't look like this forever.
"Thanks. G'night, now," I said. I watched her walk, the careful symmetry of her bobbing hips fading into the darkness.
"You're pathetic," Marie said from the screen door behind me. "Come to bed."
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