Fill in the blank. You're so good at that.

"You find soullessness in everything you can. Where as I......"
You never finished the sentence. You passed out before completing the most hurtful thing ever said to me.

Incomplete.
Isn't that just my existence.

I want to show you how much soul I find in every waking conscious thought I have.
I just wish you were sober enough to recognize when I do.

I'm going to stop relying on you to take care of me.
I don't need it.
I don't need anything.

[I just want you to stop being so mean to me.]

We'd have this conversation now but you're passed out on my bed, in a fetal ball, in all your clothes. I'm going to undress you and call you "baby" cause you respond to that when you're at this point.

I'm going to do this one more time.

Don't ever accuse me of not being passionate about life.
I am not apathetic.
I am realistic.
I am [          ].

Tantamount

Two small girls faced each other in their bed and told secrets in cryptophasia, each looking at their own executioner, smiling at God’s wit. I imagine God herself took cuticle scissors and cut DNA up along the double helix, dividing the zygote, so that 29 years later she’d have something to read about over coffee. Like the most impractical joke.

And I wonder what that kind of passion for unification feels like. What it is to share so much of yourself with another person, down to a cellular level. And I think of God being so cheap for only giving them one soul.

So maybe that’s the reason, as women, they found themselves with a weight in their palms in exchange from their shoulders. And a countdown, because timing is everything. I imagine they started at ten...nine...eight…

Then through chambers bloomed lead and a simultaneous “pop” that absconded in infinite directions throughout Colorado, propelling itself through November’s brittle air, striking God’s eardrums like an egg timer. I wonder which sister kept the mutual soul, and which had really died.

One twin dead , one twin the suicide note, and never being asked again “Which one are you?”. 

Sea Salt

He promises
to bring me a cheeseburger
at 10:34 p.m.
My gut aches,
I haven’t eaten anything
since earlier this afternoon.
So I start putting away my books,
and taking coffee cups into the kitchen sink.
I shake out my bedding,
brush my teeth.

An hour later
I’m still waiting.
Changed my pajamas three times.
My toes are freezing.
My neighbors keep hitting the wall
we share
and with each knock
my ears perk up in this
really pathetic way.

Christ I’m fucking hungry.

One hour thirty minutes.
There’s this comfort I find
in really awful television,
but when I roll over
and watch it on my side,
an image of my pureed brain leaking
onto my pillow
starts to distract me.

I’m that kind of girl
who puts makeup on
to lie in bed all day.
I color coordinate my pajamas.
I run up the electricity bill
by leaving on the lights in my apartment,
so he won’t have to search
for the switch
when he gets here.

Two hours.
I have class in the morning.

Fuck,
I’m on a diet anyway.

Oh Poor Baby

Do not cry.
Don't you dare cry in his driveway.
(I just thought this was going to go differently.)

Chin up. Come on.
(Heat milk and water separately, stir cocoa into milk, bring to a boil, add water, then marshmallows, pinch of salt.)
It was a nice gesture.
(Feels like it's never enough.)
It's probably never going to be.

(Just give me a second.)
You need to leave now.
(One second.)
No. Put it in drive.
This is not the place.

(I just-)
Sunnie.
Fucking drive.

The Winery

Trigger.

         Bite.

                                                                  Bury.

One Month Later

There is no 30 day chip for this.

My progress of anti-investments:

It's like being chemically burned
                      and deciding to swim in salt.






[but it is what makes me smile]

Well. Altitude's open til 10.

I've worn purple eye shadow since you left.
Can't bring myself to put on anything else.

Wish you could have seen me tonight.
Love,
Sunnie.

09/10/2011 But We Won't.

"We insist we'll be alright. These wounds will heal

themselves with time. All we have to do is 

stick it through a few more months

and we'll be fine....

So Let Go."

Earlobes

     At the time I was thinking about his earlobes. That’s what I really miss, his god damn earlobes.  And I actually caught myself fingering the hem of my dress, like I used to do his ears. Especially late at night when he’d lay on his side facing me, even though he always complained about how uncomfortable it was for him to lie like that. And I’d try to compensate for his posture by stroking the bottoms of his ears. As if the gesture gave him some kind of complacency. When really, the pinch and release of malleable tissue caught in my fingertips, soothed the compulsion to repeat over and over, God I love you, Christ I love you, Abel I love you... I was thinking about how selfish that is. How greedy I am for that boy’s earlobes.

               

     I was thinking about this while I braced myself against the window pane outside the bar; one hand on thick glass, the other in the fabric of my dress. Pan out. On the inside a boy leaned against the same window, one hand on a full glass the other in the pocket of his jeans. We both closed our eyes and knocked our heads back. Crowns juxtaposed. Cue the violins.

                

     It wasn’t alcohol teasing blood cells, or thick curling smoke unfolding from my lungs and throat; and it wasn’t the boys who approached me with lines they had been reciting on a cerebral broken record. It was this nocturnal cologne that I found pervading the streets and bars; a combination of cigarette smoke, brick wall, and September. It was this semblance of drunken youth and perfect temperature that constructed an atmosphere that was uniquely heartwreckage. I was drunk on the absence of Abel. I had intoxicated myself with phantoms of us, strolling along the same sidewalk I stood on.  I stumbled inside, worried I’d black out if I kept watching us holding hands, crossing the bridge over the trains, and daring each other to jump.

                

     Wasted on melancholy, I entered the bar.  Bypassed costumed stand-ins, and took space near the boy who let the window support his weight, like he had given up on standing. I sat on a marooned barstool because I couldn’t quite make it all the way to the actual bar. I was too inebriated from the silent films playing out on the sidewalk. I just needed to sit down, catch some poise, cross my pins, and crave.

                

     I guess that’s what initiated the interaction, between me and this boy who hated standing. He lifted his glass and asked for the story of me. I thought about apologizing, the “me” he was inquiring for, didn’t live here anymore. She abandoned this place and left a husk in a black dress. But he was cute, tall, and I was curious as to why he needed the crutch.

               

     Hushhh fell over the bar, all the extras turned their torsos towards our tack. I told him every boy I know is Icarus, and you can see where I’ve been because there’s always a mess of feathers and wax. Told him how I’m the most confident girl in the world (cut to scene with my fingers at the back of my throat, coughing up sick and Diet Coke) I’m the happiest girl in the world (cut to this morning where breakfast consists of coffee and anti-depressants) and unlike all the other women you’ll meet, I’m not jaded and spoiled for fervor (the entire time I had been staring at his earlobes).

                

     He nodded and said “You’re the reason we’re all here. Morose boys who crawl into pubs and wait for sunshine gift wrapped in a cocktail dress. Wait for girls starved for affection, who may share a few similar interests. Boys waiting at the bar with an extra twenty bucks in their pockets, hoping they can get you liquored up enough to tug at your ribbons. Not that I’m any different, tell you the truth, you remind me of Christmas. I wouldn’t mind unlocking the buttons, twisting open your bra, and discovering the supple trinkets you’ve got packaged. But you just so happen to have caught me on the same night my girlfriend left me. And I’m all too aware that these men are just sick with sun poisoning. They think the cure’s in between your breasts, that you’ve got an antidote hidden in some wet cavity. But the morning after you’ll rise from their beds, run off with their button up shirts, and leave nothing but arduous sunburn.”

                

     He pressed himself harder into the window frame. I twisted the cotton of my dress so hard I thought of ripping cartilage. It was then I felt my diaphragm build and collapse from laughing [applaud. applaud. applaud.] I said “And tell me kid, did she leave your knees so weak you can’t stand up? That you need to use this window as an auxiliary? Her intimacy, so crude in its absence that the floor seems to tip while you walk from one side of the bar to the other? When she left you, did she avoid eye contact, and with a sick audacity refer to you using a pet name like a tactless joke? Because Abel did, and I had to tell him to use my real name while he broke up with me. No, I’m not the reason all these boys are here. I’m not starved for affection, but rather bandages and balm. If you were to liberate my dress from me, you’d find that same sore red skin. But the difference is, I’m not going caress a window pane all night and bitch about it.”

                

     He shook his head “no” and replied “It’s not that I can’t stand. Although I won’t lie to you, I find stability in prescribed SSRI’s and serenity caught between the glass and tap. Genetically the anti-superman, yes I got a crutch. But it’s not this window.  I’m just trying to keep it shut, because out on that sidewalk I keep seeing ghosts that refuse to leave me alone.”

                

I asked “What’s you’re script?”

                

“Wellbutrin 300mg”

                

“So I guess we do share a few similar interests.”

Thanks for the ride home.

We have a lot in common.

All the fucked up shit
you never talk about
on a first date,
that's how we relate.

Let's go home and lick each other's egos all better.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh

It's getting better every day.

I needed a business card.

Oh yes.

Through Neptune

This started, this descent from skyscraping cliffs that laughed at us like bullies; the plunge that romanced my viscera into my throat; my bleeding feet kicking violently, anticipating the bleak concrete ocean that rioted against the black rocks below covered in green moss tweed. This leap from stony edifices into sea salt vapor, fingers laced with your fingers, screams raveled with your poetry recital. This story of love and two self-catapulting kids, started December 17th of last year. 

And it ended nine months later, on a bench in between brick buildings. Where I fell to the sidewalk and crawled up between your legs; wanting to claw through your jeans; wanting to take some skin under my fingernails as a souvenir. Where you just stared off in any direction that wasn't me. And my throat just ached, alveoli seduced by flux. I was taken under the boardwalk current and the last thing I saw was you looking off saying "Can we please go now?"

Undertow, looking up I saw you walk off with a girl who wouldn't stop crying. You offered to give her a ride home and that was the last time I saw either of you.

My body caved through Neptune's body. I bypassed nights we told the world to stop so we could have each other in my mother's car. And I saw myself hand you a mixed CD that I had spent 5 hours working on, and the way you kissed me like no one else was looking, like no one else mattered. I watched your fingers thread through my gloved hands. I saw us sitting on your bed while my car ran outside for two hours because neither of us could stop talking. 

And then I watched while I carried you to your car from the Ranger because you had gotten too drunk to walk. Then the night when I had too much to drink and you got so furious with me you left me in your bed alone. When you were sober and we'd lock arms in stroll and you'd pull me back when I went ahead of you. Nights we went out to dinner and you'd explain to me why my jokes didn't make sense, or times you'd flat out tell me "That wasn't funny. Nothing about that is funny." 

Times you got upset and just left me at that bar when you were supposed to be my ride. A thousand incidences I did something that was all my own and you'd peer over and mention how unimpressed you were. How you would get annoyed with me when I couldn't be the life of the party, how you scolded me when I found conversation with people outside your social web of friends. I watched you walk me around a brick building and set me down on this bench, to tell me you couldn't keep doing this.

I woke up, coughing up salt water. Dug my ripped up feet into the sand. And for the first time since we leaped, I felt the Sun.

The Lack Of

It's been so long.

Pull up your bar stool, let me tell you the story of a girl and boy who were in love.

Let me tell you the story of how she lost herself in him,
his ego,
his status,
his constant attempt at fixing her,
and how much it pained him (or didn't, can't really speak for the kid)

How he left her
due to issues that were out of or in her control depending on which
party
you were speaking with.

Let me tell you how
she felt.
Let me tell you how
she didn't feel
      anything, towards the end of it.

And tried to make up for that lack of elation
in constant sobbing and
days spent in bed.
-Right up until the minute he said
"I just can't do this any longer"

Let me show you how she salvaged how gorgeous she really is.
Tonight, I'm going to show you
exactly
what euphoria feels like.

Tonight I'm going to propel
the kind pining you've only
read in
poetry.

Why?
because I'm fucking good at it.

I Just Need To Get Some Sleep.

Pinpoint on the horizon. If I can't sleep in this apartment, if I can't sleep in this town, then I'll take any undiscovered dirt road to get to that place that isn't here. Where is my quoin of slumber if it isn't in his basement? If it isn't in the nook of his neck and ribs? And so, I grab my camera, deodorant, and that piggy bank I bought for him the day before he left me.

There's this tapping. A lepidoptera metronome. Moths are aimlessly diving into my windshield. Suicide bombers with dusted wings, I can relate. A glow from underneath the seat made by my phone that keeps telling me I'm never really alone. And his voice narrating the car scene that says "They're all just trying to get into her jeans".

Winding through aphotic composition and yellow paint, wielding the steering wheel over chaffed paths, where doleful women have worn through the crust and cement. How many daughters am I following? How many marred lovers have cast off and sailed through this chop sea of blizzard posts and highway? How many made their way back home; and how many walked plank?

An hour later I pull over and toss my body into dirt and red pine needles. Load my lungs with smoke and just stare up into the ink and salt. Lose myself in the cold and cricket chorus. Contrive myself in the thought that I could expire here. I could be vital here. And I can inhale, feel how tangible I haven't been lately, exhale, feel the universe implode and explode simultaneously. And somehow, despite the cosmic blight, I am serenaded into the deep unconsciousness that I've been coveting.

Morning.  I wake up in the debris of outer space. I could scream for other survivors but they'd probably just eat too loudly, walk too slowly, and bitch about their jobs back home. No, I'm content with being the only thing alive. I raise my arms into the blue and try to shake some dust from my wings. That's when my nostrils ache of "home"sick. The deodorant I grabbed...totally his.

The nice thing about being broken up with is that you were probably pretty satisfied with the relationship right up until the very last second. For you, it was fun the entire time.
If you're leaving someone, you've most likely been mourning them for awhile.

I had a lot of fun.
I just feel like I've been hit by a train.

At least we weren't born in North Korea.

Stage One

A thousand shades of hair

and kids all about your height

wearing death masks and new school clothes.

I leaked through torsos trying to get to you.

This Human Body brine.

Rooted crux

A stage where I watched an orchestra

casted with crow’s feet

liverspots

and dementia.

A maelstrom

made from limbs and gossip

pulled me under

and into the blue drink

I sunk.

On the concrete bottom

I saw you

copper quills suspended in cobalt current

and your swollen mask

you were pressing your face into.

I made you promise me

newsprint made a mistake.

and you recited back to me

overlooked facts of the scene and body

laughed because we were the only ones

clever enough to figure it out.

But when I asked you come back with me

you shook your head no

and I knew

under your death mask

I wouldn’t have recognized you.

If you can break from me, then break the name.

Tonight I:

                Spilled my guts out to Jimmy on a swing set and took a piss without our conversation skipping a beat. Got a free candy apple from a carny who swore there were no razorblades hidden in the core. Threw up next to some fat girls who talked about beating Amanda’s ass…whoever Amanda may be. Met a boy who asked me a 100 questions, who answered 100 and 1. Collected numbers with no intentions of ever calling. Got into a truck with strangers who took me home when nobody else could answer my phone calls. Danced in a park with my ex who named a star after me. Declined a kiss from a boy I used to be madly in love with. Got called a slut because I refused to put out.

Tonight I rediscovered who I was before I was a girlfriend.

Rediscovered my quivering voice. A crescendo. Heard a cry so clear I became weak.

Baptized myself with wet grass.

Hello Sunnie. Christ, it's been awhile. 

Untitled

Watched him rock the lime in his palms, 

    squeeze and release, 

pass back and forth.  

He’d undress himself in the streets, 

turn his back to me and slide out of his shirt. 

I told him I loved the way he smelled. 

Raw boy, unapologetic and transitory. 

Because he’s always leaving me.

There was a brake in the 

50 mile an hour night current, 

for the deer that capered into headlights over asphalt.

Blushed with death and adrenaline

hours later we stood outside an apartment, 

away from smoke and bash. 

We talked about leaving. 

He said he’d lead me. 

I wanted to see the colors of all those doors in that neighborhood, 

cracks in sidewalks, 

and silhouettes behind window pane. 

Honestly I could have used the sabbatical, 

I have no idea how old I am, 

or rather how old I’m supposed to be. 

Watched him take a piss and ask me one last time. 

Dreadlocked, grinning, his back caught in headlights. 

Yes, I could have used the break. 

But my boyfriend called me back inside. 

34A-32-36

"Maybe speed-balling IS the answer"
Victoria Secret shot me dirty looks.
I chewed on foil and asked-
How many calories exchanged for compliments?
For lovers who fell in love with a number.

My teeth singing,
her viscera dancing.
I took another bite.
She took another hit.

I winked
"eat your heart out bitch"
told my boyfriend I didn't mind [not] being so
drop dead gorgeous.

Short from this semester

Pest

The man lay on his side, right eye open, tracing the peculiar geometric pattern of his apartment bedroom’s wallpaper.  He gazed from the dark corner towards the lighter one, where it had been sun-bleached near his window; long before he had nailed black sheets around its frame. His retina began to strain when he pinpointed places the paper had begun to peel back from the wall. His pupil bounced and quivered while it sought out imperfections of the patterned paper. When his right eye began to water he shut it tight and opened the left. Now he focused on the hills and valleys of his grey cotton sheets. He ran his fingers through his bedding distorting the stone ash landscape.

                He sat up, inhaled the heavy wet summer air that gassed his apartment. He pulled off his sweat thirsty sheets, placed one hand on his headboard and the other on the mattress’s edge. Morning vertigo assaulted his head, neck, and stomach. He opened both eyes and narrowed in on the door knob. He waited before standing, until he felt his blood balance, the room to askew itself with his vision, and the floor to tilt even with the white bottoms of his feet.

                He sat under his water stained ceiling, and beside the accumulating media towers that had graduated into permanent furniture. Coffee rings were sown into his stag ecosystem. The footpath from the bed to the door lingered with dirty bachelor garb and cystic dishes.  The room consisted of bowls with fossilized oatmeal, pizza crusts wombed in cardboard exoskeletons, and aluminum husks that congregated in corners.  This room, this terrarium, had turned on him. He slept there feeling as though it was without permission.

                The man felt the humid air imbrue to his temples, under his arms, his legs. He wanted to run towards the door, to escape the furnace but the breath of his bedroom felt abundant. He had to choke his way through the air. He stumbled, naked. 

                Outside of his bedroom he met the aphotic hallway. Water pipes ran along the ceiling and leaked behind his walls. Black mold harbored like good kept secrets behind wood rot. The irriguous building had been nurtured with moist climate and poor maintenance. She had grown into a living animal, breathing and sweating out its tenants. But he stayed, waking up inside her. Feeling his way through her dark gut accompanied by nausea, migraines, and blight hangover.

                His bathroom door coaxed him with cold shower, soap, and toothpaste. His hands swept over the wallpaper while he drifted in fatigued trance. The metal door knob kissed his palm and he exhaled fetid caffeine breath. His stomach screwed itself against his spine and he had to pause before intruding upon the bathroom.

                It was a small space. From the high ceiling black spirals bloomed down, gracefully tumbling toward the cool white porcelain. Cramped together the shower, sink, and toilet granted him enough room to stand center, reach above to turn on the pendant light bulb, and critique his face in the mirror. His sinuous guise and permanent pout propelled him into social disinterest and asexual esthetics. It wasn’t necessarily that he was grotesquely unattractive, but this certain kind of ugly drugged other people with immense pity and vexatiousness. Once puberty had pocked his cheeks and chin, it was clear his face was one he would never be able to grow into. His features mocked burn victim without the story.

                The pipes hissed and moaned when he turned on the faucet. He could feel her cringe and ache at his maneuvering. He was parasitic and politely gripped his toothbrush and layered on paste without disrupting her digestion any further. He placed the head under the water, looked down at the sink and that’s when he first noticed the cockroach.

                His eyes shot towards the window above his shower. A black garbage bag had been taped over to keep out the light and the air. He wondered how the colossal insect had snuck in. He bent over, closer, to observe the shiny ink roach. Its hind legs twitching at the water, its antennae feeling up the porcelain, its glossy eyes jeering at the divots of his face. He fixed in on the minuscule sharp hairs that protruded from its stick limbs. The pipes whined and he looked up at the ceiling. He said “I’ll take care of this.”

                He placed the toothbrush into his mouth, tongued the bristles and thought to himself how he was going to decimate the vermin immigrant. He couldn’t touch it. To feel it squirm in between his fingers, he knew would cause him to drop it onto the floor, where it could hide in inaccessible corners. It couldn’t leave the sink alive, but to watch its belly pop under the weight of a shoe or book would send him into dry heaves. He peered into the sink and decided: he would drown the roach.

                He turned up the water and began spitting foam around the insect hoping to corner it under the faucet. He repasted his toothbrush and started again. The roach was not intimidated by the billowing of blue-green foam. It refused to back into the gush and eyed up at the man, almost smiling.

                The man took short breaths, cupped water and washed down the froth walls. The cockroach still didn’t move. He concluded that this bug wouldn’t be obliged into drowning; it would have to be assaulted into doing so. Once again, he applied the paste and began running the brush along his gums. He spit out mint lather, now tinged with pink, on top of the roach. He heard a hiss, and spit again.

                The insect scurried under the pastel clouds and under the running water. It emerged slick and grinning. The man took victory in causing the cockroach to mobilize, and began to brush more ferociously. He spewed forth fluoride, now feeling his jaw and teeth raw and nerve exposed.

                The toothbrush worked his gums separate from his teeth. Thin red threads of saliva and tissue began to flood from his mouth. He pinched his eyes closed and tried to disregard the throbbing. He worked the brush into the back of his throat which then resulted in a gag reflex. He coughed up paste and sucked in the apartment’s wet hot vapor. He choked on the dankness of her pheromones, and began to hack up black clots from his lungs.

                He opened his eyes wide at the mess he had made in the sink, the antagonist now doing laps around the blood foam medley. Light headed, he dropped the toothbrush onto the floor and began to cry. His sobs absorbed into her miasma of passages and rotting architecture. He was failing her in the bathroom, he looked up and saw the black circles winding, a mold galaxy expanding.  He swore he heard the cockroach laughing. 

Nothing you love more than a story

Woke up to him this morning, saying he would be back, needed to leave for a second.
He went dumpster diving for a rent check.
I'm pretty sure of it.

Woke up to a text message that said
"You still upset?"
This is how bad days begin.

Woke up to him climbing back into bed, defeated without the rent.
Settled together in the center of the bed, trying to get him to forget about his missing check.
And then the clock went out.
And the lights went out.
And he says "Shit."
The power had been turned off.

So he asked if I'd like to take a shower with him.
And I looked down at my phone which read
"you're taking shit out of context and naming me the bad guy"
only the spelling is atrocious and his grammar morbidly imperfect.
"Yes" I tell him
and throw my phone in his sink.

In the dark and wet
he covered every inch of me
ran the bar of soap down my sides, back of my knees, and the bottoms of my feet.
In the dark and wet
he kissed my forehead
and then the water shut off.
And he said "God Damn it."
That didn't get paid either.

My legs were slick with soap.
My phone says "Nothing you love more than a story"
I smiled. Because, my phone's right.
Absolutely nothing I love more.
Except maybe the mornings where everything's falling apart.
And I have someone who'll run a towel through my hair for me
complain about how much hair I have
and kiss me in the dark, as if today hasn't started out completely fucked.

Walking Around Reeeeemix

It so happens that he’s leaving in the morning.
And I’m climbing through my mother’s car
to get to the passenger’s side.
Seatbelts, steering wheels, and center consoles,
a mechanical makeshift chop sea of turnstiles.
And he’s leaning in
trying to meet me half way.

The stress of the syllables he uses
in the name he gave me
(a combination of
what my mother calls me
and monster)
catalyzes the quixotic auscultation.
He presses himself up against my breast bone
catching enigmatic radio waves,
and an intrinsic cadence.
Ears drinking in the electric cursory ocean.

Eighteen dress rehearsals
couldn’t save his red collar from being stretched.
I am iniquitous
digging for coffee skin tones
bandaged soundly over awkward clavicle
that crooked upward.
I’m going to miss even his skeleton.
 

The only things we can see
through the London flavored windows are
neon light auras,
and the jaded cumbersome sign of the
Chinese restaurant,
whose parking lot
we’re loitering.

And yes
it so happens we’re criminal
because it is against the law
to be still
to be idle
to be lethargic.
 

But if a cop does
tap tap tap
on breath sexed glass
I’d be elated
to scribe across my mother’s windows
EVAEL
and blare
“I’m altercating night hours.
Please officer, try and understand
because it just so happens he’s leaving in the morning”

Older Junk

Short story I found from September.

Enjoy suckas.

The Woman, The Girl

There’s a certain way to be with a woman. It’s different than how you’d be with a girl. With a woman, you need to be more blunt with your approach. More clear with your intentions. And see, with a girl you can get away with not being obvious, because they see that as half the fun. Girl’s don’t know any better. A woman doesn’t have the time, energy, or interest. The difference between a girl and a woman: curiosity.

This bar I’m at is clean, with heavy stools, heavy music, heavy liquor. It weighs on you. Makes you feel exhausted. People my age won’t go to bars like these. People my age seek out bars with girls. Girls with enough curiosity to let you take them home with you. I’m not looking for a girl.

She sits five stools down from me. Slides off her heavy coat and lifts onto the stool, in a well-fitting black suit, and red heals. Petite, and thin. She sets her purse onto the bar and crosses her legs. She has such narrow shoulders. She gets the attention of the bartender by motioning him with just her fingers. Extend, curl. Extend, curl. She leans in when she says “continental”. She doesn’t giggle, or flip her hair over her shoulder. She’s at least 15 years older than me.

She pulls a cigarette from her clutch, lights and just waits. A girl would fidget with a cell phone. She would pull out a book, magazine, tubes of lipstick, and restlessly pretend to be preoccupied. She would appear to be waiting for something certain. Any minute something’s going to take her away from here. A woman waits for something unknown.  And invites it.

When I grab my drink and walk closer to her, she never looks over at me. She stares straight ahead, as if she was expecting me. She was. With a woman, your voice needs be assertive. It’s not just confident. It needs to be surgically accurate, or she’ll just laugh you off. She won’t look at you until you say something. So this next thing that’s going to come out of my mouth, it needs to be audacious, dauntless.

Rehearsed.
Convincing.
Presumptuous.

“Crème De Menthe, Ted Baxter’s favorite.” Is what I came up with.

She exhales white smoke, it just pours out of her, and faces me. Her hair is red, and cascades to her shoulders, weighted down. Her mascara is thick, and the powder on her face makes the creases around her mouth and eyes more pronounced. Everything’s so heavy here. Her left eyebrow cocks up in skepticism, but she is smiling.

“I would imagine you being too young to know who Ted Baxter is.” She contests

“My mother was a nurse, she worked graveyards. I’d stay up watching Nick at Nite. I grew up with Louie De Palma, Fred Mertz, and Captain Tony Nelson.”

Her drink arrives. She won’t complain if her cocktail is made too strong. Her nose won’t scrunch up if she finds it bitter. Anything through that straw isn’t going to surprise her. This is what I love about women, there is experience in everything they do. Girls get wrapped up in uncertainty. They get lost in experimenting. A woman will bite the bullet and keep her legs crossed. Because she knows what’s coming next.

“My name’s Thomas.” I offer my hand and she places her brittle manicured fingers into my palm.

“Pleasure. I’m Adell.” She takes another drag. “What brings you here tonight Thomas?”

Habit.
Dependence.
Apathy.

“My sister, she just got married. I’m not from here. Her husband’s family lives here.” I drink. “And Adell, what is it that brings you here?”

Anxiety.
Trauma.
Desperation.

“Business. There was a conference this afternoon. “ She goes on about her trip. What city she’s from. How long she’s been in sales. She talks about how her married boss peers into her blouse. How he stands behind her and just breathes. In..out..in..out.

In college she spent so much time learning how to act aggressive like a man would, only to find herself feeling so female when using her cleavage to close a sale. She hardly cares anymore what they think of her. It’s the bottom line she says while smacking her palm hard on the bar with each word. The thud bottom thud line thud.

In exchange I give her details about my sister’s wedding. The kind of guy she married. How I felt when I saw my father tear up. The way my mother gripped my hand throughout the ceremony. Where are these details coming from? The whole idea of marriage, so trite and stale. So expected.

The hotel bar is quiet. Conversation is invited here. There’s so much space in between people. I buy her another drink.

She tells me she was married once. To a kind man. An older man.  She was too young. For commitment, for anything. Her divorce was bitter and drawn out and now she just waits for the next big mistake. She sits in bars and just waits. She asks me how old I am.

“26. And may I ask—“

“38. What are you passionate about Thomas?” She’s smiling more.

I talk about my father’s business.  I’m his only son. It’ll be mine one day, but I just dread having it become my life. God, these details. Music. Some traveling I’ve done. Food. Some literature. Culture.

“The problem is I’m passionate about most things which doesn’t leave me enough focus to be passionate about anything. Sex, I suppose. Women. Communication. “ I admit.

“Everyone your age is passionate about sex. It’s what sets the generations apart. If it weren’t for sex the differences in age would be so trivial.” She rocks her head to the side. She’s become drunk.

“Perhaps in men. I feel that in females your sexual appetite tends to build with age. Men are like milk. We spoil, women are like wine. You age, and ripe.”

She laughs “Oh Thomas, I’m well aged. Maybe even expired. But I must say, I can feel something building.” She exhales, her head hanging.

I buy her another drink.

“What makes a good lover Thomas? What sets a woman apart?” She reaches into her purse for another cigarette. Coins and small bottles spill onto the bar.

“I guess a lover who has the same expectations as you. Someone who can interpret the situation as you do. I think that’s all men ask for. To be on the same page. She can be sexy and her movement incredible but if that’s not what you’re looking for, then it won’t matter. A girl who doesn’t act the part, a girl who IS the part, I guess.”

“That’s good. That’s good Thomas. My most memorable partner, his love making was so excruciating. Oh Thomas, I couldn’t walk for hours! He was so acute, almost violent. But afterward, he’d always get me a warm damp cloth and just run in down my skin. And blow on my arms. He’d sing to me, while washing me. He’d cool my hot red thighs, my purpling bruised sides, and hum these melodies…” She raises her hand up to my face, I haven’t shaved in days. Runs her fingers up my cheeks.

“Thomas, Thomas. I’m drunk”

“I can help you to your room, I’m so sorry Adell. I wouldn’t have ordered your last drink—“

“Thomas, I feel ripe.” She grabs her clutch and her coat. “Please, come with me. I need the company. I’m no good, drunk and alone.” Pushes her coat into my arms and begins to walk out.

The elevator doors open and while holding her coat I help her inside. She’s teetering on her red heels and her small frame balances as the elevator rises. The lighting in the elevator isn’t as forgiving as the red fluorescents in the bar. Her complexion has a yellowing tint around her lips. Leathery. She’s older than 38, or her chain smoking has really taken a toll on her body, face, hands, eyes. She’s deteriorating in front of me.

Her head is swimming. Waiting for the next big mistake. When the doors open she steps out and walks fiercely in front of me. She takes long sure strides towards her room. I tag along with her coat. She digs through that clutch of hers for the key.

A woman doesn’t feel guilty for degrading you. A girl will stumble and rely on you to hold her up. A girl needs you to help her stand. A woman only needs someone to carry her coat

.
“Here, this is me.” Adell swipes her card and her room door unlocks. “Where are you staying?”

“A few floors up.” I answer and follow her into her room. The hotel is old, expensive, and exaggerated. There’s a bed that looks too big to be comfortable. A heavy vanity with this obnoxious mirror. Everything looks like it’s made from oak. So heavy. I set her coat down on the arm of a chair and watch as she takes off her heels. She sits down on her bed and rubs the insides of her feet.

“I’ve been wearing those god damn things all day” She kneads her ankles “Come here Thomas, come sit with me.”

I sit close to her, my weight makes her sink into the bed. She falls back and sighs. Her arms go above her head and her legs stretch out in front. She’s sick thin. I’m not sure if I should lay next to her. I just sit there holding my breath. Waiting for further instruction.

“I lost my virginity in a hotel bed. Prom night.” She confesses, laughs, she’s so comfortable now.

“I imagine a lot of girls do.”

“Yeah well, I lost it to my chem teacher. He was a chaperone. He didn’t believe me afterward when I told him it was my first time. The son of a bitch didn’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, that’s…that’s awful.”

“I want better stories. Thomas, give me a better story” she exclaims and pulls me into the bed.
When I fall into place beside her, she takes my hand and runs it down her side. I can feel every bone. Her hips are sharp, her ribs scream at me. Her entire body is so loud.

“Feel me Thomas.” She commands.

Her next big mistake.

She tastes of cigarettes, mint syrup, and a perfume you could choke on. When I remove her clothes I realize how frail she is. I bury my face into her neck and try to concentrate on where my hands are grabbing. I am guilty of only playing the part. Her breastbone, it’s like resting my face on a dinner plate. I fear I may break her. Her hair feels dry and she tells me my beard is rubbing her chest raw. She digs her heels into my sides. I feel as though I’m smothering her into the excessive bedding. Inside she’s not warm, soft, or wet. She’s just tight and empty. There's a sad friction to this woman.

“Get on top.” I’m more asking. I hold her ribcage and carefully we trade places. She rocks back and forth, I hold her hips watching how much pressure I’m applying.

“Harder.” It’s not moaning, just giving me more instruction. “Harder, please.”

Her fist comes down on my chest “Don’t be gentle with me Thomas. God Damnit.”

I’m too young for this.

I pick her up and set her onto the vanity. Place my hand behind her nest of hair (I see insects, birds, seeds, and eggshells) and in between the mirror. Close my eyes and pretend she’s unbreakable. You won’t hurt her. You won’t hurt her.

Whatever a girl asks of you in bed isn’t what she wants or likes. It’s what she’s trying out for the first time. A woman, knows what gets her to climax. A woman has her personal brand of foreplay. She’ll enlist you, teach you. As a boy, you don’t know any better.

Each time I push her into the dense wood, she gets quieter. She has her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she’s concentrating. Absorbing this scene for her next story.

“You’re lovely Adell.” That’s my last line before the credits start to roll. Before the scene comes to a close. My heavy breathing, the mirror hitting the hotel wall, her ass coming off the cold wood and slamming back into it. CRASH CRASH CRASH! It’s not the way she feels, it’s just the audio that sends me over. That gets me to cum. I was never able to last very long.

Her legs still wrapped around me, her head tilted up she’s just breathing. I have to separate her legs to get out. She feels stiff, hollow. I reach down for my pants, my belt. I back away from her. She doesn’t move.  Spread out on the vanity she just stares up ghastly. Naked, and arms extended to each side.

She looks crucified.

What have I done?

“Thomas come, come closer” she asks, her voice carved and so heinous. Her arms slowly raising from the wood. She’s beginning to cry.

“I think I should leave, I’m sorry, I think I should go.” I’m grabbing at my shirt and pulling it over my head. Her knees starting to tremble, she’s whimpering.

But she still hasn’t moved. I rush to the door, and behind me I can hear her begin to laugh hysterically.  “That’s good Thomas, that’s real good.” She’s haunting me down the hallway.

I take the stairs down to the lobby and exit through the front doors.

All that weight is gone. Snow crushing beneath my shoes and I take a long alley to avoid the street. I look at my watch, it’s almost 3 a.m. I dig my hands into my coat, it’s so cold I feel like I can only make short breaths.

I climb up the stairs to my apartment and hesitate before opening the door. This is always the hardest part. Facing her is always the hardest part.

Inside I toss my coat onto the table. I unlace my shoes and walk down the hall. In the bathroom I turn the faucet and run the shower. This is going to wake her up. Soap smells like citrus, I need to get the smoke out of my hair, off my skin. I need to get Adell off my skin. I need to begin to forget what her name was.

Lemon and ginger for cigarettes and mint liqueur.

I toss my clothes in the hamper and stumble towards the bedroom. When I open the door there sits Alice. Her long blonde hair pulled to the one side. Pursed rose dusted lips, she just smiles. She’s honestly the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

“I’m sorry it’s so late, I just lost track of time.” I tighten the towel around me, and move in closer towards our bed.

She shakes her head “I’m sorry I got so frustrated, I’ve been up trying to think of how to make it up to you. I felt badly about this afternoon. Really, I just, I don’t want to fight anymore. Michael, come here, come closer.”

She holds her arms out. I flashback to a crucified redhead. Without knowing it, she’s healing me. Exchanging my mistake.

Lemon and ginger for cigarettes and mint liqueur.

“I’m so glad I’m home. I’m so glad I’m home.” I’m starting to cry. The silk of her night gown is being snagged in between my fingers. I can’t let her go. This forgiving fabric. I can’t let it go.

“Michael, are you drunk? Where have you been? It’s ok, it was just a little argument. You’re home now. You’re home.”