Half The Evening.

It's 5 O'clock; almost dark out. You'd had trouble finding the keys you dropped, on the stoop, amongst the leaves blown over the steps from the trees beside the house. Not eaten a thing, all day long. Just coffee. A bag of pretzels, or something like them. So you make a bowl of cereal, only there's no milk. Or rather there's only skimmed, half-fat milk. And you suppose that's fine. If you don't mind the taste of cereal in water. Which you do, but your pour the bowl anyway. You put your jacket on the back of the sofa. And the dog comes out; from the bedroom, from his bed, and jumps up; curls up in the corner, head against the arm; taking up most of the seating. Sighs. And you take off your shoes, and sit next to the dog. And you have on wool socks. And it's Halloween. Which you hate. Or rather: are growing less impressed by each year.

Going into the Pharmacy around the corner, picking up a prescription she needs for the following morning, and the place is filled with dickheads in Werewolf masks. Not the kids so much, but full-grown adults dressed as goblins, or robots, or Al Roker, or something. And you've noticed, maybe only so much in the last few years, but when it comes to dressing up for Halloween most girls like to go as sluts. Or cats. Or at the very best: Slutty Cats. Tails in the air. And although you do not dress up, you have standards, and wonder why there are so many fucking Mickey Mouse ears, and cardboard Transformers, and even some guy dressed as an Ear. Maybe you don't get it. Maybe it's a riot amongst their friends. Probably not. Regardless, you have standards, and the fact is: It's Halloween. Go as something dead. Doesn't matter what it is, what you want to be, just be dead. You'd like to go as a cowgirl? Boring, but okay fine. Go as a dead one. Going in drag? A dead Tranny then. A cat? For fuckssake; if you must, but at least one that's been hit by the bus.

You've been thinking, despite it all, that maybe you should work on some kind of Cat Roadkill costume. Just to make a point. But you know it will go over the heads. You know you won't bother.

There were two witches, and Britney Spears as a Skinhead, in the tampon aisle for chrissakes.

The cereal bowl in the sink, you take a beer from the fridge, and open the screen to the fire escape. The heating is back on, but it's unseasonably warm, so you'd like to take a few minutes of fresh air before the sun goes down. You're out there for maybe five minutes, before the first drops begin down your face; filling your open pores with rain. Which is probably, according to most everyone in the 90's, toxic. Pores which have opened from the heat of the sweat-box apartment. And maybe the milk, if milk opens your pores.

"Watch for a man with pock marks. That's holes. In the face. Call this number immediately"

You think about the news. Laugh a little.

And then: you take the beer back inside, and into the bathroom. Running the taps warm, shaving your face and finishing the second half of the bottle. You take another from the fridge and into a hot shower. Washing the grease from your hair. Washing the dirt from your nails. Washing the milk from your chin. You'll be leaving soon; cashing a check- for barely anything worth your while- on your way to meet her, and a friend. Heading to a film. It's the most you can muster: A horror movie on Halloween.

Young Dreamer.

She’s a difficult little fucker. Forever swimming in circles. Not eating. Not doing much. She’s temperamental at best. Flakey. Running late. Or more so: making me, making us, late. Forever leaving her things around the place. Water splashed across the tile. She’s not the most hygienic. Not that I mind too much, I’m just saying. She frequently forgets where she left the things that she leaves lying around, or hides beneath the sofa. She searches them out, barks at me, orders me around: find them, find them! She’s a restless sleeper. Wakes us both up in the night. Walks around in circles; muttering to herself is the best way to describe it. Gets us up: Will you make me some food? Please. An early start to the day, and yet: still we’re rushing. We need to go out before we go out, we have things to buy, things to stock up on, things she needs. We’ve got a laundry list. She howls at me: But why? She doesn’t understand why we have to go to dinner in the first place. Why we have to meet these people, make small talk. We could be at home, she thinks. We could at least leave a light on. She’s forever sulking; head buried in her shoulder; an uncomfortable position, I think, but she seems happy lying like that. She cocks her head at me. She raises an eyebrow. And when we leave, and head towards the train, and leave her behind, she will nonchalantly rise from the bed, stretch her hind legs, walk casually to the bathroom and piss all over the old grain sack we use as a matt.

Reaching.

The closest thing you'll get to an afternoon in the pool around here is a lukewarm shower. It doesn't even really run cold; the taps are too warm. Burried too close to the surface; the sun gets to them same as it gets to every other damn thing, and the water heats up. Turn on the cold and end up with the hot anyway. Not that I mind so much to tell you the truth; my skin is so thick now that I can barely feel the water splash my back, let alone tell you whether it's cold or not.

But still; it's the nearest you'll get to a pool.

I mean, sure the neighbors they've got them, those high sided above ground types, but would you really want to go in one of them? Leaves everywhere, slugs on the decking probably, and infestation of some kind. And if you asked; if you even wanted to ask, they'd only tell you: some other time anyway. They're always rushing off somewhere; the grocery store, to pick up gas, the kids, the dogs, the Grandmother from the airport. Anytime you're locked out, or need a Philipshead, or the number for those fuckers that pick up the recycling.

So you're not going to go begging down the block, to people you've never even met, maybe seen them around at the market, or down by Shipleys, or Wallmart even, but you've never had a conversation, have no idea of their names, and are certainly in no rush to make small talk while you lean against the side of their splintering deck, trying to catch your breath after only a couple of lengths. It'd be one thing if any of them had a real pool; all blue tile and diving board. A lounge chair or two. A grill on the deck. A fucking water-wing.

Anyway, a luke warm shower is better than an afternoon overstaying your welcome. Even if you could get in there in the first place. They lock the gates. You could climb over after-dark, but by then it's not even so hot, and it seems like too much effort to get the step ladder. Besides they'd only wake up and call the cops, and where would you be? Floating on your back in your Speedos, staring up at the Big Fucking Dipper and waiting for the sun to come up. So sponge your back. Bury your face beneath the shower head, an avalanche of water straight to the crown; let it flow down your sideburns, cover your ears until- like the cave behind the waterfall- there is no other noise; just the sound of the lukewarm Texas water.

Covering your head; a thick blanket, drumming against your earlobes.

An old girlfriend once told you how unhygenic it was to use the sponge to clean your face.

But it's the shower, and everything in there is clean
Including you?
Including me. It's just one part of my body to the next.

But she kept going on about how she knew for a fact you used the sponge on your dick - why wouldn't you- and probably your ass crack. And at the very least your feet. So why in the hell would you wipe it across your face, mop your brow with the water as it fell from the tap? Like a lot of times back then, you told her to mind her own fucking business, and went about your usual routine. Except of course when you came to wash your face, and you stared at the sponge for several minutes. Thinking about your ass crack, among other things, you dropped it into the little wire basket on the side of the tub, and made a bowl with your hands. Of course you never told her, and it was never mentioned again. And still, to this day, you miss the smell of the wet sponge, one of the only things you can remember from childhood, that you kept with you at least once a day: biting off a chunk, chewing the water out, sucking on it and spitting it back into the bath. Have you ever tried to explain the way water smells? It smells like it tastes: an impossible odorless nothing; a tasteless quenching of thirst. A little soapy.

Don't Be Bad No More.

We're waving them off. To be honest they look a lot like ants. Hundreds of them darting in and out of the buses, clambering over one another, over the backs of seats. Throwing out handkerchiefs. Blowing kisses. Shaking hands. Bowing heads. There are so many of them. And we're here to see them off. To watch them leave the town, their families, and pregnant wives; to take roads we've never driven, across the whole country, to waiting boats filled with even more angry, anxious, hopeful, men. Boats that will sail oceans we've never seen. We're waving them off. We're whistling. We're holding our hands together, and pushing our lips into smiles. Just like our mothers told us we should.

Zanussi.

He’s not in the best shape of his life. He’s not pulling punches like he used to. The loads he’s carrying are significantly heavier, and he tends to stumble those last couple of steps to bed. He’s a Horlicks man. The last time I came over he made us both a steak supper, and asked if my mother minded me drinking. I told him she didn’t have to know. He seemed pleased. We sat in front of our empty plates for a while before he spoke again.

You’re going to school?

It wasn’t a question. His voice held the strength his muscles no longer could. He was telling me.

I am. I said.

He seemed even more pleased than seeing me finish my can of Carling.

Good. He said after a minute of staring at me. I’ll fetch another beer.

The last few years had been tough. He’d lost a wife, his hearing for the most part, countless remotes down the back of the sofa. He’s more tired than he used to be. He took a nap just before we sat down for dinner. I sat on the wall at the back of the house, watching the sun go down; listening to the wood pigeons. I’ve hated their craws ever since I was a child. I’d stand beside the rock mountain – a makeshift grave for Bowson, my grandparents 4th of countless Cocker Spaniels- talking to a dead dog, making friends with a pet I barely remembered alive, and I’d hear the wood pigeons overhead. They called restlessly to each other as the sun began to fall, and I knew it was only a matter of hours until I’d be back in school. The dread you feel as a child is perhaps the strongest you ever experience: The anxiety of returning back to school. Fear of the ordinary. And it never really leaves you: Sunday evenings are still the very worst of the week.

When he came down from upstairs, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands – his fingers forever dirty with grease, and wood glue, and the red tint of rust- he patted me on the back, a squeeze of the shoulder, and told me he’d fix us up something to eat.

I didn’t watch him in the kitchen, I knew it was better not to see how the meal was prepared, only do my best to enjoy whatever flavour was left after he massacred it on the stove. Burnt flesh, boiled limp vegetables, a glass of Vimto. And now a can of Carling. We set our plates down, and he turned on the small television that hung over the kitchen table – on one of those hinged television stands he had bought surplus amounts of several years before. Everyone in the family had one. In each bedroom an old television perched at a precarious angle on a small white support. The television hadn’t been there in the years previous, when my grandmother was around.

The meat hadn’t been so tough either.

You’ll do well in school. Again this was less encouragement; more threat. Your mother will be chuffed.

What about Dad? I asked.

Oh him. He’ll be too. Although I expect he’ll be happier when you’re done.

Why’s that then?

Well. And he took another sip of warming beer. Once you’re done you won’t need his money anymore. Or you will, but he won’t feel so obliged to give it to you.

I nodded in a halfhearted agreement.

Should have learnt a trade… I heard him mutter beneath his breath. I knew he was proud though; he wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.

Earlier in the day, as he slept the last of the afternoon warmth away, I’d been walking at the bottom of the garden; down past the greenhouse, where the apple trees lurched over the side of the stone wall he’d mortared himself in kinder years. A pencil most likely behind his ear. Plans for the new shed he was going to build on the opposite side of the path to the greenhouse strewn across the kitchen table. My grandmother, fed up from moving them each mealtime, resigning to eat her dinner in the living room, from a tray she hated using for anything other than carrying cups of tea to and from the kitchen. Besides the abandoned compost heap, and the stacks of empty planters and rusting spades I saw his slippers. Incased in mud. Stuck to the ground. The wet earth he had left them in, presumably to wonder back to the house barefoot, had hardened in the subsequent week’s sun, and held them steadfast – like concrete- in the exact same spot he had left them. A snail curling itself around a sodden heel. I felt like crying as I stood over them, but it took my years to realize why.

He placed his can down and raised his head to the ceiling.

We’ll be alright boy. You and me. The pair of us will be just fine.

This time it sounded more like a question; the first time I had ever really wanted him to reassure me, to hold his posture and voice unwavering, but there was a question mark there at the end of the sentence.

Sure we will. How could we not be? I finished the last swig of the second can. It was the best that either of us could do given the circumstances. I think I’ll head in early. He said, taking his plate in hand, picking mine up on route to the kitchen. He’d been up only an hour, an hour and a half maybe.

That’s okay. I said. I’ve got a shit-ton of work to do for tomorrow anyway.

He spun on his heel, startled by my language, ready to reprimand me. But stopping suddenly he smiled, an acknowledgement of my ageing, and shook his head in quiet laughter as he padded off towards the worlds oldest Zanussi dishwasher.

Pioneers.

There are a lot of things neither of us want. We'd do well to write a list I suppose; stick it up on the half-fridge; or better yet tack it right up on the wall above the bed. Next to the one and only piece of art we have framed. I'm not sure which list would be longer; the one with the things neither of us want, or the one with the things we both do. I think happiness is to be found in finding balance between the two: both of equal length. I think that's when you start to relax, to enjoy the time that you have.

She's away in the corner, stripping nails of varnish, readying a fresh coat. The cat circling her legs, again, unsure on his feet. Vertigo. Who knew cats could get vertigo? Certainly neither of us, but now it would definitely make the list of things neither of us want.

Neither of us want our cat to fall over every time he shakes his head. Neither of us want some kind of Ladybug infestation. As fun as that might sound to a child, or to someone who has never experienced a Ladybug infestation first hand. We don't want to be rich. Well, at least we don't talk about it. We don't want to have to wait weeks for stitches to heal. We don't want our mail to constantly go missing, or the guy downstairs who's just finally been evicted to come back. We don't want to have to wonder about the moles on our backs, or where our next paychecks are coming from. We don't want to be here forever, even though it gets harder and harder to imagine leaving.

We don't want ticks, or fleas, or any kind of lice. As unlikely as that might be. We don't want to forget to put the battery back in the smoke alarm after we've finished cooking. We'd like it if pen lids stopped falling into the toaster, and burning themselves up each time we tried to make some toast. Incidentally neither of us want to have to buy a new jar of Marmite due to its unreasonably high cost. We don't really want children, aside for the occasionally wistful fleeting thoughts following a surprisingly good movie. We don't want to have to walk as far as we do to get on the train. It's fine when the weather is nice, but these last few weeks of rain have drenched us. Figuratively and otherwise. We've talked about not wanting to both have to worry about our families so much, and to try harder to let them go on living their own lives. We don't want Con Edison to keep calling at eight in the morning.

Neither of us want to have to wait to have all the things we want out of life, and out of our life together. Impatience I suppose. We don't want the cat to stay this way forever, and we don't really like the idea of having to wait until Saturday for a day off together. Even though Saturdays are great for brunch, and for getting up late, and for hiding out from the rain and the guy that stops by each week to ring our doorbell and tell us all about God and such. Neither of us want to believe in anything other than what's right in front of us. Neither of us want to find out what happens next.

Small Flowers.

They're coming over for dinner. They'll be a table full. We'll have to move the suculents, and the cactus, and you won't mind because for some reason you have something against them. Maybe they're too easy to take care of, and you like the challange of the difficult plants in the bathroom, the ones that keep nearly dying and you keep nursing back to health. They stretch to the sunlight in the window, they have leaves and small flowers to open.

We don't have a regular table, we don't have the room so the couch has been pushed back and we're borrowing a folding card table from work. There will only be the four of us. Me and you and your grandmother and her husband. Your nervous about us cooking for them; strangely, after all this time, this is the first time we've cooked for them. For anyone in our family really. You worry your grandmother will make suggestions, post-anythinganyonecandoaboutit, about the food and what it's missing and what it has too much of, and how much longer it should have been cooked for. Or not. I worry about burning the Salmon on the unreliable broiler.

There is a bottle of Vodka in the freezer, that has been there for months- since your mother was in town- ready for your grandmothers husband. Your grandfather. We think that there is enough to keep him chipper throughout dinner and for most of the cab ride back to their hotel.

They won't stay out late.

I arrange the cactus and the succulents, in a neat triangle of plants you don't like, on the trolley next to the television. We are resetting the channels because the cable keeps going out of signal. Which is not surprising as we don't pay for it, and just plugged the cable we found sticking out of the wall into the back. We're almost certain it comes from the same place as the free wireless internet we steal. Astro's World. Your dad bought us the television, and although new and shiny and high tech and out of place in our apartment of plants and furniture we found on the street, we like it because it takes up less room than the old one, and it means we can have more candles everywhere. And keys, and Bobby Pins.

The channel programming function flickers near completion. You have on an apron, that I've never seen before to prevent any staining of the dress you're wearing. You look really pretty, in the evening sun and the candle light and the small lamp in the tiny kitchen. And not for the first time I wonder how I got here, to be so lucky, and how you worked up the courage to let me be here with you, to let us have this life together. I want to kiss you on the forehead and tell you that I'm sorry for anything bad I have ever done, for no particular reason at all. But I know it will confuse you, distract you from the task at hand, so I step across the grocery bags on the floor, turn my head to the top of yours while you stir the contents of the fancy Le Creuset pots that we could never have afforded ourselves, but were lucky enough to have bought for us, and in my head I say:

I"m sorry for all the things I've ever done that hurt you.

But outloud I say: Thank you

And you turn and smile, and say For What? For Cooking?

And I look at you, and I smile back and I tell you, No. For everything.

The Egg Cream.

I made a very specific deal. With myself and the guy making the Egg Cream. The deal was: if I don't like it then I may not finish the entire glass, and I may not come back. If I do like it, I may order another, and I may become a regular around here, especially on hot days, or days I have nothing better to do, or days I just really want something sweet to drink. I'd not had an Egg Cream before, so I wanted to lay down some ground rules. The guy making the Egg Cream didn't seem to care one way or another. He just shook his head, gave me a toothy grin, and said: "Son, you're gonna love it".

And I asked plenty of questions: "Why's it called an Egg Cream? Are you absolutely sure there's no Egg Involved?" "Won't the sparkling water make it taste odd, like fizzy and dairy mixed together doesn't sound like such a great idea to me" and "wouldn't I be better off just getting a milkshake? Which flavour gelato is better for this anyway?".

I"m already sat in front of a large chocolate cream Cannoli.

I have acute ulcerative colitis. This is not what I'm supposed to be eating. I'm not supposed to be ordering strange drinks with names that don't match the explanations of their contents, I shouldn't be washing down something dairy with something else dairy. I don't need all that sugar. This country has never made much sense.

It's the first day of spring, or at least it seems that way. There are girls around in shorts that I don't understand, and young guys with their shirt sleeves rolled open, or even some of them wear no socks with their shoes. So I'm wearing a jacket I don't need, and socks, and pants that don't fit right anymore, and I need a few minutes and this place is the only place for miles around to have the AC working this early in the year. The guy calls me Son too. I like that. He's only maybe ten years older than me. He has more hair on his head. Mine is combed over my scalp, parted in strange ways, whispy, nearly white. I told myself years ago that I couldn't wait to go bald. That I was looking forward to shaving it all off, hiding the razor burn beneath a cap or a wool hat. I thought it would be easier. But I hadn't thought it through. I'd forgotten about the heat, and that I wouldn't want to walk around with nothing on my head, and so now I let the last remains of a full head of hair grow as long as it wants. I let it curl up and over my scalp, I pull it across; proudly sweeping it over. Pushing it flat against my crown with wet fingers from the cold tap in the bathroom. I wear my badge.

The Egg Cream is done; it comes in a tall sundae like glass with a small metal jug of left over mixture. It looks good. I slide my finger around the inside of the rim and take a taste. Unsurprisingly it tastes like a chocolate milkshake. I slowly take a sip from the frothy top. It's a thin milkshake. It bubbles slightly. It's a float. A Soda float. It tastes good though, it's cold and sweet and not too thick. It goes okay with the Cannoli. I'll finish the glass. Maybe I'll try the vanilla flavour next time.

"How'd you like that Sonny?"

The guy asks. I nod my head slowly, lips around the glass, pulling back the last of the drink, and wondering what change I have left in my wallet.

The Ditch.

We’re all in the ditch. You and I and Timothy and the kid that lives across the street with the limp. I hate that kid. He won’t steal beer from his dads garage even though we all know there’s a refrigerator full of Coors Lite in there. Besides his Dad is a drunk, everyone around here knows that, and he probably wouldn’t notice if the whole damn refrigerator went missing, let alone a couple of cans. And the kid won’t smoke with us either. That makes me nervous. If we’re in this together then none of us have to worry about one of the others ratting us out to their parents, when cornered. I don’t even like to smoke, I just know that I should. I know better than that kid down the street, that’s for goddamn sure.

The ditch. I’ve spent hours in this thing over the last few days. A hot summer. The grass went from a nuclear yellow to a crisp brown, nothing much is happening in heat like this. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on something those other fucking kids from the other side are up to. Those kids. Whatever. Those kids don’t have the ditch.

Hours: I’m serious.

You’re not looking anywhere but straight ahead, not since we got here. Your nose buried in what’s left of the grass, dirt rubbing against your chin. You’re probably more excited about this than the rest of us, something was missing, somehow you didn’t have it all figured out, and now you do. Timothy keeps giggling like a damn girl. You’re deadly silent. Transfixed. And that kid down the street he has no business even being here. We all brought something from home, each of us has something to contribute to the afternoon, someone brought the blanket, I got a whole goddamn backpack full of shit from my mothers cupboards, and you brought us a couple of packs of cigarettes from somewhere. You never said. You’re better than I expected.

A summer like this lasts only a few days. Long days granted, but soon enough the cloud comes back over, or people head out of town, or someone’s brother gives them a ride to the beach. But these days of brow burning in the grass, and staying out until late are few and far and cherished. The heat these last weeks has been overwhelming. Like I said: there’s nothing else to do. So over this way they come: they walk through the field with bags swinging from their backs, towels slung over their shoulders, bare legs, bare feet; walking a snake of gossip and cotton shorts. I’ve seen these girls every day for as long as I can remember, they sit around lunch tables and on benches out the back, after school, and they date the guys that finished up already. Guys heading to the Navy or college maybe. But not many of those. I know a few of them, my older brother’s a good guy around town, they say hello, they ask me polite enough questions, but they’re not in my circles.

They look different here, away from the town and their usual tables. They’re alone, no guys hooting, no teacher to impress, no parent on their way to collect them. They’re relaxed and I swear to god some of them are acting like there’s no one else for miles around.

Most of them come ready for The Pond. The body of water that’s been around here since before I’m sure even our grandparents can remember. Some of them walk through the grass and the reeds already in their swimsuits. A t-shirt thrown over, sandals in hands. But there are two or three of them, they look older, I haven’t seen them all year. I think they left for a term or two of college and are now back in town; catching up with those that stayed on to work, or to save up more money, or their sisters that aren’t old enough yet to leave themselves. These girls come in jean shorts and tanks, never in shoes, never ready for the jump from the bank to the cool water below. Instead they strip at the waters edge. Clothes in neat piles- no towels around; nothing- they slip into bathing suits leisurely letting the sun soak into their skin for minutes at a time. I’ve seen at least one of them, forget the bathing suit altogether and jump in from the highest part of the bank- finger and thumb clasped over nose- diving feet first into the water. Toes drifting against the dirt at the bottom. A goddamn fish.

I was walking through, just a shortcut from Timothy’s, when I first saw them laying out-a starfish of burning skin, and bleaching hair- taking turns to choose a song on the stereo. Fussing around in bags for a bottle of water. Pulling back each other’s hair. I’d spent my childhood in the ditch, playing war games with the others, hiding out after we were supposed to be home; to eat and to get ready for bed. I could walk backwards from where I stood, transfixed and surprised at their presence; I could slip quietly into the valley of dirt and watch them unnoticed.

When I told Timothy about it, you had been in the garden too; dipping your toes in the pool that none of us ever thought enough about to actually use. He was only a year younger than you, you were my age but we’d never spent any time together. I was your brother’s friend. You heard me tell him, you watched him rush inside to get his stuff together. You came over to ask what we were doing. I took you with us, hesitantly. Nervous of your presence: wondering whether you were coming along only to out us to the other girls.

“I’ve spent my whole life wondering about these girls”

It’s the first thing any of us has said since getting to the ditch. We were here early: we watched them cross the entire length of the field. Only now I notice that I’ve been holding my breath. I think for this entire time. We’re in a line; you, Tim, the kid from down the street, and I. We’re side-by-side, I can feel your pulse, and your hand knocks me gently as you plough the earth with your fingertips.

“What time are you coming back tomorrow?”

It takes me a good two minutes to realize that you’re talking to me; that you’re asking me a question.

“I don’t know” I say, starring at the freckles behind your ear, “whenever you want to come down here, I’ll be ready. I get up early. I guess”

Flashing.

We're trying really hard. Pulling and tugging at belts, and the weird strings that hang down from the insides of jackets. The ones with the toggles.

What a word!

She'd say.

Moving around the apartment, dashing between tiny rooms - an expanse of different piles; laundry, books, unopened mail- hurridly dragging hats over heads, and doing up laces and gloving hands and thinking:

What are we forgetting?

And already running late, always already running late. And throwing food into the bowl for the cat, and tying up plastic bags. We're unplugging the phones, but only so that they'll fit inside our pockets and we're doing our best to water the plants.

We're not sure if we're wearing the right thing. We have no idea what the right thing would be.

Last minute changes are being made. Up instead of down, or even pulled to the side. Red or Blue? I am sweeping crumbs, and hair, and litter from the tray, into a dustpan. We're checking we have our keys.

We stop for a second in the doorway, stare ourselves up and down, and I kiss her square on the forehead and she smells the part that's behind my ear. The part of your head you can't ever really see. Even in a room full of mirrors. That we'd be using for adjusting our collars and necklaces, and rolling up our jeans.

Bruce Lee running late for another dinner.

GAMC.

The Grown Ass Man Club pin one another against a wet tarmac of the deserted parking lot. Pushing brows into oil-changed puddles; grappling sleeveless T-Shirts and cargo shorts. Hair shaven short, to the skin, and at least halfway drunk. Several beers of pushing and shoving.

We’re all sat in Edward’s car, right in the middle of the empty lot. Edward has a limp, and appalling breath and has never been seen in the company of a girl. Not even when there’s been a girl with us. When a girl appears Edward suddenly vanishes. None of us have ever worked out how this happens. Much in the same way none of us have ever worked out how we know someone like Edward. It all seems a little suspect to us. But we’re in his car, the four of us. He parks in the middle of empty lots. It’s his thing. He has a lot of them; only most aren’t even half as endearing as this. The parking annoys the shit out of everybody. Even those of us who Obsessively Compulse.

Like some kind of statistic we’re sat two in the front and two in the back. We’re listening to the first Violent Femmes record, the self-titled one, and it’s not the 1990’s. Edward is smoking somewhat unsuccessfully, and the rest of us- Peter, Paul, and John; we’re biblical born- have already finished our own cigarettes. None of us are yet smoking due to addiction, or even familiarity. We’re still just trying to fit in-- with ourselves. We have conversations about how the word cigarette really implies a Cigar For Girls, and this makes us feel better for smoking in the first place, and we feel smug for not having someone mention it to us before.

The windows are down even though it has begun to rain lightly. We’re okay. We think. We’re bored and damp and hot. We’re parked in the middle of an empty lot. We’re Downtown, which is not like most downtowns, and is more empty on a Friday night than the suburbs. Where we all live. And Peter is finally finishing his cigarette, which he then amateurishly flicks from his finger and thumb out of the window and onto the dark, damp tarmac. That’s when we first notice the Grown Ass Man Club, and wonder how we missed them when we first drove in, and whether hey had been there before we arrived, or else somehow snuck in afterwards. We wonder where they’ve come from: there are still no other cars in the lot.

The Grown Ass Man Club are standing in a circle of howling laughter and plastic cups. Where did the cups come from? None of us know. Paul lights another cigarette and pretends to ponder the situation, he furrows his brow and keeps tapping the ash from his girl’s cigar, which is really only his way of smoking yet more cigarettes without actually having to inhale much of any of them. We’re also still at the blowing out stage. Paul’s cigarette came from Edwards pack, that sits on the dash and looks pathetic and more than a little out of place. Peter leans forward, balancing his elbow on the handbrake and pushing eject on the tape player. You could have just turned it down. One of us says. And Peter replies with a whispered shhhhh. Robert thinks it’s pretentious when writers use anything other than inverted commas for elements containing speech in their work. We’ve talked about this a few times now, it came up in a literature class once, and anytime one of us reads a book that we then recommended to another. We like the right side of pretence.

We smoke in the backs of cars in empty parking lots in the middle of the night.

I’m reading from a magazine that’s paper smells so strongly that I find it hard to concentrate on what I’m reading and instead try to think about what kind of paper, or binding glue they could have used to make the magazine smell like that. I keep repeating in my head: what is that smell? And I vow to look into it further – on the internet most likely - when I return home later that night. Even though I know that realistically in order to find out any of this information I’d have to then call the printers of the magazine, which comes from England and has a contemporary one word title, and ask them to tell me what process they used to bind the pages, and also what kind of paper they were using. It’s unlikely that they’d be overly forthcoming with this information and it will most likely be late by the time I get home, and I will be restless and unwilling to spend hours on the Internet researching something that will otherwise make no real difference in my life.

I will end up on my bed, fully clothed, half heartedly reading some stereotypical classic, or else listening to some obscure band from the Scandinavia, that not only do I have trouble pronouncing their name convincingly enough to drop into conversation, but also have no intention of seeing play when they came through town next month.

I have no idea what is going on, and so when the music comes to an abrupt halt and suddenly there is silence in the car, I start to pay attention for the first time since Edward, Peter and Paul picked me up earlier that night. We’d eaten House Of Pie Special Pie in that time. We’d stopped by three different gas stations. We’d run a handful of stoplights through no fault of our own. We’d talked about which of us had the most realistic chance of getting out of town for the summer, and decided that none of us did, if we agreed not to include going somewhere with our parents.

And now we’re sat in silence, craning our necks, listening to the Grown Ass Man Club as they arrange the next round of their bare knuckle brawling. This round will involve the winner of the previous match-up (a winner-stays-on tournament style) versus pretty much whoever wants to challenge him to another bout. Which, roughly, looks to be just about every other member of The Grown Ass Man Club. Except of course, for the guy that had just lost the previous round, who was now sitting on the curb, drinking from his plastic cup, his shirt stretched to ridiculous proportions and hanging off his shoulders. He looked a little defeated. Not in the sense that he had just lost a round of wet-floored outdoor wrestling but more that he felt that he really should have won. He felt unlucky in his submission. He felt foolish for tapping so quickly. He could have taken a few seconds and tried a better footing. He knew he could have beaten his opponent. He knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. Up comes the plastic cup again. A few more of these he thinks, a few more of these.

Pools of sweat around the temples. A lightly bleeding nose. Loose arms swinging in circles. Dr Martin boots. No socks. A flock of birds circling overhead in the darkness; lost en route to somewhere even further south. The rustle of cans in a clear plastic bag, thrown out in the corner; next to the dumpster where they belong. Our cigarette smoke lingering, our minds drifting away from the lot, and each other, and the rest of the summer.

The Unabomber.

He sat on the bed- gloriously unmade- the cat between his crossed legs - its head resting against his chest- craning to look up at his face. The winter red beard, growing out slowly; a welcome distraction for the cat, which happily sat there in this unlikely position, while he rubbed behind it’s ears and lifted his glass back and forth from the table to his mouth. The cat stretched up: pawing at his beard, biting on it. He’d say suckling but he didn’t like the word.

She was naked in another room.

The cat continued its fascination with the brittle red hairs that pressed against the top of its head, and when it lent back- chin stretching; ears flat with the body it rested on- his nose. And the glass by the bed came back again and the cat could smell the ice cream in the glass, and lifted its nose. An empty bottle of Virgil’s left on the table. The cream clinging to the edges of the rim of his glass and to his beard every sip or two. The float tasted like coffee for some reason. The mix of the root beer and the vanilla ice cream left a strangely bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted a glass of water. And she was still in the other room, naked.

The cat was restless now: the beard no longer sufficient to keep it calm and irregularly placed on his lap. It turned itself, rolling to its side and stepping from his crossed legs to the pile of sheets beside them both. He pushed at the cat gently, an affectionate shove of disproval for the cats removal from their father-son embrace. The word embrace made him uneasy, and he pushed at the cat again. Falling sideways the cat rolled over to its back, digging its head into the mattress, pawing at its face. He could hear her turning the taps. There wasn’t much left of the Float. He could hear her pulling at the plastic liner, at the curtain. The space heater was clicking in the distance. He could hear the water in the drain and the silence of the steam filled room.

He knew without question how she would look: her hair wet and pulled back, her shoulders sticky with soapsuds. Her feet leaving damp size nine prints on the bathmat, the way she would scratch at her knee as she dried herself with the towel that hung from the hook beside the tub.

And now he heard sink taps running. She was brushing her teeth, winking into the mirror, finding pieces of towel dander on her face. The cat was curled on its side now: yawning. Outside the rain fell, icing the tops of the roads that had been covered in snow for the last few days. He swung his legs over the bed, stretching out his toes before pulling socks over his bare feet. Walking over to the door, he pushed lightly on the handle, closing the door to its frame, releasing the handle just as gently so as not to make a sound. Resting his head against the wood, he pressed his ear against the grain; wondering if he would still be able to hear her brushing her teeth. He waited, eyes closed, listening through the plywood and paint for a sign of life.

He, She, They.

Outside a Jay stirred in the tree and flew to the cold ground in the hopes of finding a stray worm, or a fallen pistachio nut from the fire escape where they fed the squirrels.

Counting to ten.

He moved his head from the door, stepped across to the window and cracked the top. Pushing his fingers through the inch he felt the rain against his nails, he felt his blood stiffening with cold. A fools lament. He looked back to the closed door, opening it in a hurry and stepping into the next room. He stood there, naked for the very same reason as she, and waited for the bathroom door to open; for the steam and lavender and expensive shampoo to billow out, to fill his room with what had been contained only in hers. To watch as she padded softly toward him; miniature puddles forming beneath her. To give her good reason. To wait for her to come back to him, irritated by the open window and laughing at the red socks on his feet.

Black & White Tile

I've been thinking: I'd like for you to take a long relaxing bath. To half fall asleep in the salts and the steam. To watch me as I sit on the white wooden chair, by the leaky radiator, reading a book and talking to you about what we should have for dinner. When you wake up.

L'anniversaire.

Three years ago we got off planes from long haul flights, if long means over seven hours, and waited around in strange arrival lounges. Feeling nervous. Three years ago we sat on suitcases and tested out whether our cellular telephones, that we still called mobile phones worked in foreign countries. We rushed between terminals with friends, sleepy from nights spent tidying up our rooms and wore sunglasses, and shifted our feet anxiously when we spoke. Three years ago we took Polaroid’s that spelt out our names to use as arrival signs, but we were late, and in the wrong place, so we just had to explain it later. We took new Polaroid’s to compensate.

Three years ago we sat three in the back of a Yellow cab that stopped on the way into town to get gas. Which was the first and only time this had ever happened to us. Three years ago we asked if this was normal, while watching the Indian gentleman fill the tank and wonder off to pay. We drove past famous landmarks we knew from videos back home, and we laughed at the strange road signs and the constant stream of traffic ahead of us.

Later when we had stumbled out of cabs, wearing white t-shirts and blue jeans and jetlag, we went inside to a building we’d never been in together, and left our belongings on the futon while poking our noses in places they did not- yet- belong. We talked about the bong on the coffee table, and how it was none of ours. Hurriedly, and walking closer together than was normal for most people, we went to a restaurant that had a strange cow theme. There were pictures of cows on the wall, and in the bathroom, and when we ordered food we ordered pancakes with bacon because it only seemed appropriate. Our legs were starting to ache, and when one of us went to the bathroom, the others did something brand new, that had never been done before, probably by anyone, anywhere ever. Three years ago all our awkwardness was replaced with a feeling of calm, and suddenly we knew what we were doing. At least in regards to each other, in the restaurant with the cows and the maple syrup and the rude waiter, who would later get an elaborate forearm tattoo, that would completely change how were thought of him, although he was still – always- rude.

Three years ago we paid our bill with money from a board game that the man at the airport on the other side of the long haul flight had given us, and went back to the house. We went through our bags for a minute, and sat around in the cool, and talked about what we might do next. We were excited because the city was brand new, the tags were still on our necks, and we’d held hands, a strangely normal moment, on the way back from the restaurant.

Our throats hurt, and we had no idea really why. But we thought about the day outside, and the sun in September and the heavy pockets, and we took the train into the city, making note of things we’d seen before, but only in pictures. We met more people and took them with us to a movie based on a book we loved, but didn’t, but had never heard of, but didn’t care about, and while hating it from the very start promptly fell asleep about half way through.

For the first time in the history of everything we left a movie before the end, and went back outside. We left some of us to our own devices, to make plans to meet up later, and went to meet others somewhere else.

Three years ago, back at the same apartment our clothes were, we lay around, and listened to people getting home from work, and talked about how excited we were and laughed nervously. We met other people, and were polite. We hoped. Later we went out to see a band play in a store, in a part of town we’d never been to before, because we’d only ever been into town once before, and that was earlier today, and we watched the band we’d never heard before in the store we’d never been to, and drank beer, and left early, and said goodbye, and walked together up town, along the edges, next to the free way and the water, and it took forever, and neither of us remember how it was we got home. But our throats hurt, and our eyes were sore, and the bed we lay in was the most comfortable a bed had ever been. And three years ago in the morning there would be another breakfast, and we would buy new things, and we would awkwardly dance, and we would wonder to both ourselves and to anyone else who would listen on the telephone: did we really make this happen?

Sea Legs

We’ve been swimming for hours, but only up to our necks. Our feet still graze the sand and the baby jellyfish that we’re pretending not to see. We spotted them right away, heaving beneath the tide: bright red and dangerous.

We’re ignoring them the best we can and catching shells between our toes. Sophia’s head is bobbing afloat beside my own, her hair is plastered against her forehead, her ears sticking out much further than usual; we know that it’s impossible to look alluring with wet hair, but we’re trying as hard as we can. She dips below a wave, her hand clamping her nose. I do the same a second later as I am slightly closer inland than her. I don’t cover my nose though, I just don’t inhale, or not for a minute at least. We’re both below the waterline now, our bodies sinking a few feet; legs pushed out in front of us, already in sitting positions; we sink to the sand and plant our hands by our sides, digging our black nails into the sand; steadying ourselves.

We open our eyes, foolishly, and look at each other for a second, we smile, and then I can tell she’s about to laugh, and I shake my head, and she laughs anyway, and the water goes in, and her face thrashes for a second, and she’s full of salt, and dirt, and plankton that no one can see, and she kicks against the seabed and shoots back up to the surface. I am sure gasping for air. I wait, count to ten, and then kick my legs and push upward. Only a meter or so. And I’m there beside her, pushing my hair from my eyes, back behind my head, over my ears, and wiping my face, and looking at her.

“Fuck”

“I’ve told you a million times not to laugh”

“I know but,”

And she spits out salt water, pulls seaweed from the strap of her bathing suit. I’ve not seen her spit before, and am a little shocked with how well she sends the liquid flying from her mouth. A good distance. She makes it look easy, no dribble, or restraint; a glob of salt and sand that flies several feet away from us with a plunk as it hits the water. The kind of thing you only learn from older brothers and years of practice. She fascinates me a little more each day. I am collecting my observations of her, on this trip, in a bucket made for making castles, under my bed in the room we are sharing at the beach house. The white sided-walk through the garden-and trees-and weeds-and undergrowth-and dunes-to the beach-beach house.

I watch as she picks something from her ear, examines what it might be, and then washes it away in the surf. She moves closer to the shore, closer to me. I’ve let the waves take me back in a little; the water now barely covers my thighs if I stand. We sit together, side-by-side, the water at our necks, staring out to the late afternoon horizon. We’re watching the waves, straining our faces, our lips pushing- just- above the water.

“Lay back when the water comes. Lie flat and watch it go over you”

As the wave breaks just in front, she slides backward, lays her hair in the sand and the wave washes over her body. I can see her beneath, only an inch or so of water above her, her eyes tightly shut, her lips in a concentrated smile. We’re both a little sunburned and her body looks bright pink in the green of the ocean.

I’m not looking and the next wave hits me in the side of the head. I feel the water soak through my skin, I feel it in my muscle, and my tendons, and the gaps between my capillaries. I start to lean back, ready for the next one. My head just above the surface. It comes and I lay back, and the cloud of white blows past me like a tiny hurricane on it’s way to making land. My hand bumps hers. We’re both in total darkness, eyes sore from all the salt water. We never think to bring the goggles from the house. My fingers clench at the knuckle, and I lift my head, slowly, from the water.



Later that night in the house my grandparents own, she sits on the floor her legs stretched across the wood, staring at the edges of the rug, twisting the fringe with her fingers; the black polish chipping away from the salt and the sun, and the bath she took when we got back from the beach. She pulls at a rough cuticle with her other hand, and blows a whistle through the gap in her teeth. I’m sitting on the bed, my hair curly from the days spent in the sea, and the evenings trying to wash those same oceans out again. My own hands flicking through a magazine I bought at store in town, while our parents bought supplies from the grocery, and looked at each other inappropriately.

We’ve spent most of our time at the beach or in this room, only leaving one or the other for a meal- breakfast on the porch, a dinner at a restaurant in town, a midnight raid of the overstocked refrigerator- or to look at the boys come in off the boats at dusk; me sheepishly rolling my arms against my hips, her sitting out on the dock, her heels in the dark water, blowing out the cigarette smoke from the same gap in her teeth she whistles through now. Her eyes fierce with the fire of days spent restless in the water, shouting down the back-slaps and laughter of the men coming in for the night. Hushed like children into silence as they pass her up to their cars, parked in lines on the hill; their eyes fixed on her pink legs, her mountain range of collarbone, the smoke filling the early evening sky.

Some of the boys coming off the fishing boats with their fathers are only a few years older than us. Some of them similar to the boys back home, who might take us out in their fathers cars once in a while, for pancakes at the Twenty-Four hour diner we’re not supposed to go to, or to the bar by the railway, that doesn’t turn away underage drinkers, and has a back-room with a pool table, and a jukebox that no one ever plays. These are the boys that I smile at, that I lift my head to; that I think about sometimes. She pays them no mind, flat out ignores their heads turning, and stares past them to catch their fathers, their uncles. Pushing her hair back behind one ear, curling it a little with her finger and thumb, and breaking their gaze with her own. She reminds them of lives lived years ago. Of the reasons they have sons, or nephews in the first place. They feel irritated by her presence on the dock, she makes them uneasy, and guilty of something. They have no words to even really explain, let alone understand. The sons and nephews walk by, no one offers either of us a ride home, no one asks us what we’re doing, or whether we’re hungry. She’s a flare that burns up brightly in each of their eyes, that explodes in a flash of pure white, and leaves us invisible, on the dock, under the reddening sky.

Some of Longer.

The old man across the street literally just dropped his trousers and- bare-assed- took a piss against the side of an unmarked police car. I know it’s a police car, because it’s all black: body, tires, rims, windows, interior, everything. And the detectives, that left it in such a hurry a few minutes before, also parked it on the curb. And left the red and blue lights flashing. The ones hidden on the dash, and inside the space for the regular head and taillights. I’m no Columbo.

I’m not sure what the old guy has against the police force around here, but it bothers him enough to tie his Labradoodle to a lamp post, unbuckle his belt, and pull his pants clear to his ankles, before whipping out what I’m glad I can’t see from this angle, and urinating- with some trajectory, from a few yards back- all over the car.

I’m drinking soup, from a white mug, on the stoop and licking my palm clean of Tomato Bisque. It’s the first cool day of the autumn, and I’m embracing the temperature drop with everything I have. I’ve packed away all but a few t-shirts, and all of my shorts – except the brown pair, that I wear on Laundry Day- into the Suitcase I never use, which stays under the bed and gathers dust, and cat hair, and Pop Tart crumbs. And I pull it out each change of season and blow the dust off, that goes straight into my eyes, and my skin itches from the hair, and the crumbs fall into the beard I’m beginning to cultivate in earnest for the coming winter – I’m starting early, so that it reaches full capacity before I have to shave it again in the Spring (who wants a beard in the summer)- and I stuff it full with clothes I no longer have any use for, and push it back – all the way to the wall- and dust off my knees, and crack my back a little and think about smoking a cigarette. But I make soup instead. And when the pan boils, and I’ve cut two thick slices of bread, that I wrap in a sheet of kitchen towel, I pour the soup into my favourite cup and take it to the stoop, as the wind whispers the evening in, and the sun is low enough for my to squint at the pushchairs, and the revelers and the kids running home from the park.

A man who looks a lot like Christopher Reeve, but who has no need for a wheelchair- that I can see- walks by. And I admire his gusto. He swings his legs with purpose, and strides home, with bags under his arms, and still manages to push the hair from his eyes every few steps. He has that schoolboy hair, the one that parts just off centre and falls to the face- every time you do anything- and seems entirely too impractical for a man in his twenties to be seriously considering for an actual real-life hairstyle.

I wonder why children are allowed haircuts, that would never pass in adulthood; why parents choose the most ridiculous outfits for their twins; and why young girls, for no reason, already assume that the power they will be granted later in life- over boys, over men- will give them everything they’ve ever needed, and they’ll never want for attention, or assistance with a heavy door.

Christopher Reeve drops a bag, and sighs- his head tilted up to the same sky as mine.

Recently We Have Been.

I’ve just finished drinking a three hundred and fifty five-milliliter bottle of coke. The Mexican coke. Which is not like regular coke, and not because it still contains traces of Cocaine, as urban legend and common myth might lead you to believe. It comes in a glass bottle, and it’s stumpy and cold in your hand. It tastes different, like a fountain soda in a bottle. The cap is almost always discolored in some way. It costs a dollar fifty, and I always give the guy two dollar bills, even if I have the change in my back pocket. The one my phone is in. The change scratches up the display, because for the first time since cell phones were invented I have a non flip-top model. I keep ringing people in my pocket.

The guy in the deli doesn’t have a name. He’s just a guy in the deli. He’s from Mexico, and it’s not really a deli. It’s actually a really shitty Mexican take-out place, that sot of doubles as a deli because no one really wants to eat there, except for the Mexican construction workers, and my boss, and so more often than not people just stop in to grab a coffee, or some water, or Plantain Chips, or a coke. My boss eats there most days. He’ll have a burrito or a cheeseburger or just a plate of chicken and rice, and he eats over my shoulder sometimes and I don’t bother getting lunch.

The deli guy gave me a straw, and I think I left it on the counter, along with my change. Neither of these things are particularly abnormal so I’m not too sure why I’m thinking about them as I walk. I think about Kenneth instead, who is in the marines and in Afghanistan having already spent one tour in Iraq. I think Kenneth has a thing for my wife, which doesn’t surprise me, as he’s her younger brothers best friend. I don’t really know Kenneth as I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I do think about him on top of a tank somewhere, pointing his large mounted gun at some darker skinned men somewhere, and blowing frozen chicken sized holes in their chests.

The coke dries my mouth out, and is only really good for maybe the first half of the bottle. After that it’s not really cold enough and I throw the rest away. It’s rotting my guts from the inside out and, like the rest of the world, I know I shouldn’t be drinking it.

I locked the door to work when I left, of course, and although the alarms not set and there’s still a lot to do before I leave in a couple of hours, I think about not going back and leaving for the day. Maybe the week. Maybe not come back at all.

I have an interview tomorrow in the middle of the day and the expensive black trousers I bought for it, don’t fit me as well as I thought they did, and the dry cleaners didn’t do the best job taking them up.

She bought me a belt today to go with them because the one I had lying around was too thin, too shiny, too Next. And I hope it’s nice because I could do with having a belt to wear anyway. It’s been a lot of years with a shoelace, and it has nothing to do with growing up, but I think sometimes I’d rather wear a belt. Although I’d prefer brown, I think.

There’s a girl sitting in a parked car, that I pass, she’s black and younger than me and has a child on her lap. She’s pulling her top down, and the kid is rocking slightly, and I think if I’d been here a few seconds earlier I would have seen a large swollen nipple, or at least the edge of one poking out from infant lips; the edges of a nipple, for which I can never remember the name. I would have seen a whole lot of that, and so I’m glad I walked slowly. The girl in the car is overweight, and tired looking and keeps her head down as I walk by. The child is still rocking back and forth.

The coke is still rotting my insides and my stomach feels heavy. I’m not going to eat lunch, because I’m going to wait. Until later when I’m in the city and we’re all together and I can sit and relax and eat no meat, no sugar, no beige foods at all, a plate of green.

The shoes I’m wearing rub my toes a little, because they’re a week old and I didn’t wear socks. They look okay though. I’m looking into the big glass door at work, thinking about not opening it. It looks like it wouldn’t mind staying shut forever. I think about how many rolls of film I have to develop, and whether I should have worn this Fred Perry or not. Nothing interesting comes into my head for a good thirty seconds, and then for no reason what so ever, I think about a picture of Madonna’s kid I saw earlier today. The one with the mono-brow; the angry looking one. I fucking hate Madonna, and am shocked that she even exists, let alone still, and that I’m thinking about her or anything at all to do with her, and her kid is fucking awkward looking. I’m still looking at the door, but no longer really at my reflection. I’m looking past it, looking at the stuffed heads on the wall, and the endless, endless heat that I can feel stretching all the way to the back of the room. I check for my keys, and remember that I haven’t taken a single vitamin yet. My coke is in the trash, that I’d much rather call rubbish. We’re going out for dinner.

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The bed doesn’t feel the same now that it’s higher up. On it’s frame. It might be the sheets. I’m not sure. My legs have nothing on them and are dangling from the side. They look like shit. I know no one will tell me so, and I’m sure they’re just being nice because I can see all the bruises, and the really deep cut in my calf, and although I’ll admit they’re a great shape, and I’m sure I should be grateful to have such nice legs, I worry about the state of my knees, and the fact it looks like I have more caps than most. There’s a mountain range beneath the skin, and I trace my fingers through the valleys sometimes, and think about how I’ve never climbed a mountain. I’ve been in the hills, in Colorado, that I’d rather not think about, and in the desert, which I’d also rather not think about, but not up a mountain. A triangle top of snow, a path and a ragged edge. My feet are in a glass bowl, that’s on top of the chair, that I brought from the bathroom, and there is salt in the water, and it bubbles a little, and it makes my feet feel fantastic. Or better at least.

I’m in my underwear, because we live alone, and there is only one other person that is going to walk through the door, and I don’t mind them seeing me in my underwear. I know they’ll like it, and anyway it’s hot and I don’t know what to wear, and I never do, and it’s getting late. Or it’s later at least.

There are a couple of things we’ve put up on the wall, and I’m staring at them, tilting my head at an uncomfortable angle, and wondering when he moved the feather, which he hung a few nights ago with my direction, and is now in a slightly different spot. Maybe it looks better there, but I’m not sure because I can’t really remember exactly where it was before, because it’s only been moved a little, but I can still tell that it’s been moved. Just not for how long. I left my toes from the water and watch as the drips drip-drop back into the mixing bowl. That I look from the kitchen, that was the only thing I could find in the house to use, aside from the dirty bucket we use for mopping the bathroom floor, and dying our clothes black. I take the towel we used this morning to clean up after we both woke up from regretting not having done anything the night before, and picking the right spot to wipe off my feet with. I stretch out, arching my back as far as it will go and touching my toes to the floor, which is collecting small puddles from my carelessness, and I’m sure the cat, which is sleeping in the window, will lick up before I get around to wiping up. My back pops with an unrealistic cracking sound, and I plant the soles of my warm feet on the floor, and firmly, with reason, stand up in our room.

While changing, I think about having sex tonight, because I think we should, and it seems like a great idea, and because once the day starts a certain way, I get a certain way, and feel greedy and I have no reason to think that he’ll mind.

The idea of wearing jeans passes, which is what I was thinking about as I stood waiting for an outfit to come to me, like they do for a second, before I reject them completely, or else try them, and stare at them, and change them slightly, and belt them, or tuck them in, and try different shoes with them, and then reject them completely. I pull a skirt up to my waist, and tuck in the grey shirt I’ve been wearing all day anyway, and I pull the zipper, and close the cuff that keeps it all together and I’m almost done. I think. It’s been hot all day, which is why I couldn’t bear the idea of wearing jeans, and yet I’m sure I’ll be cold, especially in the restaurant, which is always cold, and I think about putting something on over the t-shirt. Which will make me feel better about wearing the same t-shirt I’ve had on all day, and so I find a belt, which was not what I was looking for, but what I found while routing through the closet, and I pick up the sweater he likes, that he tells me is like a letterman jacket, only better and in no way masculine at all, and that he says he’d wear. If only he could. And I stand up and push my arms up, above my head, I stretch out to touch the ceiling which I can do, on my tiptoes, because I am tall, and these ceilings are low, because we’re in a converted attic, we think. And it feels so much better to stretch and pull at myself, and for it to be me doing the stretching, and not something else, someone else, for a change. And I have to tuck my shirt in again and readjust my outfit. My hair isn’t done, so I think about that also.

Outside, because we have huge windows in every room of our tiny apartment, I can see nothing but leaves, and branches and tiny pieces of sky. And in the day time this relaxes me, and my feet are still a little damp, and the pill I took when I got home is still floating around me somewhere, and I can still feel the dust of it on my teeth, and so I push my fingers against my gums, and they taste a little of salt and I think about how I have to go to the dentist soon, and at night the leaves and the branches and the patches of black sky scare me a little if I’m at home, without him.