Sweet Dreams, Sweet Cheeks

my dreams are made of fear and hope. on nights when you can play connect-the-dots with the stars, hope puts on a play while i sleep. but, i guess hope gets tired after a while and so do the stars. fear takes his turn and the sky isn't so bright.

it's foggy out there, i'll be sleeping with fear tonight.

20

I am.

This birthday makes me want to wear high heels. It makes me want to buy a suitcase that doesn't have hello kitty on it and put on mascara. Watching Mad Men, in combination with this birthday, makes me want to smoke a cigarette at a party and seduce Don from across the room as thick smoke is released from my perfectly pouted red lips.

But, when I fall asleep and dream a strange late-night-snack-induced dream about pizza, eighteen-wheelers and baby seals, my mind will be wiped clean. I will wake up having forgotten that I am a year older. I will go on wearing ballet flats and no make-up and bumbling around proudly sporting cartoon themed luggage.

Dear Margo,

Boys are turned off by girls who cannot control their eyelids.

Dear Ben,

I just want you to be depressed again. Your success and happiness are bringing me down.

Bdelygmia

bdelygmia, n.

1. A litany of abuse-- a series of critical epithets, descriptions, or attributes

"From the very beginning— from the first moment, I may almost say— of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

-Jane Austen, Pride & Prejudice

Your pearly white smile broadens and I am reminded of an equine muzzle. I want to stick a carrot in your mouth so that it might match your hair. Those eyes are like vacuums into which souls and intelligence are sucked, never to escape again. But none of this really matters because I don’t know you at all. He, on the other hand, I do know. Or at least I used to. He is blind to your mulish qualities, but rather finds you appealing like a phlegmatic mail-order doll—after all, you share the same purpose. His booming voice dulls the senses of those within earshot; fortunately you were dulled long before his pedestrian existence intertwined with yours. It must be nice for you to have a reason to straighten your hair in the morning and he a reason to pop his teeth back in.

Navy Blue Converse

Her eyes scanned your body as you walked toward her. Those heavily-mascara’ed brown eyes bulged and froze on navy blue converse clad feet.

“What, are you like, Goth now?”

Your early morning smile faded. You felt small and lonely and… Goth? Wait, you thought, what the fuck does she mean? Then you corrected yourself. What the heck does she mean? You are trying not to curse as much. You have had the mouth of a sailor since elementary school, and one time, this same girl and her suburban cronies denied you the opportunity to play dodge ball because, as they said, you had a potty mouth. At the time, you thought, fuck them. Now you are desperate for them to like you. This whole converse thing really throws a kink in your plans.

You want to run back to the front of the school and see if your mom is still in the car-rider line. Maybe she will take you home so you can change shoes, or even better—let you skip school and go eat Mexican food. You quickly realize this is an absurd fantasy. Not too absurd, though, because on a pretty regular basis you do skip school and your mom does take you out for Mexican food. It is suh-weet. The strange part is you don’t really want to run away. You want to tell this little middle-school biotch that she can shove it up her ass. Converse aren’t Goth. You aren’t Goth.

“No, I’m not. And converse aren’t Goth. Goth kids wear combat boots and dog collars and read anime,” you say.

“Oh, okay. I mean, they are just kind of different,” she says.

“Right,” you say.

From that moment on you realize that being a converse-wearing Goth kid would be so much better than being friends with these ass-holes. You stop wanting to be invited to their farms (the term “farm” is applied loosely, it simply refers to a home built outside of a residential neighborhood, though still located thirty-feet from a residential neighborhood and 1 mile from a large suburban sprawl). You stop laughing at their jokes. You stop passing them notes in Algebra. You start thinking about what you like. You start listening to good music, as provided by The O.C. Mix 1 Soundtrack. You start wearing converse.

Dear general malaise and other symptoms,

Please go away.

Sincerely,

Your unwilling host.

Count Our Rings

The Outlet Mall Guru

Teach me to fold the perfect pant and I'll show you how to sell a credit card to a mother of four who makes minimum wage. The mexicans pay in crisp $100 bills, the asians in crumpled coupons, and I pay with my soul.

Thanks, Banana.

Welcome Home

i heard the hills whisper "welcome home"

their voices hung in the air with dragonflies

they swirled around our heads of unkempt hair

sharing with us the songs of man and wind

and we tapped our feet on the same ground

the sun introduced itself to my pale skin

freckles claimed territory on a plot above my heart

for $5 god would leave his handprint on yours

on the porch you sang about the simple things

and i began to notice them

my dress soaked up the river and all the people in it

tightly woven threads trapped the current

so i wrung out the comfort and drove east

i left you standing at the bottom of civilizations slope

locals hung above the water like a barrel of monkeys

away from the boxed merlot and shirtless boys

patriotism shields my eyes from neon signs

but my hair still feels like the river

and my coffee tastes like your cigarettes

so i hug this lamppost hoping it will guide you

it will act as a lighthouse

and i will wait beneath its glow until you arrive

by jennifer robichaux, whose dress is now dry

a spider just crawled across my chest

I am in the bubble now, but until recently I was in a box. The bubble has homemade meals and lazy evenings spent in front of the tube watching crime dramas. Here I don't really have responsibilities (though I am trying to get some) and my room contains no bunk bed or noisy lesbian roommate. I am allowed to poke holes in the wall here and boys can be in my room past midnight. The bubble, round by nature, is able to roll to any desired location. However, by following me-- or rather rolling along with me-- it becomes inescapable and a constant in my life. It could be easily transported to Louisiana where my family plans to vacation this summer, however I would prefer for it to stay in Texas where the suburbs seem to crave its presence. As mentioned above, I have just moved back into the bubble from a box. The box was much more comfortable. It had four solid, distinguishable walls. The floor connected the walls and the top opened up to the usually sunny sky. Picture a cardboard moving box, if you will. Sure, the box kept me contained, but if I really wanted to I could find a way to scale the wall and get to the outside. It took me a while to get used to the idea of living in something with four walls, I was accustomed to more spherical homes. 

Right now, the box is temporarily out of reach. 

Let's Toss Tortillas

We are directly beneath the moon. 

i think that must have been what heartbreak felt like. 

Arista

   Arista’s hands are steady. They have to be. She has to be. The citizens of Ilford know her sleek black and white movements as she captures the city with the click of a button. Depending on what she loads into her camera—film or bullets—Arista will watch over her city through a glass lens waiting to capture a devastating portrait or stop evil in its tracks. The city she had been promised is falling apart and she won’t be another casualty to its destruction.

    She was born to traveling artists, a daughter of the road and canvas. Laurie and Earl moved with the wind, and settled only long enough to sell paintings and buy food and supplies. When Arista was born they transformed the back of their Volkswagen microbus into a portable nursery. Earl painted stars on the ceiling, flowers on the sides and built a sturdy crib that was secured to the floor. Laurie used broken branches, leaves and other discarded treasures to build a mobile to hang above the crib. When the family stopped their travels to rest, Earl and Laurie pitched a tent beside the van and left the sliding door open in case Arista cried. Most of the mornings after these campouts, Earl awoke to find the space beside him in the tent empty. In the middle of the night Laurie would curl up on the van floor next to the crib and watch Arista sleep, her small frame rising and falling with each breath.   

   Earl and Laurie made friends in all the towns, cities, streets, shops and driveways they passed through. Laurie painted portraits of the townsfolk, which she later sold to the city folk, and Earl did odd jobs to bring in a little extra money. He could do anything with a hammer or paintbrush. Their orange, rusted Volkswagen was covered in bumper stickers from all the places they visited. The stickers lined the van like bricks, laid one by one until it was protected in a wall of quirk and eccentricity. The van provided the family with eight years of nomadic bliss.

   For Arista’s eighth birthday, Laurie bought her an antique Leica camera that she had found in the back corner of some small shop in some small town. Earl taught her how to use it, and Arista spent the whole day snapping portraits of her parents. The black and white photos captured the knowing smile of her mother as her gentle strokes brushed the canvas. They froze the image of her father glancing over his shoulder, feigning seriousness as Arista released the shutter. These would be the only surviving portraits of her parents.

   That night Arista went exploring the woods while her parents slept. She wanted to experience the same beauty beneath the starlight canopy of the forest that she had during the day behind the camera. Earl and Laurie slept soundly in their tent while Arista scurried through the trees. The more she labored through the thick entrails of the woods, the more she grew tired. She curled up in the nearest curve of a winding tree and closed her eyes to the world. She awoke in the morning with a start, worried that her parents might have packed up and left without her. Her tiny feet hurried through the trees as the sounds of the forest became a steady rhythm that failed to soothe her worries. She ran through the forest, tripping on low branches, scraping her pale skin on thorny bushes, and eventually stumbled back into the now empty clearing. During the night, evil had set fire to the campsite. Oil paints mixed with the dry leaf-covered ground and quickly scorched the van and its inhabitants. The tent fell away to ash and Laurie and Earl were melted in the flames. This was one image Arista needn’t capture with a camera.

   Arista was found covered in dirt and muck, having spent three days wondering the lonely forest, holding nothing but her camera. Cops and firemen placed her parents’ singed bodies in bags like black holes. They put the rest of the families belongings in large boxes labeled “EVIDENCE” and carried on with their lives. Arista was taken into the nearby city of Ilford. She had never seen such a busy place and the loud streets and people provided a momentary distraction from her pain. At the police station, she was passed around until ending up on the desk of Detective Richards. He put her in an oversized IPD shirt and gave her a matching coffee mug of hot chocolate. Richards was kind to her, but she was one of twenty open cases on his desk and hers was the least of his worries. Arista’s hadn’t been the only family lost in the night. Richards had Arista’s first roll of film developed, officially for evidentiary purposes, but truly because he hoped the pictures of her parents might provide some sort of small comfort. 

   Child services placed her with a nice family out in the suburbs of Ilford. Their manicured lawn had two perfectly spaced pine trees on either side of the walkway leading toward the door. The red door opened into a modestly furnished home inhabited by modestly dressed people. They wore khakis on a daily basis except on Friday, which was for jeans, and Sunday, which was for church clothes. The Fosters had two children, a dog, and a cat. The dog and cat never fought, so the children followed suit. They welcomed Arista into their home and provided her with a pair of khakis and a blue polo. Mrs. Foster enrolled Arista in the local public school and packed her a brown bag lunch of PB&J, sliced carrots soaked in pepper juice, a granny smith apple, and two chocolate chip cookies.

   While Arista slept at night in her twin sized bed, snug beneath the plaid comforter, Mrs. Foster would sneak into her bed room and watch Arista sleep, her small chest rising and falling with each breath. Mrs. Foster let the kids sleep in on Saturdays, but she would sneak into their rooms in the mornings, just as the sun was rising behind the house, and silently hold her hand up to their small mouths, waiting for their warm breath to pass through her fingers. The Fosters claimed Arista as their own, but she never truly fit in. Her eyes always seemed a little more serious, her brow always a little more furrowed, but her khakis just as crisp as the others. Nonetheless, she wore the clothes Mom bought for her (she started calling her “Mom” a year after moving in) and even attended Sunday services at the Unitarian church down the street. And, as Arista grew older, Mrs. Foster returned the kindness by buying her black jeans rather than the clean khakis.

   Arista quickly found her niche in the art department at school. The other Foster children participated in History fair and wrote for the school newspaper, but Arista was most comfortable behind the camera. She survived the tortures of middle and high school beneath the warm, comforting glow of the red-lit darkroom. In the chemical filled trays she brought to life photos of abandoned houses and weathered towns where things were simply left to age on their own. After high school, Arista planned to move into downtown Ilford to attend a liberal arts university. She would study Marketing and Photography (a compromise with her mom, creativity coupled with security).

   The day she moved away from the glistening suburbs was cold and wet. Mrs. Foster couldn’t stop blubbering and eventually resorted to blowing her nose into her husbands teal polo. She had made Arista a care package complete with gold-toed socks, deodorant rocks and snack bars. Arista didn’t want to let her mom see her cry; she didn’t want to have to blow her nose on anyone’s polo. She wanted nothing more than to live in a bustling city, but she would miss her mom and the comfort of the suburbs more than anything. Now she would have three photos in her collection of prized possessions: Earl, Laurie, and Mom.

   “Promise me you will call every night? Let us know that you make it home safe?” Mrs. Foster pleaded.

   “Yes, Mom. I promise.”

   “And always keep cash with you, just in case. And take your vitamins. And also, eat enough protein. You know, you are looking a little thin.”

   “Okay, mom, I will.”

   “I love you, Arista. I am so glad to call you my own.”

   “I love you, too.”

   Creativity cost $40,000 a year so Arista got a job in a nearby coffee shop. Within the four walls of the coffee shop, smiling regulars enjoyed hot cups of privilege with their baked-fresh-everyday-scones; but on the streets outside, no one could afford their privilege. During her breaks, Arista would walk around downtown with her camera, freezing on film moments of destitution and hunger, desperation and need. On the nights she closed the shop, she took the leftover pastries and passed them out along the walk home to solemn yet grateful faces. After her walks of charity, she went straight to the darkroom to develop the day’s film where the deterioration of Ilford materialized every night beneath the red lights. It appeared in black and white on fiber paper. It was washed for fifteen minutes before being hung to dry. After it dried, Arista laid it amongst the other images of corrosion.

   “Mom?” Arista blubbered into the phone. She was using her last few quarters on the phone booth.

   “Arista, honey? What’s wrong?”

   “It’s nothing like I thought it would be. The city is so cold. When I see people here, there is nothing behind their eyes.”

   “Where we live, people aren’t suffering. We did pretty good for ourselves, but in the cities, everyone is so worried about their own problems, they can’t even see people dying in the streets.”

    “I know, it just hurts to see everything fading.”

    “Then bring life back to the city.”

     In high school, Arista had fallen in love with the idea of the city. She imagined nights walking beneath the glass skyscrapers, her heels lightly clicking along the pavement. She wouldn’t mind the daytime hurry of the streets or the ebb and flow of traffic; she wanted to feel the pulse of those around her. She had heard stories of homeless who offered wandering tourists advice on which parking meters were free past seven p.m., and men giving flowers to bright-faced girls on the arms of serious-faced boys, complimenting the lady, then asking the gentleman for a donation, and most of all, the museums whose wall hangings changed with the seasons, a constant influx of creation and beauty. Instead of the glow she had imagined, Arista was greeted by fading life and slowly dimming lights. The homeless wandered the streets muttering paranoia under their breath. The bright-faced girls clutched tightly to the arms of those boys, letting fear drip from their fingertips onto the coats of the men they hoped might protect them.

   Arista wanted to mend the city with her camera. She would rid the streets of those stifling the people who held a belief in the power of passion and creation, giving the city a change to breath a new life. Through her lens she would watch the vultures preying on the unassuming street artists and casual photographers, with one swift point of her index finger she would release the shutter and halt the threat with a stealth shot from her camera. Though she had stayed true to her first camera all these years, she needed something faster. Arista remembered a boy from her childhood who lived in the city that could build her a new camera, something quiet, quick and accurate.

   In middle school Arista met Peter. He wore thick-framed glasses and stuttered when he talked about science. It was his favorite subject. Unlike the other kids, Arista didn’t make fun of his stutter and enjoyed listening to him ramble on about the periodic table and the discovery of new elements. Peter was able to see past the horrendous khakis Arista was encouraged to wear and admired her for her unwavering creativity and wit.

   “Its am-ma-ma-mazing how many new elements are discovered every year.” Peter said.

   “Huh, I had no idea. Like what?”

   “Well, last year they discovered t-t-t-two new elements that decay and t-t-t-turn into other elements. Awesome, right?”

   “Yeah, awesome.”

   “Before I d-d-die, I want to discover a n-n-new element. What do you want to do?”

   “Take pictures that will save the world."

   Peter spent his spare time building gadgets and doing science experiments in the dank garage he turned into a private laboratory. His most valued invention was a water bottle that refilled itself using a complex system of external tubing and gathering of moisture from the air. In seventh grade he won the science fair with the water bottle and was sent to a magnet school where he was able to further his interests in science and technology. When he moved, Arista and Peter kept in touch via postal service. His letters were usually written on graph paper in neat, calculated print while hers were scribbled hurriedly on torn sheets from her sketchpad. After high school (from which he graduated two years early), Peter moved into the city where he opened a shop that specialized in repairing rare gadgets and gizmos.

   She appeared in the doorway of his overstuffed shop on 8^th Avenue the next day. Computer parts littered the floor and entangled wiring seemed to creep like vines from every corner. Hunched over a metal table toward the back, Peter quietly cursed the gadget he was attempting to work into submission with a Phillips head.

   “Hello stranger.” She whispered behind him. He jumped at the warmth of her words on his ear and fumbled the screwdriver-impaled toy, letting it clamor on the metal surface.

   “Arista! What are you doing here?” No stutter.

   “I came to ask a huge favor. I was wondering if you could build me a camera.”

   “Ha! Really? Is that all? Of course, what kind do you want? Manual? Digital? Large format?”

   “Manual.”

   “Okay, what kind? What size film do you want use?”

   “Bullets.”

   “What? What is that? Some new brand? That’s a weird name. Is it 35 or 120 film?”

   “I want to shoot more than just film. I want the camera to shoot bullets. Remember when I told you I wanted to save the world with my photos? Well, now you can help me.”

   She explained to Peter her plan. She wanted to liberate the citizens of Ilford from the savage streets. The only thing she could do, the only thing she was good at: aiming.

   “You do realize that if anyone sees you with a camera, you will be put on a watch list? It will be impossible for you to actually do anything to stop the bad guys because they are the ones watching you.”

  “I have to at least try.”

   Peter halted all other projects and spent the next week fervently sculpting a 35 mm camera that would save the city. The lens and coordinating aperture would serve as the barrel where bullets are loaded in the chamber as if gently loading a new roll of film. The advance reel cocked the gun and the shutter release was the trigger.  Now all she needed were targets. This wasn’t exactly what her mom had in mind when she told her to bring life to the city, but Arista would do the best she could.

The Menu

Two coffees, an order of beignets and extra powdered sugar on the side.

My sister always said I was meant for college boys. She clung to this logic because she needed something to explain why I never dated in high school; lesbianism just wasn’t an option. I hoped she was right, and when I told her about Alex she nearly had a heart attack.

He was the first person I met that I wanted to know everything about. We had class together and when he found out that I was new to the city he insisted on taking me to his favorite restaurant just around the corner. I agreed, and followed him down sidewalks with cracked and uneven pavement, attempting to will my clumsy feet into a graceful state of dance. He took me to Café de Lune, off of Hurst Street. It boasted the best meal of sugar and caffeine, and was one of the few places open 24 hours.

He walked into the restaurant and gave a nod of the head, acknowledging the bearded waiter. The waiter returned the nod and said, “Hey man, table for two?” Alex said yes; it was obvious he was a regular. I was already envious of him. This reminded me of my father. Both Alex and my father were instant buddies with everyone they met and had friends at all the places they frequented. Alex had friends at restaurants and coffee shops; my dad had friends at gas stations.

“What’s up, guys? What can I start you out with?”

Alex took the lead.

“Two coffees, an order of beignets and extra powdered sugar on the side.”

I smiled and nodded along, something I was good at doing.

As we ate, the powdered treats left evidence of indulgence on our faces. I watched him intently whenever he spoke, attempting to memorize the contours of his face. When he smiled, his mouth and eyes drew upward creating wrinkles that pointed in the same direction. His thick, dark hair was unruly—it matched his eyes. Sometimes Alex didn’t say anything, he just looked. That look of amusement and intrigue was too disruptive, so I always lost my train of thought.

“Tell me everything about yourself.”

This made me laugh, but I caught a flash of hurt and realized he wasn’t joking.

“Well… I want to live in a trailer park, and a houseboat, and possibly a tree house. Also, I love mummies and zombies. Dead things or things that were once dead fascinate me.”

“I don’t think you really want to live in a trailer park. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“But, I really do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“This is one of those moments where you should just nod your head and smile. Disagreement is my least favorite thing in the world.”

He laughed and took a bite of beignet.  After that, he asked twenty questions and I gave twenty answers. When I was done explaining my family’s history of mental illness and my affinity for smelling old books, we watched awkwardly as the couple sitting next to us let their eyes wander around the room.

“I hate that,” he said. The girl seemed to take a sudden interest in the napkin sitting in her lap and the boy was focused on the wall.

“Hate what?”

“Dates that end up like that. Nothing to say. Just sitting there, looking around hoping someone says something.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We would never have had that problem.

 

Water, water, veggie burger and fish tacos.

            I knew what would happen before it all started, and that is my problem. I know how fucked up I am, but I can’t change and I kind of have to accept it. I know that when I went to high school I didn’t want to be the fat kid anymore so I stopped eating and started working out. I obsessed over calorie intake and shedding pounds, I was a member of three different online diet programs, and I put slim fast on the grocery list. In retrospect that’s a drink for girls, but I do love embracing my feminine side. I know that there is a difference between the girls I would make-out with and the girls I want to date. The former is any girl who sits on my lap at a party while the later is preferably black or bilingual. She was neither of these things, yet she was what I wanted.

Noelle occupied every waking and sleeping moment I had. We met for breakfast almost everyday. I resisted waking up from those dreams about her, so I was usually late.  She didn’t say much in the mornings; her eyes were still tired at eight a.m. yet she could manage a shy smile. During the day, we explored the city, discovering hidden secrets in the rotting streets. On these adventures, Noelle had a camera around her neck and a journal in her bag. Whenever she was inspired, Noelle stopped what she was doing to jot down some poetic line about a street musician or dilapidated building. I envied how she could find beauty in the most unloved things like abandoned homes where vines intertwined with the structure, left without any warning to the things living there. I couldn’t love things like that.

“Noelle, Why do you like these places? They were left for a reason.”

“People forget to give love. Sometimes, they just need reminding.”

She always had to leave her mark on those places. It was usually a small handwritten note with a few sweet lines on it, like “love travels with the wind, step outside.”  When we returned to the houses, she would look to see if any one had left a reply but the world never responded. By the end of the day we’d be too exhausted to cook anything for dinner, so we used our weakened state as an excuse to go out to eat.

She would let me order first so that she could get something different. It was a safety net for our culinary enjoyment, if one of us didn’t like something we would swap. Or, I would just end up eating both of our meals.  

“A water. No straw.”

“Me too.”

“And a veggie burger.”

“I’ll have a fish taco, please.”

The end of the meal was always the same. The waiter would bring our check, she would slowly reach out for it but I always won. She would fumble with her wallet, trying to get exact change, and hastily toss it to me across the table. I tossed it back. She argued. I insisted. Then she would mutter, “Thank you, Alex” in a strange combination of defeat and pleasure. What she didn’t know was that I liked having someone to pay for.

 

The late night special, two waters, one coffee.

            I was great at waiting for him. I think I resented the fact that he had such a hold on me; I didn’t like feeling weak. But I accepted that I was and he wasn’t. When I had nothing to do, I would wait for him to call. I never called him. I didn’t want to bother him, or make him think I was desperate, or show any sign of truly being attached. I would just hope that he was thinking about me and would call. He usually did. 

            I would follow him to the restaurant at anytime. If he called in the middle of the night, I would scramble out of bed, throw on some clean clothes and rush outside and wait under the street lamp. When he finally came, I felt like a dreamy high school couple from the 1950’s. I was the head cheerleader and he was the quarterback hearth throb. We would waltz into the local diner, run into our friends from school and exchange pleasantries before sitting down to share a meal of burgers and milkshakes—one milkshake, two straws. When I got cold, as I inevitably would, he would offer me his letterman jacket. The patch-covered jacket weighed heavy on my shoulders but I would wear it proudly. After he walked me home, we said our solemn goodbyes. Wishing the night didn’t have to end, I would shrug off the jacket and reluctantly return it. A kiss on the cheek would end the night in blushing and smiles.

            These little daydreams only lasted a few seconds. When Alex finally arrived, we walked in silence. At first, I looked forward to our walks. They were usually accompanied by playful arguments about film and music; for some reason he didn’t find any cinematic merit in zombie movies. But as the seasons changed, so did we, and the walks started getting colder. He wouldn’t offer me his jacket, I would have to ask. 

            When we got to the restaurant, we were seated in our favorite spot and the silence wasn’t broken until the waitress with the missing tooth and grey, unkempt hair came up to the table.

“What’ll you be having tonight?” Her voice was rough, her fingers stained. I wondered if she had once been homeless.

            “The late night special, and a water.”

            “Make that two waters, one coffee.” I needed caffeine to stay awake while I watched him eat.

            We were quiet for most of the meal and it made me nervous. I didn’t like silence, unless of course I was in a silent-dinner-kind-of-mood. But I wasn’t and I want him to speak. When the toothless waitress brought the check, Alex looked up at me for the first time since we had placed our orders.

            “Hey, um, would you mind paying? I bought us dinner last night, so—“

            “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

            “I mean, if this were a date I would pay and all.”

Chocolate cake, coffee, and queso. In that order.

The make-out corner was perpetually occupied by a couple with magnetized lips and hands. The horniest couples sat on the same side of the table and they didn’t waste time. Most of them were drunk, and their belligerence usually provided great entertainment. The first time Noelle and I deemed it the “make-out corner” was when a middle-aged couple came in at two in the morning, ordered beer, pancakes and more beer, and proceeded to pound their fists on the table. We re-enacted this scene several times over the next few days, it was hilarious.

Then it was our turn. 

“You know where we are, don’t you?”

“Yes I do.” I winked and blew her a kiss. She fake-winced and then laughed.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything. We can take it slow if you want to.” She spoke so dryly, and with such a serious face I could never tell when she was joking.

“Well, um, for starters, we should probably get married. Then, I’m thinking, have about seven kids. Maybe nine? Then we can go from there.”

I realized that I couldn’t imagine us fulfilling the duties of a couple in the make-out corner. I wanted to, but I didn’t think I could. I wanted to take her face in my hands and show her, not tell her, how I felt. I wanted to rest my fingertips on her lower back, putting a light pressure on the bottom of her spine to let her know I was there. But I didn’t do any of these things and she didn’t ask me to. The waiter appeared at our table and broke my train of thought, I was glad. I didn’t like thinking about this. I just wanted to be happy with where we were.

“My name is Jean-Marc and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Can I get you started with anything? Drinks? Appetizers?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t mind watching her eat.

“Just chocolate cake and coffee please.”

“Alrighty folks, I’ll have that right out for ya.”

“Oh, Jean-Marc? Could we also get an order of queso?”

“You’ve got it.”

I gave her a surprised look, and she returned it with one of nonchalance.

“What? I’m hungry.”

 

Water, please, and two buttermilk pancakes with scrambled eggs.

            I had been displaced by lust. My roommate had stumbled into our room with her girlfriend and proceeded with the fumbling and moans that result from getting shitfaced at three in the morning. They were shrouded in darkness but their presence was made known by the wet noises of their hunger. I decided to leave. I considered my options: sleeping in my car, call Alex and hope that he answers the phone, or got to the restaurant. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone; fuming over food alone in a restaurant sounding much more appealing. Besides, Alex had been in one of his moods lately and I didn’t want to fight for his attention this early in the morning. 

It was my first time to eat alone there and it was depressing but at least I could get something to eat. The three a.m. crowd at the restaurant was drunk and hungry too. I had the toothless waitress again; I think she always worked the night shift.

            “Where’s your boyfriend?” I didn’t correct her by saying we were just friends.

            “He’s asleep, I came alone this morning.”

            “Catching up on his beauty sleep, I suppose. What can I do you for?”

            “Water, please, and two buttermilk pancakes with scrambled eggs.” She smiled at this.

            “That’s what my father used to make me when I was a kid.”

“Me too, I still ask for it when I go home.”

“It was my favorite meal. Whenever I hear the batter sizzle on the pan, I feel like I’m eight and its 1958, and my daddy’s making me pancakes for breakfast with a glass of milk on Sunday morning after church. Buttermilk pancakes will always remind me of where I was at that time.”

Her leathery skin and graying hair was deceiving; when you look closely, you notice that her eyes hadn’t aged along with the rest of her body. I hoped that mine never would either, but I think they had already begun.

 

The special, crawfish fettuccini, two waters, and pecan pie for dessert.

            I hated those talks. I had so many of them, in cars, in restaurants, in the special spots I would take them to. This one was different. It wasn’t the end of anything. It was more like a pause. Noelle knew it, too. We had grown so comfortable with everything, but nothing would come of it.

            We hadn’t been to the restaurant in a long time. I told her I was trying to save money but really I just didn’t want to be there. The same people went there every day. They ordered the same food and gave the same shitty tips to the same over worked waiters who regurgitated the same “Thanks guys, come again” even when they wished they wouldn’t come again. I loved being a regular, but I didn’t want to fall into that pattern with them. I don’t think Noelle would have minded the pattern, most of the time I think she only went there for me.

            I thought it was right to take her back there. I considered the possibility that it would go horribly wrong, she would storm out of the restaurant and I would have to chase her down the sidewalk before she took off into obscurity. But then I remembered it was Noelle and she would never do that and I would never have to chase her.

            The lunch crowd was pretty heavy but we ended up in our favorite section with our favorite friendly waiter, Jean-Marc.

            “My name is Jean-Marc, I’ll be your waiter this afternoon. Can I get you started with anything? Drinks? Appetizers?” Yes, we know your name is Jean-Marc.

            “I think we’re going to share the special, crawfish fettuccini. And water for me, please.”

            “I’ll have water also.”

            We sat there without saying anything for too long. I watched her face and she didn’t look away from my eyes until I spoke. Somehow I always ended up speaking first.

            “So, I’ve been thinking.”

            “Mhmm.” She rested her elbows on the table and let her hands curl up under her jaw. This was her ‘I’m ready to hear what you have to say but it better be good’ stance.

            “I was thinking about us. I think we should just stay friends.”

            “I’ve been thinking about that too, I was—”

            “We’re too comfortable. Where we are is good. I wanted to go somewhere, but I can’t.”

            “Right, I totally agree.” I don’t think she did.

            “We’re still best friends, right?”

            “Of course.” She blushed and looked away.

            I said something crass involving the word “vagina” to break the tension; I kept forgetting that never worked with Noelle. We enjoyed our meal, or at least I did. She didn’t eat much but agreed to share a slice of pie, she never could resist sugar. She smiled a lot. I wondered if she smiled because she was actually happy or because she thought that was what I wanted to see. I didn’t ask. 

Short Story

after writing our first lines and choosing our favorites, we were asked to write a short story with one line. this one is kind of silly and was written very last minute but it was still fun.

Old Hazel’s illustrious beard grew thick and wild, down to the ground, and served as a storage device for baubles, knick-knacks, and afternoon snacks. He lived in quiet solitude on the outskirts of an even quieter town, detached from society yet always connected by the beard. Though the rest of his mop was a pearly white, his manly mane remained the color of his warm eyes. It was that rich hazel gaze which earned him his name.

Inexplicably, Hazel had been graced with a billowing beard his entire life. While it served many practical purposes such as warmth in the winter and everyday storage, oftentimes he found it tiresome. At a young age, Hazel had left his home village to start anew after suffering an irreparably damaged broken heart. He had fallen in love with a certain Cassidy Blair. Her strawberry locks encircled her face and she smelled of sweet honey, her favorite treat. Hazel could spend minutes, hours, and days counting the freckles that accented her ivory skin.  Cassidy too was enamored by Hazel and loved everything about him, especially his out of control beard. When Hazel asked her father for Cassidy’s hand in marriage, the stubborn old man denied each their happiness, citing the beard as the problem. Cassidy’s father did not wish for his daughter to marry such a man with freakishly voluminous facial hair.

Unable to persuade Mr. Blair, Hazel packed his most valued items in his glorious beard and fled for a new town where he might not suffer such heartbreak. Isolated from human contact and left to dwell upon the past, Hazel grew older and lonelier by the day. With each passing minute, his beard seemed to expand and continued to encompass his body. The villagers became wary of the monstrous growth his facial hair, and Hazel feared he might once more be forced to leave. Yet, Hazel realized, he didn’t really care what they thought of his beard. After spending such a long time in one attitude resentful of his own face, Hazel wanted to love once more. He wanted to finally love his beard and embrace its bounty. At that moment of realization, his beard ceased to grow at an enormous rate. He was able to trim it, shape it, and shave it without it immediately regenerating and coiling to the ground. From then on, Hazel lived in perfect harmony with his beard.