waiting for her

Early morning, late January. Chunks of sun-stressed ice fell from the gutters outside

while I waited for her eyes to open.

Clenching my arm, her grip betrayed tranquility.

She constantly demanded attention, even in slumber.

I stared at this silent version of her, one which finally received respite

from the demons it spent each waking hour sparring.

I watched and waited, for her eyes to open.

Artist: Wendy Heldmann

sugar sunday

They sat in their underwear on his gold velvet couch, eating doughnuts like unsupervised children.

Glazed lips and powdery breath fused sugar smiles, while morning became afternoon, somewhere else.

(Photo: self)

roy g. biv

And I kissed him and he kissed me back so softly, like an insect’s cellophane wing, a miniature stained glass window so fine it's almost invisible. He was a prism’s glint at the right angle, the multicolored echo in an oil stain when viewed in the proper light.

Artist: Jonathan Viner

off-season

I looked for shells- the ridged, potato chip kind- and baby sand dollars mostly. Sea glass was scarce there. I had stopped searching for it long ago.

Ankle deep in the September water, I bent down and dipped a perfect half clam just below the surface, careful not to collect too much sand. I sipped the freezing brine, then scooped up another and yelled against the current for him to come taste it.

From up the beach he could see my mouth moving, but the wind had stolen my words.

Photo: Natacha Merritt

streetsaint

As I approached the intersection, I looked up through streaked eyes and noticed a businessman, perhaps even a young father, walking towards me from the opposite direction. Our eyes met and I felt my lip break and for a moment, as he drew closer, I thought he might take me in his arms.

And he did. And I let him, the pair of us standing there on the corner in a silent embrace, his suit jacket scratching my cheek and absorbing the runoff from my wet face. Then with a tight squeeze, like punctuation, he gently freed himself and continued on, leaving me there to wonder if it had ever happened at all.

(Artist: unknown)

bodybag

She was almost glad olfactory privilege had escaped her, so each night when she returned home from work she didn't have to smell those lilies, permeating the apartment like a funeral home.

They had arrived at her office on the morning of her twenty-eighth birthday. She remembered guilty disappointment when the contents of the shrunken envelope revealed that they were sent by her parents instead of him. She took the flowers home that night after dropping the card in the trash under her desk. The florist had misspelled her name.

After nearly a week of mentally coaxing them to expire, the last stalk in the bunch quit. Setting the vase on the kitchen counter, she threw a black plastic garbage bag over the whole mess, a miniature abduction. Sealing the bag tight, she left it by the front door, where it waited to be carted out of her life like so many prior letdowns.

Artist: Ernesto Caivano

hijack

So much movement I wanted to--I wanted you near me in the sand, sun and grist burning my skin when you'd press against me, leaning in just to say hey.

Those brown eyes would absorb all of the sunlight, yet somehow remain just as dark as they were last winter, the rest of you so jaundiced.

(Artist: unknown)

llegadas

She arrived at Boston Logan from West Palm Beach, the evidence of her latest bender all over her body. He met her at the gate; her bleached white hair was visible from across the gangway. As she drew closer, he also noticed that her once auburn locks were not the only casualty of her recent spree. Most of her left eyebrow had been plucked clear off, and what remained of both was dyed blinding white to match.

Grinning, she cradled a brown leather satchel suspiciously against her body. He leaned in to embrace her and she backed away with a concerned yelp. Reaching into the bag, she produced an albino kitten.

"What should we name him?" she inquired impishly.

"How about...Peroxide?" he suggested, giving her another once over and shaking his head in concerned amusement. Amused because she was adorable. Concerned, because he didn't know how she managed without him.

"Roxie," she agreed, smiling at him through jittery eyes.

artist: julie west

x

And as soon as he answered the phone, all she could hear were giddy shrieks from what sounded like a little girl, in the background.

"Hello?" he laughed into the receiver. She could smell the hotel from 3,000 miles away. He told her that he and the stripper had been holed up, fucking for days against the strobing light of a stolen construction horse, which they had managed to sneak past the front desk and into his room on their way back from the bar.

"Shit," she said shaking her head. "You're either my new hero or the antichrist."

The cacophony of laughter continued, both X and his girl hopped up and shouting portions of stories into her ear before dissolving into fits of co-mingled giggles.

"X- your girlfriend's giving me seizures," she sighed impatiently. "Call me back after she leaves."

There was an unintelligible reply and then the receiver went dead. It was too perfect, the pair of them lying around jacked up and naked until they both heard helicopters.

artist: stephanus

bad tourists

Back in their hotel bathroom he shook the contents of the twisted, cellophane bag onto the grey marble countertop while she habitually rolled a bill between the first three fingers of each hand. Though it felt somewhat sacrilegious using foreign currency to such an end, it was undeniably thrilling. Curling the note she studied the contrast between her thumbnails, bitten to the quick, and her long manicured index fingers, and as he ground the jaundiced talc into an even number of neat lines, she recalled the first time he made her dinner years ago. It wasn't what they ate that made her smile, rather the fact that he had given them the same size portions. To her it implied that he viewed them as equals, and though she never acknowledged it outloud, was reminded of it each time he cooked for her.

Nine hours, twelve beers, three pocket-sized bottles of assorted minibar liquor, two missed flights and countless larks in the cool, starchy sheets later she informed the front desk in fragmented Spanish that they were interested in staying another night. At that point they had silently conceded that they were no good to anyone but each other, not fit for public consumption she mentally crowned them with a laugh.

The next afternoon a thin stream of midday light pierced the room where the synthetic drapes failed to meet. It shot across the worn carpet, dividing the room into nearly equal segments. Aside from the light, the only indication of daytime was housekeeping's repeated attempts to enter the room. Completely disregarding the flimsy plastic No Me Molestes sign that dangled uselessly from the knob, the maid continuously rapped on the door in short, staccato bursts while calling out in exasperation. Though the words weren't entirely familiar, her tone was telling.

Fetal on the king size bed she awaited death, wished for it even. "Get in here," he called from the shower. "You'll feel a hundred times better."

As the television blared from across the room, her synapses began stuttering like cerebral Morse Code. Particles of glitter appeared in her periphery, dusting her vision with a cascade of tiny strobing lights. They soon gave way to the sound of running water in the bathroom.

She slowly rolled onto her back and was immediately filled with regret upon rousing the caustic nausea that dwelled in her abdomen, a beet-faced infant that refused to be quelled. Though all too familiar with the consequence of self-inflicted toxicity, the insatiable gnawing pained her nonetheless.

Lying motionless, she stared up at the ceiling at a small watermark that was shaped like Texas. She thought back to her second grade teacher with the exotic drawl, who smoked Kools and had persistent coffee breath. She remembered those webbed toes, which the young teacher would delight and horrify them with when the weather turned warm.

"We need to leave in twenty minutes" he prodded. "Are you coming in?" His voice echoed slightly off the bathroom tiles, instantly dimming the bulb in her mind's projector.

"Coming," she mustered, again focusing on the cork ceiling and wondering if anyone else ever had the urge to jab a pushpin into it.

Artist: Jonathan Viner

out of reach

Winter

Don’t Touch the Dancers warned a sign posted on the streaked mirror behind the large oak bar. Lost in conversation, they hardly noticed the ample black woman lying on the thinly carpeted platform behind them, dejected in body language and expression.

Drinks in hand, they occasionally paused to watch her carelessly tossed her leg in the air like an unenthusiastic aerobics instructor. From time to time, they noticed the vacant look on her face and unaffected way she moved to the metal classics which blared from the speakers above. While the details of their first conversation have long since been forgotten, the impact he made on her that Valentine’s Day resonated, like the image of the dancer’s abundant, dimpled flesh against the flimsy lace thong that was helpless to contain it.

Two weeks later, he brought her to his oceanside town, halcyonic and deserted in the off-season. After passing strings of perfectly maintained Victorian houses they pulled up alongside the waterfront and parked. They wandered across the hard, winter-packed sand and stood motionless at the water’s edge. While the ocean splashed icy foam onto the tips of their boots, a concentrated heat gathered in her ears, warm at first and then slightly stinging. It radiated outward until her exposed lobes pulsed gently, saturated with tiny pinpricks that were at once hot and cold. He turned away from the water to face her and noticing the creeping redness, gently covered her ears with his hands. She continued to hear the ocean in the empty space created by his cupped palms.

Summer

Surveying the assortment of pastel treasures, she chose a single chocolate cupcake without hesitation. It was the only confident decision she’d managed to make in months. After waiting in line in the oven-fresh space amid the sugary din, she paid the overzealous cashier and left. As she peered back through the window, she witnessed a young, aproned punk rocker tenderly frosting a never-ending supply of tiny cakes, handheld celebrations.

She walked west down the narrow, tree-lined street as people’s lights flickered on one by one. The air was thick with late summer’s regret, which hovered densely in the atmosphere like wistful molasses. It was a familiar lament, a tinge of sadness whose origin couldn’t be traced to any particular source. She walked straight into the invisible fog as if on cue, half-expected yet unwelcomed. It was impossible not to ingest the small, unidentifiable loss with each breath.

Fall

Nearly late for another flight, he kissed her as she slept and slipped into the morning to catch a taxi. It was the third time in a month work drew him back. When she awoke, she lie in bed watching the shadows the highway traffic made as they danced across the borders of her wall. They moved from left to right, conventionally, then right to left, like Hebrew and sometimes simultaneously in both directions, pausing only briefly as dictated by the traffic lights.

She swept her pale arm across the bed, a snow angel in the down, and was momentarily startled when her limb met no resistance. Reminded of his absence, she longed for a presence in her generous bed, to be eaten up while the skipping shadows amused themselves in the background. Alone, she felt her present disappear into her past.

She dialed his number and sighed as the call went straight to voicemail. Closing her eyes, she drew her hand to her warm stomach and imagined his plane heading west over a large cartoon map of the United States, little dashed red lines marking its trail. 35,000 feet above and completely out of reach. Three feet away and equally out of reach.

Image: French broadcasting system test pattern