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.”