she’s really been missing autumn lately. she flicks through stock photo websites, looking at hundreds pictures of girls in thin jackets standing under yellow trees with their arms crossed tightly over their rib cages, leaning their shoulders against each other, their teeth clearly clenched together behind their smiles. every muscle in their bodies looks tense, but their eyes are so open and trusting. she turns her air conditioner up too high so she has an excuse to put on layer upon layer of clothing. she pulls on a snowman-patterned sweater and watches nineties romcoms to distract herself from the ugly potential of her electricity bill.
she digs her bread maker out from underneath the sink and spends an hour washing it out by hand. when she comes home from work to the smell of fresh bread for the first time, she freezes in the doorway, one of her feet still planted firmly on the hallway carpet. soft blurs of colour and sound begin circling wildly in her mind. it’s an abstract collage of memories, evoking a general mood rather than providing a specific image. her neighbour from across the hall steps out of of his apartment to go check his mail and she automatically yanks her keys out of the lock and forces herself through the door.
she stays up all night, trying to respond to an e-mail. her brother asked her a week ago how she is and she still doesn’t know what to say. she wonders if most people feel something all of the time, or if everyone occasionally feels like a blank canvas. she says, “i’m doing fine” and asks how everyone is at home. the air on her porch is so thick with humidity that taking a drag of her cigarette feels like the first breath of air after being trapped under water for four minutes.
she goes into the drafts folder of her e-mail and adds in a line asking him to scan in some photos of them as kids, if it’s not too much trouble. preferably in autumn. isn’t there a whole album dedicated to hallowe’en adventures? maybe he could just sneak it out and send the whole thing through post. she’d just scan them and send them back. if it’s not too much trouble, of course. she takes out the line asking where he got this e-mail. she saves the draft again.
she looks at the power lines outside of her bedroom window. they’re dripping with sunrise, golden and glowing, an awkward but beautiful contrast to the storm clouds piling up behind the houses across the street. she imagines that the horizon must be beautiful on the other side of her building. she tears at the fresh bread on her kitchen counter with her bare hands, feeling a small spike of delight at the small rebellion of not using utensils. she considers going up to the roof to see the sunrise, but it’s so muggy outside. she turns down the thermostat and plugs in the kettle.
-
july seventeenth
by
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Applaud
When she looked down at her hands and realized she had a lit cigarette, she did not wonder why. She smiled, albeit half-heartedly, and dragged on the filter. She was in a restaurant. The lights were orange and sent vague cones of light down on the tables that were almost completely empty. The salt and pepper shakers stood on either side of the metal napkin holder, which reflected light. She did not understand what in the restaurant was shining bright enough to reflect that kind of light off of the napkin holder. She looked around and found nothing but brick walls, red booths, brown tables, dim orange lights, and the napkin holders. It was so bright in one area of the restaurant, the one with the most napkin holders, she assumed, that she could not see the wall behind it. She squinted and held her hand up to her face as all that light shined into her eyes. She frowned and looked away from it, and flicked ash into the ashtray she had found next to her left elbow, which was against the bar, which she was sitting at, on one of those plush metal and red vinyl bar stools. There was a purse on her arm, and she looked through it until she found sunglasses, which she put on and tried to use to see the people eating at the tables with all the napkin holders, but to no avail.
She turned back around toward the bar and found a man in a tie staring at her, one eyebrow raised, his head cocked to the left—he had asked her a question that she had not heard.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you ask me a question?”
“You’re the only one at the bar,” he said.
She looked both ways and realized that he was right. “Oh,” she said. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“So what’ll it be?”
“Where is everyone?”
“You kidding? Busy night. Can’t get a break, can’t smoke while serving the drinks.” He giggled a little bit under his breath, and she was sure his eye had twitched.
She looked from the bartender to the tables over her shoulder, and then at the bartender. She realized that she could not see any other customers. “I’m sure you could take your break now,” she said. “It doesn’t look like anyone will be ordering drinks any time soon.”
“Listen, hey. I know you’re real funny and all, but could you just order something or not order something? I don’t want to get in any trouble, and there are all these people to serve, and I think my boss it out there somewhere watching, seeing how I do. It’s my first show.”
A roar of laughter erupted from the direction of the shining candle holders, and it frightened her. She got off of the bar stool and stared into the light. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That laughter. Did you hear that laughter? Loud laughter. From over there.”
“This is a restaurant. A place of dining. A place of drinking. A place where people are legally allowed to laugh. Now order something or don’t order something.”
“Water,” she said. “Just a water.”
The waiter walked away and she looked back over at the side of the restaurant that she could not see. The light was just blinding, like looking at the sun, and when she turned back towards the bar, the bartender had gone. She stood up and decided right then she was just going to go talk to someone over at the end of the restaurant she could not see, maybe find the people that had been laughing so loudly just before, maybe ask for a drink of someone else’s water, maybe ask why this was the only end of the restaurant that people were sitting. Purse in arm, she listened to the echoes of her boots on the hardwood floors, reverberating through space and hanging in the air like kicked-up dust. She walked toward the blinding light and tried to remember what she was doing in this restaurant, why she had come here, who had given her a cigarette, and where it was that the bartender could have gone. She was holding her hand in front of her face and walking, one foot in front of the other, her echoes loud, her shadow growing longer.
It was only when she got past the threshold of the open red curtain that she could see through the lights at the filled theater and at the audience sitting quietly in it. It was only then that she realized why she was the only one in the restaurant, and why the lights were so blinding. The audience, in all their fancy black coats and hats, stood as one and applauded. She took a bow.
by
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haphazard mountain
i’ve fallen into an art student’s movie montage, lene thought as she slowly woke up. two girls in short skirts pressing their v-necks together, vintage bracelets jingling as they run their neurotically over-bitten or perfectly manicured nails down the napes of each other’s necks, being thankful for not drawing the designated driver short straw and locking themselves in a stranger’s den. stereotypical, but not so bad.
she took a deep breath in through her nose. the couch had left deep grooves in her cheek and she could feel the blood rushing back into them as she shifted. she swiped lazily at the pillow that was on top of her other cheek. it thudded to the floor and sound came swooping back into her. she realized that the other girl was still in the room, and still asleep. her snores blended with the dog’s like a well-directed choir whose break room punch had been spiked.
blearily, haltingly, she opened her eyes. the room was a vague blur of browns and reds, wood and plush carpet, original interiors and faux-antique furniture. the first thing to come in focus was the pile of loose blonde curls, pooled messily at her stomach. there were several windows in the room. all but one had a thick curtain over it, and its light was shining directly on the girl’s hands and the piece of floor they brushed lightly against. her face was tilted up slightly, her lips parted. her hair covered everything above the tip of her nose but eyeliner or mascara was smeared all the way down to blend with the wild smudge of lipstick on her cheeks. lene touched her own face gently and felt what she was sure was a similar scene.
moving slowly, trying not to wake her, she slid off the couch, stumbling slightly as she stood upright. her head was pain-free, if a bit fuzzy. her limbs were heavy and a bit sore. her skin felt dehydrated and stretched too tightly around sandbag muscles. she could feel the psychological hangover creeping up and draping itself over her brain, settling in for the day— the same old resigned melancholy, the shade of limestone with the scent of early september air.
she tip-toed over to the chair that held the haphazard mountain of their clothing. she slid her underwear over her hips and buttoning her skirt. she looked again at the girl whose name she hadn’t quite picked up. the whole scene really did look like a frame from a movie: her arms hanging loosely over the edge of the cushions, her hair in her face, her naked body twisted in and out of what lene suddenly realized was a curtain.
the dog snorted loudly, suddenly raising its head. it padded over to the door, pushing at the bottom with its nose. lene fastened her bra and picked up the other girl’s shirt, trying to find her own. she paused for a second with it in her hand, wondering what would happen next if this really were some sort of indie movie. maybe she’d be woken up by the sound of the door shutting. maybe she’d get up and go to get dressed and realize that her mysterious lover had taken her shirt by accident and she’d desperately ask all of her friends who was i with? did you get her name? she’d ask and ask and eventually there would be someone who had seen them kissing against the refrigerator and also had lene’s number. she’d call her up and awkwardly explain that the shirt was a gift from her aunt, could she come and get it? she’d show up at lene’s apartment and lene would invite her in for a cup of coffee and they’d make excuses— ha ha, the morning after a party, you know how it is, ha ha— to cover up how surprised they are by the prettiness of each other’s names and the colour of their eyes. she’d linger in the hall when it came time to leave and they’d bump into each other while going to open the door and they’d end up making out on the porch in front of the whole neighbourhood.
a loud bark startled her back to the present. the dog was staring toward her indignantly, its paw on the door. she smiled slightly and looked at the shirt she had in her hand. her cheeks were warm. it wasn’t that far-fetched, was it? she pulled the shirt over her head and crept toward the door.
“yo, hey, i think that’s my shirt.”
lene froze and turned toward the couch. her eyes were only partially open, squinting in a feeble defense against the sun. she grimaced slightly, in an action lene assumed was supposed to be a smile.
“loud fucking dog,” she said, putting her hand over her eyes. lene nodded, still standing in the same place.
“so not looking forward to the facebook album of last night. am i wearing a curtain?” she continued to mutter to herself. after a few second, she parted her fingers and looked back at lene. “lauren, right? so can i have my shirt back?”
lene blinked hard in embarrassment, nodding. she pulled the shirt off and threw it at the couch, pulling her own shirt over her head with as much haste as she could muster.
“morning after, you know?” she said nervously. the girl gave a half-hearted chuckle, wincing as she moved to put her shirt on. lene tried to think of something to say that would make this moment the beginning of something big, but was interrupted by the dog barking again. it was still staring at her. she shuffled her way across the carpet. the sound of the lock echoed slightly and the door creaked as she pushed it partially open.
“see y’around, lauren.”
lene looked back. she was searching for something in the cushions of the couch. the dog was pushing to fit through a crack half the size of its body.
“what colour are your eyes?” she asked, her hand still on the door knob.
“what? my cellphone. i swear i had it when we came in here.”
lene thought of helping her, but then the dog started barking for real. she let go of the door and it pushed through, running eagerly down the hall toward the stairs. the girl moved to the floor, lifting the pilow lene had fallen asleep under and throwing it aside in frustration when nothing was there. it hit the curtainless window and fell onto the dog bed.by
-
Receiver
He stood in the kitchen doorway and heard his mother on the phone. He watched her twist the white chord around her fingers, watched her shift her weight to one foot, watched her turn slightly away from him. “Is that Dad?” he asked. He leaned up against the tan wall and set his backpack on the floor. He heard the dying sound waves of the voice squeezing through the receiver. He heard his mother’s breathing. “Is he on his way home?” he asked. He watched her listening, and then watched the fan spinning clockwise over her head.
“You already got a lawyer?” she said into the phone. “You didn’t even want to talk to me about this first? Of course I was going to take it like this! I’m not going to calm down, David, how am I supposed to calm down when you already hired a lawyer and you didn’t even fucking talk to me about this first, like my opinion didn’t even matter, like it had nothing to do with me!” She had let go of the chord, now, and was pulling it taught. She muffled the receiver with the chord hand. “Just go to your room for a little bit.”
He lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He heard the rain on the street. He heard the dryer spinning. He heard the front door open and close, and through his curtains saw his mother walk outside. He followed her, and as he let the door swing shut behind him, he heard the thunder. He saw the flash of light in the sky and felt the warm summer raindrops on his skin, and his lungs as they filled with vapor. He tasted the water running down his face, dirty and slightly acidic. He saw his mother in the street. He heard her say, “My car is getting fucking thrashed.” He raised his arms out at the sides and looked up. He felt the rain in his eyes and over his entire body, and he felt the mysterium tremendum. He watched the sky light up again.
“Mother,” he said. He felt the wind blow the rain across his body, and he heard the trees whispering. “I’m not certain of anything in this world.”
by
-
these different states
the lightning bolt on my phone flickered on and off repeatedly as the blender started to grind and whirr. i stared at its screen as it brightened and darkened. i hate it when symbols of things act like the real thing, like when petals of fake flowers fall off, or you accidentally rip a picture of yourself when you’re upset, or you’re running away from a wedding proposal but you forgot to give the ring back to him and then you drop it in the mud.
brendan pulled his finger off of the blender button for just long enough to pompously declare, “people are like water.” i opened my mouth to ask him to clarify, but he slammed it back on before i could get a word out. he had that drunken everything-i-say-is-genius grin forming on his face. i busied myself by messing with the outlet my phone charger was plugged into. the electricity in the house was ridiculous. it’s like there was only enough room for one thing at a time, and when you tried to throw anything else in, the whole thing shut down.
when he finished with the blender, he fished around in the cupboard for the cd player, plugged it in, and sat down. i didn’t really want to ask, but i knew i had to.
“how are people like water?”
he leaned back luxuriously, crossing his legs at the ankle and propping them up on another chair. “water has like, these different states, right? it reacts in pretty much predictable ways to certain situations, but you can manipulate it by changing the environment. just like you can make people float or freeze.”
i looked back at my phone, pretending to consider his theory. he still had that aggravating look on his face. i couldn’t see it, but i could almost hear it: the saliva smacking between his teeth and the inside of his cheeks as he grinned wider, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth in a cocky affirmation of self. he pressed play on the cd player and my phone started to flicker again.
“no,” i said, “i don’t agree.”
his grin faded slightly. “what do you mean?”
“people aren’t always predictable or malleable. people have more than three states. people are infinite, brendan.” i ripped the plug out of the wall, wrapping the wire around the phone tightly. “people are fucking infinite.” the cd player skipped as i brushed by the table and stepped over his legs to get out the front door. i didn’t bother to look at his stupid face.by
-
Charcoal
I remember my mother out in the garden one day when I got back home from school. She was sitting on one of the dining chairs from inside, smoking, her spade lying in the dirt next to her. She looked up at me under her sun hat, and her eyes shined as if wet. I was in fifth grade, and that day in art class I’d gotten charcoal all over my hands.
“Mom?” I said.
She looked up as if confused but said nothing. I looked up at the yard and noticed things from inside scattered around. The toaster was in the grass, next the microwave, their chords lying beside them a few inches apart, as if reaching for each other. The cushions from the couch were on the porch, and clothes were hanging over the railing. The desk lamps were set on the stairs, one on each step, and one on each side.
“Mom?” The shine in her eyes leaked, and a droplet ran down her cheek.
“Who,” she began. “Who are,” she shook her head.
My stepfather came outside in his white tank top and khaki shorts. “Michael,” he called. The screen door swung shut behind him. He stood on the porch amidst all of these things from the house and looked across the yard at me. “You need to go over to your friend’s house.”
I just looked at him. The sun was shining over the house, and I could feel in on my face.
“You can’t be here today,” he said. “You have to go.”
I ran forward a few steps and latched on to my mother, crying. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
My stepfather was down the steps, moving quickly toward us. “Michael,” he said. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me away. “You have to go.”
He helped my mother up and slowly led her inside, carrying almost all of her weight. I stood in the garden alone watching them go. My mother’s sleeve was stained black where I’d held her.
by
-
fate lines
every wall of the room was blaring its recent paint job. the lighting, already completely lacking subtlety, was amplified twenty times over by the blinding white of the walls. idina wondered— not for the first time— whether this was done on purpose, as an excuse to wear sunglasses inside. she watched the crowd out of the corner of her eye as people mingled, networked, made flippant small talk coated with the thinnest layer of icy cooler-than-thou cyanide.
she caught a glimpse of her face in the over-polished banister set up to keep people from touching the prints and her expression was the exact same as everyone else’s: the ugly middle of the venn diagram of genuinely interested, interested because it makes them look smart, and not wanting to look too interested for fear of appearing to give a shit about anything.
she let her gaze go back to the portraits in front of her. there were two photographs, each at least six feet high and four feet across. the model was the same in both: a girl with strawberry blonde hair, eyes the colour of rotting leaves, and a glittering, heavily curved “v” hanging delicately between her collarbones. in the first shot, she was smiling manically, her arms thrown out to the side in an exuberant love-me-love-me gesture. in the second, there were dark circles under her eyes and some of the tight curls had come out of her hair. her tanktop drooped slightly off of her right shoulder and the back of one of her heavily jewelled hands was pressed to her forehead.
idina’s head sunk slowly behind her fingers and pushed the heels of her hands against her lower jaw. she flattened her palms on her cheeks and slowly applied pressure until she felt her metacarpals press against her teeth. it reminded her somehow of something bethany once said about how prominent idina’s mount of jupiter was, and how that would move her towards progress.
or whatever the fuck, idina thought, relaxing her hands. bethany was always touching peoples’ palms or calculating their name numerology or figuring out what stars are in their house. or something.
“fucking astrological bullshit,” she mumbled.
“not a criticism of the photos, i hope?”
idina jumped up straight, startled by how close the voice was to her ear. she vaguely recognized the girl standing in front of her, and after a couple of flustered seconds spent babbling out a wildly incomprehensible apology and explanation, she realized from where.
“t-they’re your photos, then?” idina managed to stammer out. move her to progress, right. move her to social paralysis.
the girl nodded, gesturing vaguely to the artist’s statement pinned near the door and then extending her hand. “i’m taylor.” idina’s fingers skipped over the rough palm that was offered toward her, and she tried to ignore her automatic pondering of thumb type and finger length and palm shape. “what do you think?”
idina flushed. “i haven’t really looked around. i’ve just been… i mean, i’ve seen this pair, but not the others. are they all like this? what’s the… what’s it all about?”
a pleased smile came to life on taylor’s face. “you know, no-one has asked me that all night.”
“yeah, well.” idina looked over at the crowd. someone was polishing their sunglasses on their keffiyeh. she shrugged. taylor put her forearms on the banister, leaning back to survey the room.
“basically, it’s… i go to parties. i take these portraits of people when they’re really wasted and having the time of their lives. i love the joy they have. it’s so pure. drunk people experience emotions on a completely different level than sober people, in a way where sober people stop being able to relate, pretty much. you know?”
idina nodded. she watched taylor’s hands move casually at her waists as she talked. she pretended to pay more attention to the ink stains and calluses than the square shape of her palm and her long thumb.
“then— so, that’s the first portrait of any set. some really intoxicated person, being happy. happier than they’ve ever been. the second portrait is the next morning, after they wake up, when the hangover has set in. some of them have, like, vomit on their chins still, or there’s writing all over them, and it has the potential to be really… college movie, right? but i try to capture the psychological hangover, not just the physical thing.” she stopped talking to turn around and look at the portraits idina had planted herself in front of. idina turned and reclaimed her leaning space on the divider. when taylor continued, her voice was more subdued.
“it’s sort of a study of happiness and repercussion. you know, like, is the pain worth the good times. no good feeling goes unpunished and all that.”
idina could feel taylor’s stare burning into her temple. she stared resolutely at the portraits.
“do you know this girl or something?” she asked.
idina looked at the exposed palm in the hungover portrait. it was so large that the lines were like deep valleys in a mountain range.
“did you know that only 50% of the population has a fate line? everyone has a life line and a heart line and some people have three or four love lines, but only half of all people have a fate line.” she turned and briefly met taylor’s inquisitively narrowed eyes.
“does she have one?”
idina broke off the stare, looking back at the portrait. “yeah. she does.”
the soft gallery murmur overtook their conversation for a long minute. idina curled and uncurled her fists, flexing the muscles there, cracking her knuckles. taylor slowly reached inside her backpack, pulling out a large camera. she held it up to her eye.
“do you?”
idina glanced toward her. the shutter clicked softly.
by
-
A Few Moments Before It Was Gone
I used to hear a lot of stories when I was a kid about guys bringing prom dates to hotels just like this one after they were done dancing and taking frequent trips to the restrooms for drinks from a shared flask. The drinking was not, they said, so their date would sleep with them after. The drinking was just fun, the hotel was what would get their dates to sleep with them.
Standing there then in the doorway with my duffel bag over my shoulder, looking at the queen size bed with it’s odd comforter pattern, the brown empty dresser with the twelve inch television sitting on top, the floral wallpaper, the body-length mirror with gold sides, and the old radiator thick from repainting, I would have never thought of bringing my prom date here. Not because I think a prom date should be taken to a place of fine dining or anything, but because I would never, ever have sex in a place like this.
No, that might not be completely true.
I dropped my duffel bag, closed the door behind me, and sat on the comforter. The alarm clock on the nightstand said it was three, which meant she was supposed to be there in fifteen minutes. She was always late, all the time, which used to be something I liked about her when we met because it meant that I could also be late, sleeping in or sleeping together as the workday slowly slipped by. I eyed the red no-smoking sign on the back of the door tentatively before drawing the pack from inside my coat and lighting it, the end glowing the same shade as the sign prohibiting its existence. I lay down on the bed, filling the room with smoke and using the top drawer of the nightstand as an ashtray, and not long after, the door opened. And she just swept into the room, letting out a little smoke, or so I imagined, and dropping her purse next to my bag.
I sat up and ran my hands through my hair. “Hey, Mary.” The cigarette was still in my mouth. “You’re early.”
“Is this a smoking room?” She had her hands on her hips, parting the suit jacket to reveal the white button down. It reminded me of her mother.
“No,” I said, flicking ash into the drawer again. “How did you get in?”
“They gave me a key at the desk. I told them I was your wife.”
“Ha, ha,” I said.
“Well, I still am, you know. Technically.” She sat down next to me on the bed. I could smell her perfume, something purple that came in a plastic bottle. I used to breathe it in from my jacket after she’d borrowed it, sleep with it when she went away. The scent was always there after she wasn’t, hanging back like the memory of her, hovering over the ground for a few moments before it was gone.
“You won’t be, by morning.” I put my cigarette out in the drawer and lit another. “This will all be over by morning.”
“Charlie,” she said.
I looked at her. “You cut your hair.”
“Charlie,” she said.
“What?”
“I haven’t seen you in sixth months.”
“I know.”
“We were married for five years.”
“I know.”
“Do you think you can make that all go away by signing a piece of paper?”
“We’ll find out when I sign it, won’t we?” I laughed puffs of smoke into the hotel room, but caught sight of myself in the gold-rimmed mirror on the wall and stopped.
“I need some air,” I said, and walked by her and out the door. I leaned up against the guard wall of the balcony and looked out over the parking lot, the passing lights of the cars on the highway, the flickering Motel sign.
She had been so afraid of elevators on our first date, I remembered. We left the car in the parking garage and had to take the stairs instead, up to the theater. When the movie was over, I forgot where we parked. I had no idea on which level of this huge parking garage we had left the car. So we started checking each flight, running down the stairs, but the thing was that the levels weren’t numbered, they were just named after certain iconic Arizonan items, so we had no idea which level was which. We took the stairs all the way down to the lowest level, way underground, filled with all these eerie orange lights and hardly any cars at all, and there was no way this could be it either, but we had checked every other level, and we were tired. So I convinced her to get on the elevator. I pushed every button on the thing, making sure we’d stop at each one, and she freaked out. She told me that was how they broke, that was how they malfunctioned: people pressing all of the buttons at once and shorting out the circuits. She clung to my hand the whole time, squeezed the life out of it. Finally I just pulled her towards me and kissed her, and we kissed between every stop, back against the silvery walls of the dim parking garage elevator. Eventually we found the car on level two. There were two sets of staircases, and we had taken the wrong one.
We had first kissed because of a simple mistake. It kind of set the tone for everything that would happen after that.
I stood out there on the balcony for a long time just watching the red taillights of cars going away. They went along the path until they disappeared.
by
