“You have to submit something,” Helen, a school friend, pleaded. “Listen, I’m on the board of a start-up literary journal, Southern Women’s Review. We’re collecting submissions for our first issue. And I know you can write.“
“Um, I’m not from the south,” I noted, pointing out the obvious flaw with her invitation.
“Eh, the piece can be set in the south, the voice can be southern, or, like, you lived in Atlanta once right?”
“Yeah?”
“You qualify! Deadline is June first.”
The next day I rifled through my collection of stories until I found one set in the south. It needed work but I had plenty of time, an entire month to be exact. Except tomorrow turned into next week and suddenly it was a six days shy of the deadline. That’s when I finally buckled down. Every night after work, I strengthened the characters and tightened the language. I adjusted details and tweaked sections. And an hour before May came to a close, tickled with the progress I had made, I submitted my story. Then I retreated to my sofa and perused the site.
Ooh, cool people are launching this journal.
Wow, fun header.
Shit, there’s a word limit?
I returned to my desk and loaded my story. In what felt like slow motion, I checked the word count.Then I checked it again, you know, to make sure I was in fact three thousand words over the limit. I quickly sent a follow up email admitting I’d mistakenly missed the submission guidelines and to ignore what I just sent. I also noted that no, I had not eaten glue as a child though I wish I had as it would be a lovely excuse for my stupidity. Then I poured more wine and started hacking my story.
It really doesn’t matter that she has lunch with her mom – delete.
The best friend living in Boston, he isn’t essential – delete.
The flashback to the tennis court can be summed up with one sentence - delete.
Bit by bit, I trimmed it down. Some revisions were easy. Others weren’t. But I kept going, refreshing the word count every few minutes to confirm I was making progress. As the clock ticked toward two, I officially had the word count reduced from 4909 to 1990.
I read my new story, slowly, aloud, listening for the rhythm of the sentences, the sound of the words. Then I read it again, this time confirming continuity. Miraculously, the piece still worked. Or maybe it simply worked well enough. In my blurry eyed state, I was in no position to judge the quality of anything. Nonetheless, I opened an email, attached the document and clicked send. I placed my drained goblet in the sink, turned off the lights and went to bed. And when I awoke, I had an email from Helen asking me to call her.
“Hey,” I said when she answered, my voice excited but my stomach tight. I hoped for the best but expected the worst.
“So we got your submission.”
“You mean submissions,” I corrected. “But you’re a gem to ignore my fumble. No really, I think I just figured out why I suck at standardized tests. Something about reading instructions and --”
“Paige, we love it - you’re in!”
And that’s how this Yank proved reading directions after completing the assigned task can still result in success (cough, page twenty-eight).
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
In Stitches
Growing up, my mother knit. It started with matching Irish sweaters for me and Leslie, ivory cabled cardigans with dark wooden buttons. There’s a photo of us wearing them on the ferry over to Block Island. I don’t recall the sweater or the trip but that picture permanently acts of evidence that both existed.
In fourth grade, my mom taught me to knit. With leftover yarn from her completed projects, I put together a vest. It was hideous. None of the yarn matched and because of my novice status, meaning my inability to taper, the shape was two squares sewn together.
“This neck is uncomfortable,” I noted as I tugged at it.
“It’s a boat-neck,” my mom explained. “It’s supposed to be flat across your neck.”
“Is it supposed to choke me in the process?” I asked as I made hacking noises.
I never wore it again. And shortly thereafter, my mom stopped knitting too. In a tattered Neiman Marcus tote, she dropped all of her gear. She buried the bag in the dark corner of a storage closet only a midget could comfortably stand in. It stayed there, out of sight, until my nephew was born.
“What are you looking for?” I asked when I passed through my parent’s bedroom and saw my mom’s ass sticking out of the storage closet.
“I’m going to knit Anders a sweater.”
She studied patterns, bought yarn and got down to business. And when she needed to stop by the yarn store to grab another skein, I went with. She checked labels to confirm the color was the same batch. I, meanwhile, wandered off and explored the bins.
“I think I want to knit a scarf,” I announced as I walked toward the counter with three skeins of nubby wool, deep black twisted with flame-orange and chestnut brown.
When I got home, I cast on forty stitches and began working the needles – knit four, purl four, repeat to end of row. A week later, I had all of ten inches knit and I was bored. So I went back to the yarn store in search of inspiration. My fingers burrowed into cotton candy tufts of maroon mohair. I pressed balls of coral cashmere to my cheek. An hour later I left, a shopping bag swinging by my side. It wasn’t that I had any plans. But the colors of the yarn, the texture of the wool, I just couldn’t leave it behind.
It’s been six years since Anders was born. I’ve finished exactly four scarves and one unwearable hat, though I currently own enough yarn to knit a blanket the size of Rhode Island. In square straw baskets dotting my bookshelf, I store unused skeins along with a collection of unfinished projects. There’s the lace-knit scarf made with mohair, mossy green melting to soft gray bleeding to rich plum. Then there’s the blue-green vest, the ribbed body dangling off size 9 circular needles. And on my coffee table sits the project I’m pushing myself to finish. It’s a racer-back tank made with sueded ribbon. The other night, with a glass of wine nearby, I worked the yarn. Before moving onto the last section, I stopped to count my stitches. The pattern calls for 140; I counted 158.
I held the unfinished work up, eying the shape and studying the contours. Light from the television passed through the holes of the pattern. I knew I’d never be able to figure out where I went wrong. I’m too impatient to bother with determining where I stopped following the instructions for a medium and started following the instructions for a large. Plus, the idea of pulling the stitches out makes my stomach churn. I placed the needles and yarn on the table and picked up the wine goblet. The project has remained untouched, though another bottle of Vouvray has been opened.
Eventually I’ll still finish the top, a tank perfectly proportioned for a human pumpkin. And like my childhood vest, I’ll probably wear it once before burying it in the back of a dresser drawer. Then I’ll tuck my knitting away and pick up a book, or go for a walk, or finalize my plans for London. Come the fall, I'll wander into a yarn shop, buy more wool and stow it in my baskets. Maybe I’ll make something, maybe I won’t. Either way, I like knowing it’s there.
In fourth grade, my mom taught me to knit. With leftover yarn from her completed projects, I put together a vest. It was hideous. None of the yarn matched and because of my novice status, meaning my inability to taper, the shape was two squares sewn together.
“This neck is uncomfortable,” I noted as I tugged at it.
“It’s a boat-neck,” my mom explained. “It’s supposed to be flat across your neck.”
“Is it supposed to choke me in the process?” I asked as I made hacking noises.
I never wore it again. And shortly thereafter, my mom stopped knitting too. In a tattered Neiman Marcus tote, she dropped all of her gear. She buried the bag in the dark corner of a storage closet only a midget could comfortably stand in. It stayed there, out of sight, until my nephew was born.
“What are you looking for?” I asked when I passed through my parent’s bedroom and saw my mom’s ass sticking out of the storage closet.
“I’m going to knit Anders a sweater.”
She studied patterns, bought yarn and got down to business. And when she needed to stop by the yarn store to grab another skein, I went with. She checked labels to confirm the color was the same batch. I, meanwhile, wandered off and explored the bins.
“I think I want to knit a scarf,” I announced as I walked toward the counter with three skeins of nubby wool, deep black twisted with flame-orange and chestnut brown.
When I got home, I cast on forty stitches and began working the needles – knit four, purl four, repeat to end of row. A week later, I had all of ten inches knit and I was bored. So I went back to the yarn store in search of inspiration. My fingers burrowed into cotton candy tufts of maroon mohair. I pressed balls of coral cashmere to my cheek. An hour later I left, a shopping bag swinging by my side. It wasn’t that I had any plans. But the colors of the yarn, the texture of the wool, I just couldn’t leave it behind.
It’s been six years since Anders was born. I’ve finished exactly four scarves and one unwearable hat, though I currently own enough yarn to knit a blanket the size of Rhode Island. In square straw baskets dotting my bookshelf, I store unused skeins along with a collection of unfinished projects. There’s the lace-knit scarf made with mohair, mossy green melting to soft gray bleeding to rich plum. Then there’s the blue-green vest, the ribbed body dangling off size 9 circular needles. And on my coffee table sits the project I’m pushing myself to finish. It’s a racer-back tank made with sueded ribbon. The other night, with a glass of wine nearby, I worked the yarn. Before moving onto the last section, I stopped to count my stitches. The pattern calls for 140; I counted 158.
I held the unfinished work up, eying the shape and studying the contours. Light from the television passed through the holes of the pattern. I knew I’d never be able to figure out where I went wrong. I’m too impatient to bother with determining where I stopped following the instructions for a medium and started following the instructions for a large. Plus, the idea of pulling the stitches out makes my stomach churn. I placed the needles and yarn on the table and picked up the wine goblet. The project has remained untouched, though another bottle of Vouvray has been opened.
Eventually I’ll still finish the top, a tank perfectly proportioned for a human pumpkin. And like my childhood vest, I’ll probably wear it once before burying it in the back of a dresser drawer. Then I’ll tuck my knitting away and pick up a book, or go for a walk, or finalize my plans for London. Come the fall, I'll wander into a yarn shop, buy more wool and stow it in my baskets. Maybe I’ll make something, maybe I won’t. Either way, I like knowing it’s there.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Taking Care of Business
Dear Union Square Café,
While I’ve enjoyed recent additions to your farm fresh menu, it’s the stand-by signature dishes that keep me and everyone else coming back. So imagine my shock when I witnessed the current version of your Banana Macadamia Tart. Yes, the flavors are similar. But the banana, instead of sliced on the diagonal and beautifully fanned atop the tart, a design detailed in your cookbook available for sale at the bar, was just curled whole around the pastry bottom. Simply put, it resembled a sugar-crusted and lightly singed turd. Please introduce your new and apparently lazy pastry chef to a knife and the original recipe so he can get on board.
Best,
A Disappointed Diner
(who was too embarrassed to complain because the plate was still licked clean)
Dear Broadway, Off-Broadway and Regional Theatre,
For the love of God, please try to produce more decent plays in the near future. If I continue to walk out of productions at intermission, or curse the lack of an intermission so that I’m forced to sit through something painful like the musical version of Coraline, I just might stop showing up altogether. And no, I was not one of the four people snoring in harmony while Coraline sang to the cat for the third time. I was too busy determining the least disruptive exit to bother with sleep.
Regards,
A Wavering Fan of the Arts
Dear Dusty Treadmill in My Living Room,
Fuck you.
Yours Truly,
The Lazy-Ass Who Oftentimes Can Be Found Horizontal on the Neighboring Sofa Eating BonBons and Flipping You Off
Dear Therapist,
In four sessions, you’ve taken me further than any previous shrink. I’m changing behaviors, working to anchor the past in the past instead of letting it tread upon the present and dictate my future. And while I giggled on the inside at your bordello decor, and I quietly balked at the value of EMDR, I was wrong. They both work. So please accept my formal apology for originally questioning your judgment. And keep doing what you’re doing. I’m better off because of it.
Love,
Your Tuesday 2pm Patient
While I’ve enjoyed recent additions to your farm fresh menu, it’s the stand-by signature dishes that keep me and everyone else coming back. So imagine my shock when I witnessed the current version of your Banana Macadamia Tart. Yes, the flavors are similar. But the banana, instead of sliced on the diagonal and beautifully fanned atop the tart, a design detailed in your cookbook available for sale at the bar, was just curled whole around the pastry bottom. Simply put, it resembled a sugar-crusted and lightly singed turd. Please introduce your new and apparently lazy pastry chef to a knife and the original recipe so he can get on board.
Best,
A Disappointed Diner
(who was too embarrassed to complain because the plate was still licked clean)
Dear Broadway, Off-Broadway and Regional Theatre,
For the love of God, please try to produce more decent plays in the near future. If I continue to walk out of productions at intermission, or curse the lack of an intermission so that I’m forced to sit through something painful like the musical version of Coraline, I just might stop showing up altogether. And no, I was not one of the four people snoring in harmony while Coraline sang to the cat for the third time. I was too busy determining the least disruptive exit to bother with sleep.
Regards,
A Wavering Fan of the Arts
Dear Dusty Treadmill in My Living Room,
Fuck you.
Yours Truly,
The Lazy-Ass Who Oftentimes Can Be Found Horizontal on the Neighboring Sofa Eating BonBons and Flipping You Off
Dear Therapist,
In four sessions, you’ve taken me further than any previous shrink. I’m changing behaviors, working to anchor the past in the past instead of letting it tread upon the present and dictate my future. And while I giggled on the inside at your bordello decor, and I quietly balked at the value of EMDR, I was wrong. They both work. So please accept my formal apology for originally questioning your judgment. And keep doing what you’re doing. I’m better off because of it.
Love,
Your Tuesday 2pm Patient
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Sessions
The sofa’s velvet, a rich aubergine like summertime eggplant. I run my hand across the soft nap as I take my seat. The cushions absorb my weight, embrace my hips and welcome my back. I move a throw pillow behind me, the silken finish slippery against my shirt. It takes a minute for me to get settled. My legs are crossed at the ankles. My hands rest loosely in my lap, palm down. A novice sociologist would observe my positioning and note: cautiously open.
“So tell me why you’re here,” she says as she sits down in the armchair facing me, a large area rug separates us. As I study her degree framed on the far wall, formal print noting the university, I answer.
“I think I’m fat.” I don’t have time for niceties at her hourly rate.
She cocks her head to the right, nods as she relaxes her mouth. Her lips, thin and pale, form and shape but no words exit. I sit, wait, listen to the guys working on the roof of the neighboring building. Through the open window I hear hammers pound nails, saws separate wood. Journey echoes through spurts of static.
“I have Body Dysmorphic Disorder,” I elaborate, impatient.
“Okay, how’s your relationship with food?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at the bottle of Honest Tea I brought along for the session. Thirty calories.
“I’m sure I eat to comfort myself instead of solely for the sake of survival. And I suppose I binged a bunch when I was a kid. I mean, I regularly hid Entenmann’s cheese danish in my desk at home. But I’ve never purged or starved myself, if that’s what you mean.”
She lifts her pen, makes a note. I can hear the nib drag against the paper. My eyes follow the movement of her hand and I attempt to decipher, from the arc and swing of the pen, what she’s writing.
“Let’s build a foundation - tell me about your family. Parents? Siblings?”
I provide the most relevant details. Like how my father was sick by the time I was eight and that he spent most of his time working or playing sports. Parenting wasn’t really his thing unless it involved skiing or tennis. Or how my mother had me enrolled in diet plans by sixth grade, suggested and paid for liposuction when I finished college and then pointed me in the direction of Fen-Phen shortly thereafter.
“I guess the problem is that my fucked up standards aren’t really my own. Rationally I get it. But there’s still an irrational side I can’t turn off.”
The therapist continues to probe. She pushes, asking for more details. And oftentimes, when I answer, she winces. Her face pinches, her brow wrinkles. Sometimes she even finishes with a concerned “ooh” as if she can feel the blow. I am a train wreck she is witnessing, metal crashing, engines exploding. When I see her reaction, I look away.
“Paige, your mom, you know she has –”
Her voice fades as she finishes her diagnosis. Or it doesn’t fade but my ears fill with white noise. My eyes dart around the room, surveying the space, reconfirming the exit.
“It’s okay,” she continues, her voice comforting like warm milk. “You? You we can fix.”
I pinch the inside of my cheek between my teeth and saw back and forth. I can’t look up, look at her. So I cast my eyes down, observe the way my fingers knot together. Intertwined so tightly, they almost tremble. I follow the grain of my skin, observing the creases that slice across the knuckle of my thumb, and then I let go.
“So tell me why you’re here,” she says as she sits down in the armchair facing me, a large area rug separates us. As I study her degree framed on the far wall, formal print noting the university, I answer.
“I think I’m fat.” I don’t have time for niceties at her hourly rate.
She cocks her head to the right, nods as she relaxes her mouth. Her lips, thin and pale, form and shape but no words exit. I sit, wait, listen to the guys working on the roof of the neighboring building. Through the open window I hear hammers pound nails, saws separate wood. Journey echoes through spurts of static.
“I have Body Dysmorphic Disorder,” I elaborate, impatient.
“Okay, how’s your relationship with food?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at the bottle of Honest Tea I brought along for the session. Thirty calories.
“I’m sure I eat to comfort myself instead of solely for the sake of survival. And I suppose I binged a bunch when I was a kid. I mean, I regularly hid Entenmann’s cheese danish in my desk at home. But I’ve never purged or starved myself, if that’s what you mean.”
She lifts her pen, makes a note. I can hear the nib drag against the paper. My eyes follow the movement of her hand and I attempt to decipher, from the arc and swing of the pen, what she’s writing.
“Let’s build a foundation - tell me about your family. Parents? Siblings?”
I provide the most relevant details. Like how my father was sick by the time I was eight and that he spent most of his time working or playing sports. Parenting wasn’t really his thing unless it involved skiing or tennis. Or how my mother had me enrolled in diet plans by sixth grade, suggested and paid for liposuction when I finished college and then pointed me in the direction of Fen-Phen shortly thereafter.
“I guess the problem is that my fucked up standards aren’t really my own. Rationally I get it. But there’s still an irrational side I can’t turn off.”
The therapist continues to probe. She pushes, asking for more details. And oftentimes, when I answer, she winces. Her face pinches, her brow wrinkles. Sometimes she even finishes with a concerned “ooh” as if she can feel the blow. I am a train wreck she is witnessing, metal crashing, engines exploding. When I see her reaction, I look away.
“Paige, your mom, you know she has –”
Her voice fades as she finishes her diagnosis. Or it doesn’t fade but my ears fill with white noise. My eyes dart around the room, surveying the space, reconfirming the exit.
“It’s okay,” she continues, her voice comforting like warm milk. “You? You we can fix.”
I pinch the inside of my cheek between my teeth and saw back and forth. I can’t look up, look at her. So I cast my eyes down, observe the way my fingers knot together. Intertwined so tightly, they almost tremble. I follow the grain of my skin, observing the creases that slice across the knuckle of my thumb, and then I let go.
Friday, June 05, 2009
What's In A Name
My mom doesn’t believe in drinking water from the tap, gasping in horror whenever she witnesses me filling a glass at the sink. Nor does she bother with Brita filters. They just take up too much space in her already cluttered refrigerator. Instead, my mom keeps a ready stash of bottled water, lining the shelves of the pantry and storing additional cases in the garage.
A few years ago during one of my early visits to Florida, with the entire family present to celebrate my dad’s birthday, the water situation exploded.
“Girls, can you come in here?” my mom asked, her voice loud enough to fill the entire house.
Leslie and I dropped what we were doing and hesitantly went into the kitchen.
“Is this yours?” my mom asked holding up a half-finished bottle of water.
I shrugged and looked at Leslie who was also silently offering a non-committal answer.
“How about this one? And this one and this one and this one?” My mother, by now, had five half-finished bottles of water pinned between her folded arms and her chest.
“Sorry,” Leslie and I said in chorus before backing out of the kitchen and fleeing the scene.
Later that night, over dinner, my mother made an announcement. “From this point forward, if you take a bottle of water, you will use this to write your name on the label.” She held up a large permanent marker and moved her arm slowly back and forth so everyone could see the pen. The water issue was resolved.
In early April, I ventured south for some family fun. Leslie was taking the kids to Florida for their spring break and I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to spend five nights sharing a bed with my favorite sister, revisiting the olden days of slumber parties and late night giggle fits.
After a long day of sunning by the pool, we went to dinner at Columbia. I enjoyed savory pork and sweet plantains, washing it all down with copious amounts of sangria. Three hours after the meal I was sprawled out on the bed, my jeans unbuttoned and my mouth smacking for water. I rolled onto my side to face Leslie who was reading a magazine.
“I’m thirsty.”
Leslie flipped the page and focused on the article. I tried another approach.
“If you loved me, you’d get me some water.”
Leslie closed the magazine, hoisted herself to her feet and shuffled down the hall to the kitchen. A few seconds later, she plopped down on the bed and passed off a fresh bottle of water.
“You’re the best sister ever,” I squealed as I unscrewed the cap and chugged.
“Oh, and per house rules,” Leslie started as she flipped through her magazine. “I wrote your name on the label.”
A few years ago during one of my early visits to Florida, with the entire family present to celebrate my dad’s birthday, the water situation exploded.
“Girls, can you come in here?” my mom asked, her voice loud enough to fill the entire house.
Leslie and I dropped what we were doing and hesitantly went into the kitchen.
“Is this yours?” my mom asked holding up a half-finished bottle of water.
I shrugged and looked at Leslie who was also silently offering a non-committal answer.
“How about this one? And this one and this one and this one?” My mother, by now, had five half-finished bottles of water pinned between her folded arms and her chest.
“Sorry,” Leslie and I said in chorus before backing out of the kitchen and fleeing the scene.
Later that night, over dinner, my mother made an announcement. “From this point forward, if you take a bottle of water, you will use this to write your name on the label.” She held up a large permanent marker and moved her arm slowly back and forth so everyone could see the pen. The water issue was resolved.
In early April, I ventured south for some family fun. Leslie was taking the kids to Florida for their spring break and I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to spend five nights sharing a bed with my favorite sister, revisiting the olden days of slumber parties and late night giggle fits.
After a long day of sunning by the pool, we went to dinner at Columbia. I enjoyed savory pork and sweet plantains, washing it all down with copious amounts of sangria. Three hours after the meal I was sprawled out on the bed, my jeans unbuttoned and my mouth smacking for water. I rolled onto my side to face Leslie who was reading a magazine.
“I’m thirsty.”
Leslie flipped the page and focused on the article. I tried another approach.
“If you loved me, you’d get me some water.”
Leslie closed the magazine, hoisted herself to her feet and shuffled down the hall to the kitchen. A few seconds later, she plopped down on the bed and passed off a fresh bottle of water.
“You’re the best sister ever,” I squealed as I unscrewed the cap and chugged.
“Oh, and per house rules,” Leslie started as she flipped through her magazine. “I wrote your name on the label.”
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Forward Motion
I’m standing on the corner, waiting for the light to turn, the traffic to pass. The leather handles of my purse strain against my curled fingers. Thumping bass from a passing car paces my pulse. Fumes from a bus cloud the air, sting my nose. Red turns green. I step off the curb and continue on my way.
The city streets are familiar, comfortable and easy like a worn in slipper or tattered t-shirt. My body fits into the curves and folds of the urban landscape. I ignore the buildings but notice flowers dripping out of window boxes. Freshly watered, splatters stain the sidewalk a deeper shade of gray. Halfway down the block, I stop, lean forward and inhale the smell of spring bleeding into summer. My lungs fill with the sweet scent of blossoming buds.
I stay there, frozen, eyes closed. A collection of scenes play across my lids. Here’s that time after the concert when we grabbed cheesesteaks at Geno’s. Remember that family in front of us, the way they stressed about how to order? The scene fades to black, the reel is changed. And here’s us at a bar throwing back cocktails and chatting up a poet to my left. The scene fades to black, another film is loaded. And this, this is that day we sprawled out on my sofas and talked about what was really going on.
You’re flat on your back, legs stretched straight and head propped on a pillow. I’m on the love seat, curled on my side with my legs pulled close to my chest. My head rests against the arm, my cheek embossed by the chenille texture. Beads of sweat collect on the outside of a glass, puddling at the base like a makeshift moat. You mention details, admit confusion. I listen, probing sometimes, supporting always. It’s what I know. It’s all I know. I soak it in, swallow it down. Never questioning, always accepting.
Stop, rewind, play.
Hear the words, listen for the pauses
Stop, rewind, play.
Question the facts, identify the fibs.
A car horn blares. A firm fist pressing against the wheel screams the alarm without pause. I open my eyes, focus. I stand up, stretch my spine, tighten my abdomen. I’m even with a windowpane, my reflection clear in the glass. I relax my clenched jaw, watch how it loosens my cheeks, softens my eyes. I swallow the saliva pooling beneath my tongue and start walking again, moving in the direction of sizzling mussels and chilled Hoegaarden. One foot in front of the other, I turn the corner, walk the last stretch. Tables and chairs are set out on the sidewalk with diners already in the middle of a meal, partaking in a conversation. Forward, I go, walking to the rhythm of the city’s beat. And as long as I move forward, I know things will be fine.
The city streets are familiar, comfortable and easy like a worn in slipper or tattered t-shirt. My body fits into the curves and folds of the urban landscape. I ignore the buildings but notice flowers dripping out of window boxes. Freshly watered, splatters stain the sidewalk a deeper shade of gray. Halfway down the block, I stop, lean forward and inhale the smell of spring bleeding into summer. My lungs fill with the sweet scent of blossoming buds.
I stay there, frozen, eyes closed. A collection of scenes play across my lids. Here’s that time after the concert when we grabbed cheesesteaks at Geno’s. Remember that family in front of us, the way they stressed about how to order? The scene fades to black, the reel is changed. And here’s us at a bar throwing back cocktails and chatting up a poet to my left. The scene fades to black, another film is loaded. And this, this is that day we sprawled out on my sofas and talked about what was really going on.
You’re flat on your back, legs stretched straight and head propped on a pillow. I’m on the love seat, curled on my side with my legs pulled close to my chest. My head rests against the arm, my cheek embossed by the chenille texture. Beads of sweat collect on the outside of a glass, puddling at the base like a makeshift moat. You mention details, admit confusion. I listen, probing sometimes, supporting always. It’s what I know. It’s all I know. I soak it in, swallow it down. Never questioning, always accepting.
Stop, rewind, play.
Hear the words, listen for the pauses
Stop, rewind, play.
Question the facts, identify the fibs.
A car horn blares. A firm fist pressing against the wheel screams the alarm without pause. I open my eyes, focus. I stand up, stretch my spine, tighten my abdomen. I’m even with a windowpane, my reflection clear in the glass. I relax my clenched jaw, watch how it loosens my cheeks, softens my eyes. I swallow the saliva pooling beneath my tongue and start walking again, moving in the direction of sizzling mussels and chilled Hoegaarden. One foot in front of the other, I turn the corner, walk the last stretch. Tables and chairs are set out on the sidewalk with diners already in the middle of a meal, partaking in a conversation. Forward, I go, walking to the rhythm of the city’s beat. And as long as I move forward, I know things will be fine.
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