vermruka

a dream in which i’d driven somewhere with my parents in an inoffensive little black car, a friendly and sleek four-wheel-drive that smelled new. we arrived beneath an overpass in the middle of the day; it felt like an airport. all i could see before me was cold and grey.

and then i was in a mental hospital. my parents were nowhere to be found, but the grey continued – inside this place it was a bit like a castle, or a dungeon. a prison. there was a large cage in the center of the main room that housed the wildest man. he was curled up tight, resting. electrodes sucked at his body, there were red wires criss-crossing everywhere and small monitors with his black and white image flickering from every corner. the mood was dark. no one was laughing or having fun or even having a good day.

a female companion and i were looking for a place to lie down, still in this hospital. it was nighttime then, time to go to bed. all of the patients and all of the workers had turned in for the night.

we found a narrow mattress near the cage and attempted to lie comfortably on it together. near us was one of the workers, a young man spread out on a full bed even closer to the cage. he woke up as we stood over him, demanding that we be allowed to switch. he obliged but warned us that a patient had soaked the mattress in urine earlier on and that it still needed a good cleaning.

the man in the cage began to stir, slowly uncoiling himself until he was heaving against the bars, his sweat shining on his chest and across the ropes of his arms, accentuating their strength. we’d awoken him with our conversation.

my companion and i walked from room to room, looking for an exit. in doing so i began to scream, loudly and desperately. raw wails like those heard from the patients, the tormented roars of someone completely out of control, out of touch with the good things that they know and fully engulfed by their suffering.

outside i was greeted by my parents, once again – my friend was gone. my mother was the nearest to me, teetering unattractively on wedge heels – she’d tried to make herself look young. she’d gained back all of the weight, most of it now in her face and jowls and her hair was flipped up at the ends exactly as i’d seen it look in her high school yearbooks. she should have been carrying an apple pie, but instead she looked at me uncomfortably and asked if it was me who had been screaming. i said yes and she said casually, “you’re funny.” she thought i’d been doing it to make fun of the patients, and she was honestly amused by this perception.

we walked until we reached the car, both of my parents bickering about a piece of paper that they’d been looking everywhere for and still couldn’t find. i got into the backseat and saw what they were agonizing over, sitting right there on the floor between the seats, so i handed it up to them. my mother said, very loudly, “son of a BITCH,” and i was so embarrassed by it, by her brash disrespect for the quiet, dark-haired parking attendant who was waiting calmly at the front of the car for us to pay. he stepped politely off to the side while my mother scolded my father for not remembering were the paper was and it felt terrible to be associated with them; i looked at the boy through the windshield and said to my mother, “don’t curse in front of strangers,” but she was digging deep into her purse for something, still shrieking at my father, who was fighting to be heard insulting her, and we slowly backed away while i dropped my head lower and lower, sliding down the new leather seats, hiding from anyone we might pass along the way.

i’m just gonna keep adding to ‘roof edit’, i think. i wanna keep that all in one piece.

new poem below.

that’s it for now! thinking about entering some writing competitions. anyone ever done this?

she was the kind of eccentric old woman who would never agree with you. you'd look to her for camaraderie or some degree of understanding and she'd shut you out with her keen heather eyes, her blanket of grey hair.

quick-moving and light on her feet, she worked to clear away some half-finished artwork from the kitchen table, what looked to be the start of a drawing. she grabbed a handful of scattered colored pencils, forming them into a bundle and speedily snapping a rubber band around them. she shoved them into a nearby drawer and rested the paper on top of the refrigerator.

"welcome to my home," she said, filling a tea kettle from the tap. i watched as she deftly swung two matching cups from the shelf in front of her and placed them side-by-side on the counter. her breasts were heavy under a white gauzy blouse and i looked at them while she found the spoons and the sugar and the cream.

"any for you?" she asked, her face in profile. she raised one eyebrow, twitching the eye toward me as though she wanted to turn, but didn't. she gestured to the silver pot of milk, probably fresh.

i declined, but asked if she had anything to eat. i felt quiet and young, too young. i looked at the tiny curtains over the window behind the sink, with strawberries embroidered along the edges. swirly connecting vines. the red of the berries had become pink and threadbare – only the idea of the fruit still lingered in some places – but the green remained bright, as though sewn in that morning.

"angel food cake," she said, uncovering a large mound of it and tearing me a slice with her hand. i liked that. she put it on a plate and gave it to me.

i began eating it right away, also using my hands. "thanks for having me over," i said between bites. the cake was a bit stale, probably two days old by the taste of it. but it had come from her kitchen, from her old, warped cake pan, so to me it was a rare and delicious treat, the best i'd ever had.

"you told me you needed help," she said practically, and i remembered that she wasn't a kid anymore, she didn't play games to make friends, she just made them.

i couldn't look her in the eye for a minute or two after that. "yes, i do," i said slowly, my head down in the plate somewhere. i listened to her banging around in one of the cabinets, doing what i figured was rearranging things that didn't need rearranged. the kettle whistled for a long time before she reached over to turn it off.

**

i left through the backdoor quietly. i couldn't decide if i felt better or worse. i was high from being around another person, being in a new house, smelling her smells. but now i had new uncertainties to dwell on. had she seen me as cryptic and strange, possibly intrusive? i tried to convince myself otherwise, that to her i was a fresh and interesting creature worth inviting to her table. but we hadn't shared much. i wondered if it was possible that i could feel emptier coming out than i had going in, but the evidence was there. i still just didn't feel right.
i stood at the edge of her yard and looked back at the house. a plastic sunflower stuck in the ground was spinning frantically, caught in a strong gust of wind, and then it began to rain. i was soaked by the time i made it to her patio.

"oh, no," she said, craning her fluffy head from the crack in the door and looking toward the blackened sky. "i didn't see this coming," she said, and she was right – the rest of the day had been as quiet and blue as a sleeping infant. she stepped back to allow my re-entry into the kitchen and then quickly slid the glass door closed.

"i'm just going to grab a jacket," she called as she went into the living room, throwing on one of her many hats and picking up a ring of keys. we walked to the front door and left together.

"you forgot your coat," i shouted over the drum of the water, the slick sound of cars racing by. she yelled to me that it was in her backseat, and i handed it up to her once i was safely there.

"am i your chauffeur?" she asked, her eyes appearing in the rearview mirror. i sensed resentment in her voice but then she smiled, i could tell by the lines in her skin. "i forgot to wear my bowtie," she laughed, spinning the wheel fluidly, her hair a full skirt floating back and forth as she waited for the traffic.

the ride was brief. i was disappointed when we jostled down my driveway, passing under the canopy of trees and causing, for a moment, the raindrops on the windshield to be large and heavy. i began to gather my things, putting my pencil back into my bag, my pen. i'd wanted to write something down back there but i didn't have a piece of paper. when everything was in its place i set the bag definitively in the center of my lap, hands folded like a debutante. i thought about the two of us doing this every day, riding in a car together, listening to the radio. i imagined inviting her into my home and sitting on the couch with her. we could fold towels together, talk about sewing something, sew something.

i slid toward the door and put my hand on the handle, ready to pull it open.

* * * * *

i waited until she was completely out of sight before i walked around to the side of the house and crawled through my bedroom window. i didn't want her to know that i couldn't find my house key, that i hadn't seen it in over a week. as i slid in, my back scraping thickly against the sill, i looked for the tiny camera that i'd nestled in the peak of the a-frame, beneath the roof's overhang. it was still there.

in the room it was dark and messy, just as i'd left it. the towel from my shower was lying on the bed, still damp. there were clothes everywhere. it was a sad scene, really – the aftermath of my giddy preparation. you could sense the hopefulness in the stack of shirts draped over the chair, still on their hangers.

in a corner across from the bed was a television, its screen coated in dust. with it, i could monitor what my tiny camera was seeing. i could watch for things. i turned it on and rewound the tape that had been going since i'd left and when i saw motion, i pushed play. the black and white image of my neighbor appeared on the screen. he walked from his back door and put a full, tied-off plastic bag into my garbage can. i stared at the screen for several moments after he disappeared. everything was so still that i almost forgot what i was watching until i saw the same neighbor re-enter the frame. he did it quickly that time, looking around a bit as he crossed the lawn between our houses. he lifted the lid of the can for the second time and tore open his bag so that he could get at something in it. he rooted around for awhile and then his hand emerged with a piece of paper, which he flattened against his chest, read, and then stuck into his pocket.

i fast-forwarded until the tape ran out. nothing else happened, there was no more footage. i went to the window and looked down at the grass. i felt disappointed – oddly, it was the same sort of disappointment i'd get when my mother would read my diary, or what she'd always called my diary. i eventually started bringing it to school with me, but two weeks into that bright idea and i'd left it on the backseat of some boy's car. and he really had been 'just some boy', i don't know why i was in that car in the first place. but one day he'd shown up at my house, driving right up onto my parents' front lawn and parking. he'd come out and stood by the hood, leaning on it, and there was my tiny book, there in his hand. he'd cupped it casually while he talked to me, as though it belonged to him.

"you left this in my backseat," he said, smiling so wide that i knew he must have read every word. if it had been anyone else i might not have cared, but it was some no-name, a scrawny kid with metal cluttering his mouth (it got in the way when we kissed, i worried that i'd cut my tongue and have to go to the emergency room) and the sort of ultra-short, bitten nails that left a half-moon of flesh squeezing painfully out at the top.

i asked him if he read it and he said no.

he walked to the driver's side of the car and actually hopped through the window, legs first. i couldn't believe it, but he did. like a true asshole. he showed me his mess of teeth through the windshield and i saw him say, "not just me, anyway." he started the engine and drove away. i was left standing there with the book in my hand, probably 200 or more pages of nothing but my microscopic handwriting, every thought i'd had over the past year. i felt like burning it, burying it deep in the woods somewhere. i flipped through it right there on the lawn and it all seemed so painfully uninteresting. i suddenly remembered all of the secretive things i'd written in it, all of the complicated things, and i felt like crying.

startled by the memory – i hadn't thought of it in years – i walked to the bookshelf in my room and found the same black journal. i turned it over in my hands just to make sure it was actually there and i couldn't help but wonder what my neighbor had come back to retrieve. i liked to think it was something monumental, like the confession to a murder. a botched suicide note. 'goodbye, cruel world,' and then he'd changed his mind, crumpling it into a tight ball and stuffing it deep into the bag, trying to hide it from himself.

i started early – too early, i thought – rattling down a road not far from home. soon the road became a gradually-slanting hill and i jumped from my bicycle, beginning to walk, taking long, heavy strides with my waist bent completely forward. the bag strapped to my back shifted uncomfortably and i said aloud, “what have i done?” – i’d been outside for less than five minutes, i was halfway up my first hill, and already my lungs were struggling. i hadn’t even thought to put a sip of water into my bag – there were only sweaters and gloves – except i was already beginning to overheat. i thought briefly of returning home and throwing the unneeded items onto my porch, then heading off to do the same thing all over again, but a few pounds lighter. one look behind me, however, and i knew i needed to explore other options – the thought of subjecting myself to the hill twice in one day made me sick.

still looking back, i saw a pale face bobbing quickly up the very hill i was working on. the head was wearing a hat, it was a man’s head. i suddenly felt embarrassed that i was resting already. i hoped he’d assume that i’d started my journey much earlier; that’s why my face was red and i wasn’t breathing properly; ’she must have come a long way,’ he’d think, blowing past me while my tongue flapped out of my grinning mouth like a dog at the beach..

as he grew nearer, i noticed that he didn’t seem winded at all, he even had his hands tucked into his pockets, as though his legs had all the strength in the world. i leaned the bicycle against my thighs and shook my bag into a more agreeable position, placing one confident hand on my hip, panting and grinning like a fool.

“good morning,” he said, and it sounded so easy, he may as well have been lying down. there wasn’t a hint of fatigue in his voice whatsoever.

“miraculous,” i said aloud, without having meant to. at this he paused, took his hand out of his pocket and deliberately scratched at an eyebrow.

“what’s that?” he asked robustly. i realized that he was much older than i’d initially thought, he must have been in his fifties.

i looked around for something miraculous, other than the tireless man before me. i spun frantically eastward and silently rejoiced at the sight of the water, the mountains. distant towns. “the view from here,” i sputtered. “that’s the miracle.” at the last second i added, “especially this time of day – i’m not usually out this early.” my mouth began to grow dry. i forced a sizeable wad of saliva out of my glands, nearly gagging on it.

the man pushed his jacket sleeve aside and looked at his watch, frowning. it became clear to me that he was well-acquainted with this time of day, he probably couldn’t recall ever waking beyond 6:30.

i rolled my eyes, then, slightly perturbed by what i imagined to be his condescension, and immediately began to panic. “… i just remembered something,” i lied, guffawing audibly so as to appear annoyed by something else, something entirely outside of him and his ambition. he furrowed his itchy eyebrows and i continued: “i left something at home.”

i went on to explain what it was; i said it was an important piece of paper that i needed to take to work with me (i wasn’t going to work; i didn’t know where i was headed). i stressed that i really shouldn’t show up at the job without it and that i’d better turn back before i ran out of time. all the while he stared at me with a heavy-lidded look of indifference. he didn’t even shift his weight, the bastard didn’t move at all, he merely stood there. in fact, his feet were so firmly planted, his legs so taught and restrained, that they bent slightly backwards at the knees, and i couldn’t help but observe this in disgust.

we stood there for a moment longer, and – finally – without anything else to say, i swung the bike around with a flourish and coasted quietly down the hill, headed for home.

“i can’t believe it,” i said through clenched teeth. what was i doing to myself? why did i ruin my morning just to save face with that old braggart? he could have his stamina, as far as i was concerned. he could have his grains and lean meats and sensible shoes. i decided to forego the entire original plan. i made up my mind to return to the comforts of my bed, where i should have remained in the first place, flat on my stomach with one arm crooked under the pillow.

a dog that had barked at me on the way up appeared from the side of its house, at it again. it ran parallel to me along the low fence that separated us until it was forced to stop. the sight of the thing angered me, mostly because i hadn’t expected to see it again, perhaps ever again. i felt as though i were going back in time. i felt lightheaded.

at the bottom of the hill, two girls were joining one another at the corner, where i guessed a school bus would come by to pick them up. i slowed down and watched as they seemed to almost march toward one another, facing each other directly, and then, when they were within a few feet, abruptly turning away to face the road. one of them leaned against the stop sign there, her freshly-lined eyes heavy with lack of sleep. the other girl, whose blonde hair was set neatly in a long braid draping over one shoulder, pulled some headphones from her bag and began arranging them on her head.

i stood straddling my bike a good distance behind them, out of view, and i wondered how i’d eventually ride past without startling them or causing suspicion. if i started too suddenly, the rattle and clang of the gears would give it away, that i’d been quietly observing them for who-knew-how-long? at the same time, the longer i took, the more curious i’d likely seem.

i realized that getting off the bike altogether and walking it by seemed like the brightest idea, as the sight of me doing so would explain why they’d been unable to hear me coming. i placed one hand cheerfully on the handlebars and strode directly between the girls, catching the gaze of the one wearing makeup, who scanned me quickly, up and down, up and down, and then shifted her weight against the metal pole. as she surveyed me, i felt a brief wave of self-consciousness, realizing that, in a very basic sense, we couldn’t relate to one another. that was very clear. i felt i must have seemed boring to her, with my plain, colorless face. even the energy in my step, which was overdone but, nonetheless, present, probably escaped her entirely. when she looked at me in the manner she did i could sense that i was being dismissed; seen and then immediately forgotten.

as i passed her, however, something happened that i hadn’t been expecting – an odor, a distinct smell. it was something very familiar to me. an incredibly clean, fresh and hopeful smell. i immediately saw my mother, the sun at her back, hanging things on a clothesline. in an instant i was reminded of every summer i’d spent with my mother, every time i’d been with her out of doors, and i realized that this girl smelled exactly as she should have: like someone who was taken care of and looked after. i turned back for a moment, noticing her good-quality boots, happy that she had good-quality boots. and i could still smell it – the laundry soap, the nice shampoo, maybe even a bit of oatmeal on her breath.

she caught me looking at her and i smiled broadly. for a moment she just stared at me, her hands hidden in the pockets of her heavy coat (good, it was a cold morning), and i worried she’d say something i didn’t want to hear, a cutting remark. but then she smiled, too, a very shy smile; pinched, like she was afraid of showing her teeth. i knew that smile well, it was one i’d offered, myself, for many years.

i turned to the other girl at that moment, realizing that she’d been looking up the road all the while, turned away from us entirely. she had the perpetually craning neck of someone waiting for a bus who could think of nothing other than finally being on it, out of the cold, tucked away in the backseat with a delightfully running nose. she still had her headphones on and i was suddenly offended by it, purely for the sake of the other girl, who was stuck standing with her every morning, unable to communicate, even if she’d wanted to. i had no doubt in my mind that the headphones were a constant; i’d probably witnessed a morning ritual when i’d seen her pull them out of her bag.

i stared at the back of her head for a moment longer and then reached out to tap her on the shoulder. as i watched my hand doing it i wished i could somehow take it back, but it was done. she had already turned around in jerky surprise, probably expecting the eyeliner girl but getting me, instead. my expression mirrored hers – fearful, uncertain – and i tried to brighten my features, to make them appear alert and with purpose.

“do you two know each other?” i asked, and i immediately began to feel more comfortable. i felt i had chosen a good opening line.

the two girls finally acknowledged one another, both regarding the other over my shoulder. the blonde stifled her laughter.

she was the one to speak first, not bothering to take her headphones off: “i know who she is,” she said slowly, sarcastically.

“you should try talking to her one of these days,” i said, looking at my hands, which were methodically gripping and releasing the brakes on my bicycle. we were all quiet for what seemed like a very long time. a few cars rode past. there was a lot of noise from the birds. i looked at the girl who smelled like my childhood and the scent was there again, cleaner and clearer than ever.

“you could really be missing out,” i added, and i made sure to look directly at the blonde girl when i said this, hoping she’d understand.

when he first arrived, i don’t recall paying a great deal of attention to him. he was simply a mess of hair protruding from a blanket. i never saw more of him until a few weeks into his stay, but i remember being intrigued by the hair – it was very beautiful and very thick and very red, and it laid across the pillow like an offering. but the room was so small, too small for more than one person. he came out every now and again, on his own. maybe once a day, maybe twice, to eat. we were supposed to lock the door behind him – he was spending far too much time sleeping. and once, when i did this, he pounced on me. not physically – he didn’t touch me – but he appeared right over my shoulder and looked at me in fear. i gently explained to him the situation but he didn’t understand.

i let him in quickly and soundlessly, watching as he jerked himself into the fetal position, ran one arm under the pillow and laid his head on top of it, just like i do. i looked at his reflection in the window next to his bed and he was looking at me. looking at my reflection, too.

she was the kind of eccentric old woman who would never agree with you. you'd look to her for camaraderie or some degree of understanding and she'd shut you out with her keen heather eyes, her blanket of grey hair.

quick-moving and light on her feet, she worked to clear away some half-finished artwork from the kitchen table, what looked to be the start of a drawing. she grabbed a handful of scattered colored pencils, forming them into a bundle and speedily snapping a rubber band around them. she shoved them into a nearby drawer and rested the paper on top of the refrigerator.

"welcome to my home," she said, filling a tea kettle from the tap. i watched as she deftly swung two matching cups from the shelf in front of her and placed them side-by-side on the counter next to the sink. her breasts were heavy under a white gauzy blouse and i looked at them while she found the spoons and the sugar and the cream.

"any for you?" she asked, her face in profile. she raised one eyebrow, twitching the eye toward me as though she wanted to turn, but didn't. she gestured to the silver pot of milk, probably fresh.

i declined, but asked if she had anything for me to eat. i felt quiet and young, too young. i looked at the tiny curtains over the window behind the sink, with strawberries embroidered along the edges. swirly connecting vines. the red of the berries had become pink and threadbare – only the idea of the fruit still lingered in some places – but the green remained verdant and full, as though sewn in that morning.

"angel food cake," she said, uncovering a large mound of it and tearing me a slice with her hand. i liked that. she put it on a plate and gave it to me.

i began eating it right away, also using my hands. "thanks for having me over," i said between bites. the cake was a bit stale, probably two days old by the taste of it. but it had come from her kitchen, from her banged-up cake pan that she'd likely had for years, so to me it was a rare and delicious treat, the best i'd ever had.

"oh, well. you told me you needed help," she said practically, and i remembered that she wasn't a kid anymore, she didn't play games to make friends, she just made them.

"yes, that i do," i said slowly, my head down in the plate somewhere. i couldn't look her in the eye for a minute or two after that. i listened to her banging around in one of the cabinets, doing what i figured was rearranging things that didn't need rearranged. the kettle whistled for a long time before she reached over to turn it off.

**

i left through the backdoor quietly. i couldn't decide if i felt better or worse. i was high from being around another person, being in a new house, smelling her smells. but now i was leaving it behind and i had new uncertainties to dwell on. had she seen me as cryptic and strange, possibly intrusive? i tried to convince myself otherwise, that to her i was a fresh and interesting creature worth inviting to sit at her table. but we hadn't shared much. in a way i felt even emptier than before, because i still hadn't been completely honest.

i stood at the edge of her yard and looked back at her house. a plastic sunflower stuck in the ground was spinning frantically, caught in a strong gust of wind, and then it began to rain. i was soaked by the time i made it to her patio.

"oh, no," she said, craning her fluffy head from the crack in the door and looking toward the blackened sky. "i didn't see this coming," she said, and she was right – the rest of the day had been as quiet and blue as a sleeping infant. she stepped back to allow my re-entry into the kitchen and then quickly slid the glass door closed.

"i'm just going to grab a jacket," she called as she went into the living room, throwing on one of her many hats and picking up a ring of keys. we walked to the front door and left together.

"you forgot your coat," i yelled over the drum of the water, the slick sound of cars racing by. she yelled back that it was in her backseat, and i handed it up to her once i was safely there.

"am i your chauffeur?" she asked, her eyes appearing in the rearview mirror. i sensed resentment in her voice but then she smiled, i could tell by the lines in her skin. "i forgot to wear my bowtie," she laughed, spinning the wheel fluidly, her hair floating back and forth as she waited for the traffic.

the ride was very short. i lived less than fifteen minutes from her and i was disappointed when we jostled down my driveway, passing under the canopy of trees. for a moment the raindrops on the windshield were large and heavy. i began to gather my things, putting my pencil back into my bag, my pen. i'd wanted to write something down back there but i didn't have a piece of paper. when everything was in its place i set the bag definitively in the center of my lap, hands folded like a debutante. i thought about the two of us doing this every day, riding in a car together, listening to the radio. i imagined inviting her into my home and sitting on the couch with her. we could fold towels together, talk about sewing something, sew something.

i slid toward the door and put my hand on the handle, ready to pull it open.

i went to Seattle feeling numb. practically catatonic. i did the shopping, i walked around and minimally enjoyed the eyes roaming over me, and then i stood on one of the darkened street corners and prayed for a cab. i hoped i’d have time to stop at my favorite restaurant in town (middle eastern, of course) before my movie audition. but i was feeling really down at that point, it was probably one of the evening’s darkest moments. i was having second thoughts about everything.

a cab slowed across the street and i jumped in. ‘How are you?’ he asked, and of course I lied: ‘I’m fine.’ i sat in the back and began counting out my money. the driver attempted to make small-talk when we passed a spotlit contruction site and watched as an enormous slab of concrete hovered over an awaiting worker. ’someone could get killed,’ the driver said in disbelief, and i noticed how detached i felt from the whole scene, how i looked at the worker with no expression on my face. watched as he instinctively reached his hands skyward as though he were going to help lower it down, himself. i didn’t feel anything. i looked at him and envisioned him crushed, dead, and i thought about his grieving family but i still couldn’t bring myself to care.

the ride cost me nearly ten dollars. i opted to get out early, though my feet were killing me, and walked the almost four remaining blocks in order to get to the restaurant.

as i grew nearer, i passed a big and expensive black car to my left, and as i looked at it briefly, the headlamps gave a flicker – first on, then off. i was almost to the door, already making eye contact with the owner of the place, who was outside for a smoke, when i thought i heard someone call out, “Miss?”

before i even saw my addressor i could feel the annoyance rising in me. the fierce disinterest. and i saw right away that he was a rich bastard. he came loping toward me in black linen pants and a blue-white shirt, the first few buttons ‘casually’ undone. he had the doughy face of a child, or a gingerbread man. his skin was the color of gingerbread. he went right into the compliments, or what he assumed would make me feel complimented. it all felt so disgustingly surreal. i had been merrily on my way to get a delicious meal, practically the only thing i’d been looking forward to on an otherwise miserable day, and then – moments before ducking into the entryway – a deterrent, a detestable distraction. i wanted to smack him, i wanted to spit in his face. at the very least he deserved to be humiliated, but i remained far too polite for my own good. i even shook the weasel’s hand, which was just soft and smooth enough to make my stomach turn, my lip involuntarily twitch in horror.

he pretended to be a gentleman, that’s what he did. not only did he make a fool of me, but he took me for a fool, right off the bat, using his second-rate fancy-pants language on me: “it isn’t normally customary for a man like myself to … ” – oh, bollocks, you wanted to toss me into your blackhole of a car and drive down the highway until we could go no further. what made him think i’d be interested? “i’m not in a place to be meeting or talking to anyone,” i told him, which was the truth. at least i was honest with the cocoa-buttered fuck. “me, neither,” he insisted in overdone false understanding. “but i’m looking for a new place. perhaps you could join me.”

… and where was i that this sort of shit was acceptable? i told him curtly that i’d be on my way and he immediately recoiled, becoming stern and business-like, ducking his head and stepping into the cockroach of a vehicle that sat beside us. the one whose lights had flashed. had be been waiting in the shadows for someone like me? scary thought, but he really had seemed to come from nowhere. he’d hoped it would be a quick, easy encounter. ‘come along,’ he’d say, and if i’d given in, what then? a pull and a shove and i’d be in the backseat, the smell of new, cold leather. some soft music, the quality of the speakers too good, the bass just right. a blue display of numbers in the pitch black. and then … romance? violence? passion? that’s what he would have wanted, but how impossible. the passion left my body the moment i heard his voice. his presence robbed me of any pre-existing passion. in fact, he’d acted as an interceptor – i had been in the midst of following my passion and seeking ways to express it (through eating the delicious food) and he’d corrupted it, he had come between me and my pleasure, if only for a moment. i hope i never meet a man like that again, but if i do, i’ll certainly go about things quite differently. i’ll make things very clear from the get-go. i don’t know what it is, why i can’t fight the inclination to sate these predators, why i’m so kind and forgiving with them. they mean nothing to me, they bore me. they sicken me. they deserve to be told how vile they are, they deserve to be enlightened, assured that their comments, in fact, don’t serve me any purpose. they don’t flatter me or make me feel privileged.

but i made it past him and did continue onto the restaurant, throwing a disbelieving glance to the owner, as if to invite him to revel in the absurdity of it all along with me, but his eyes plead ignorant. he quickly stamped out his cigarette on the signpost behind him and joined me at the counter.

i thought about how i might turn my head in the opposite direction at first, were she to call out to me. then i'd whisk it frantically around the other way, widening my eyes. "oh, hi!" i'd say, and she'd sit there nibbling at her bread like a mouse, a plump little mouse, beady eyes and all.

i rose to put my coat on, and i turned my back to her, she must have been looking at me. i took a while with the belt, pushing the leather strap through the buckle very deliberately. i even patted it a few times: there, done. i stretched my hat over my head and turned, marching toward the counter with my fingers in my wallet, head bowed, searching. i thumbed through the business cards, the library card, i took out a dollar bill and folded it, put it in my pocket, for no reason.

reaching the counter, i heard her rustling behind me. a jingle of keys, the close of a zipper.

"bernadette?" she questioned, but her voice was lost in the clatter of a falling tray. i turned immediately to her, forgetting my plan, and her face was becoming red. the boyish waiter was cleaning up the food he'd spilled. she moved toward me, throwing on her scarf with an awkward jerk.

"Hello," i said easily. "I didn't even see you there." i hadn't wanted to say that, though. it was an over-used and obvious lie. "how have you been?" i asked, slowly leaning back onto the counter.

she began to answer me, but i was staring steadily over her shoulder at the waiter cleaning up his mess. he was laying napkins over a wet spot and standing on them, laughing and joking with the little woman who ran the place. she was playfully pulling on his ear, and i liked that, i thought it looked old-fashioned and endearing. he crouched down and began collecting up the broken glass, and i noticed that, when he had his head bent down like that, he looked just like my brother.

"yeah…" i said suddenly, and i realized that i had no idea what she'd just told me. i didn't even know if 'yeah' was an appropriate response, or whether my timing made sense.

"…but that's okay," she sighed, and it occurred to me that she might have been complaining about something. i told her that things were always changing, that life was full of surprises, that things would be different for her soon.

"thank you," she said shyly, beginning to blush again. "i hope you're right."

and with that, we said goodbye.

i met his family one afternoon when they came to visit, a quiet and sunny sunday. i sat a few feet behind them as they congregated in the center of one of the rooms, dad leaning against the pool table trying to look bright and comfortable. the three of them – both parents and a sister – were dressed up; leather jackets and new shoes and khaki pants cinched with woven belts. mom was shiny in a white turtleneck with the new-clothes crease still running down the sleeves. his sister was armed with a load of treats for him and i could hardly watch as he walked away from her outstretched hands, her offering.

i couldn't focus on anyone but him, awaiting his reactions intently as though i would miss something important if i looked away. he seldomly met my gaze, keeping it brief when he did, but in those elusive moments i managed to find meaning. those sips of contact encouraged me and left me rooted to my chair, leaning eagerly forward with my chin in my hand.

the three guests lined a row of chairs and sat down, leaving one empty for him, but he kept circling the pool table, idly hitting balls with the cue, setting the cue down and picking it up again, awkwardly flicking it at another ball. his father encouraged him from the perimeter while his mother recited the weather forecast, loudly discussing what was on sale at the grocery store, fumbling her hands over the full-page ads showing vegetables and meats in vibrant colors. he didn't seem to hear a word of any of it. his eyes remained steady and fierce as he deliberately paced. his posture was beautiful.

your presence here is fluorescent, i wanted to tell him. you pull at me from across the room, your wave of red hair as you stand under the lights that are always too bright. you look at me with your cornflower eyes, the whites yellowed from what i imagine could only be too much crying, and each and every time i believe that i understand.

i had formed the solid belief that he would empathize with any feeling i had, understand every scene in my head. for instance, if i were to think of some memory or emotion (like holidays gone by – early winter with my family in our living room and the sadness that existed there) and then think of him immediately after, my heart would be filled by the notion that he would understand this feeling exactly, should i express it to him. i imagined a song that made me feel a certain way would affect him identically. we’d get the same thing out of it, take the same thing away.

when i’d finally see him i’d feel so confident that we were on the same page. my dream of him the night before would press against my tongue, ready to leap out. i wanted to tell him everything, i wanted him to tell me everything.

when we passed one another, sometimes a flirting of sleeves, i stared at him in a way that demanded he take notice – there was no way we wouldn’t be making eye contact. and when he would look back, i couldn’t help but see the sadness in his face. i tried to look at him in a way that would tell him i wanted nothing more than to see him laughing, to listen to him speaking confidently to a crowd of his adoring fans, jutting his elbows and flexing his legs easily. i wanted to see him running into alleyways, jumping high with a delightful click of his heels and tearing down an empty street, hair streaming behind him like birds.