weather Patterns
a story anthology
foreword Human relationships are both chaotic and predictable: while we have no idea who we’ll meet, or what will happen to us, there’s a certain consistency which makes society possible, with certain elements and motifs repeating themselves throughout the history of our interactions. And just as a butterfly flapping its wings might cause a hurricane, each individual experience and story builds the world of culture that we live in. The weather has always reflected our emotions - we say that someone who is cheerful has a sunny disposition, or that someone who is argumentative is stormy. This collection of short fictions is an experiment that discusses an old metaphor, covering romantic, platonic, and family relationships. These are expressed across a range of different weather conditions, and explore the nuances that these convey. Each author chose their own topic, and constructed their own idea of what that weather condition might represent. As such, this is a body of works that share a concept, but that embody a range of beliefs and perspectives. I sincerely hope that you will enjoy their work. Richard Shu Editor
EditorMasao Dahlgren LAYOUTsAM SOON
And he said also to the people, When ye see a cloud rise out of the west, straightway ye say, There cometh a shower; and so it is. And when ye see the south wind blow, ye say, There will be heat; and it cometh to pass. Ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky and of the earth; but how is it that ye do not discern this time? Luke 12:54-56
Table of
contents Old WeatherFraser Polar EasterliesEmmy SleetEvan FrostYves HailVivian Softly, SweetlyNatasha Clear SkiesAnonymous
old weather fraser jones Erich blew hard. That way, any dust would leave the tape, hopefully, as to ensure the highest quality playback. Erich had no proof that this worked. He just did it because that’s what he did every night for as long as he could remember, because old weather was just that important to him. Tonight’s tape was a special one, the “great” Atlanta blizzard of ’88, a record of four whole inches. Erich didn’t remember much about the night of the actual blizzard. It was cold, probably, but the TV still worked and the power stayed on long enough for him to capture it. To insert the brand new tape in the VHS recorder, press the red button, sit down in front of his microwave meal, and enjoy the broadcasted catastrophe. He would continue to enjoy this catastrophe, along with many others, for many years to come, most likely for all his remaining years to come, assuming the tape wouldn’t collect too much dust. If anyone ever asked him why he recorded the weather, which no one ever did, Erich would probably just tell them to fuck off. He liked watching the weather, that’s all, and even re-watching it, over and over, till the tape broke or until he felt the event was insignificant enough to record over, to be replaced by another storm, a blizzard, a drought, a hurricane, anything worth recording. The blizzard looked the same as it always had in Erich’s eyes, all white and beautiful, something to get lost in. There was something about the tape that made Erich feel warm, a feeling he could not explain, even if he had someone to explain it to. The tape lasted one hour exactly,
but tonight Erich felt like fast forwarding through the commercials and getting straight to the good stuff. He was running slightly behind his normal schedule and wanted to make sure he was ready, with a new tape in hand, for the nightly weather at 9. When 9 rolled around the tape was finished and the remaining bits of mashed potatoes were cold, Erich looked out the window. A pitter patter noise called his attention. Must be a little rain, Erich thought to himself. However, these droplets were not enough to distract him from the glowing box in front of him. It was time to consume some new weather and, of course, record it. He put the new tape in carefully and hit the red button. The best part of his day, every day. “Breaking news for all you weather fanatics out there,” said Carla McNeil, Erich’s favorite modern weather woman. That’s me, Erich thought, Carla is talking to me. “An unexpected hurricane is currently headed right for Atlanta. Please be cautious –“ That was it. That was all Carla could say to Erich tonight. The TV went black, the tape recorder froze, the only lit lamp in the house no longer burned. Fucking power outage, Erich thought. Of all times for one of these bastards to strike, why did it have to be tonight? During what seemed like a genuine local catastrophe, live before his very eyes. It would have been while Erich sat in his cubicle or while he filled up his Chevy tank or even while he bought 2-for1 Kirkland polo-knit short sleeve shirts. But no, the god damn power outage just had to strike now. Erich couldn’t answer why, he had no God or shaman or Magic 8 ball to supply the answer either. He just knew the answer probably lied out there, outside this dark and barely furnished house that wasn’t quite a home. So that’s where Erich went. Outside. The one place he hated most, especially in the rain. With only an umbrella and his penny loafers, Erich wandered around
his suburban yard. Maybe there was some metal box with a switch to fix everything? No, probably not, and even if there was one Erich had no idea where in the hell it would be. Perhaps a power line was down? Yep, must be a damn power line down somewhere on the block, and all Erich had to do was find it, call the police, well, maybe just the cable provider, and tell them to hurry up and fix this shit. Then maybe, just maybe, the power would be back and the TV would glow and the recorder would spin and the lone lamp would burn as it always had. Before the news ended at 10. But Erich couldn’t find a fallen power line or an answer to his problems. Everything seemed normal, or as normal as it probably always looked at 9:07 PM on a Tuesday in Erich’s neighborhood. Aside form the fact that it was raining, of course, and probably raining the hardest it ever had in Atlanta. Everything was soaked in the matter of minutes that Erich had been outside, even his penny loafers, right down to the sole. Erich wondered if it would ever stop raining or if rain normally felt this cold. He would ask someone, if he had someone to ask. All the neighbors stayed safely inside their pitch black houses. Erich had to be the only living creature that decided not to take shelter when this hurricane hit. But he, unlike most of the lazy neighbors, had a damn mission, he needed to keep recording. As Erich continued to walk the streets and see parts of his neighborhood and his world he had never seen before, even in the day time, a car pulled up. A van, actually. Its headlights left Erich in a state of temporary blindness, perhaps even fear. There had to be someone behind those bright lights. And that someone came to a stop, soon emerging from their van and heading straight towards Erich. There were two someone’s, one holding a camera with a bright light on top, the other holding a microphone. Erich couldn’t believe it, or maybe didn’t want
to believe it. Behind the mic was a legend, a goddess, a true role model for all South Eastern weathermen and weatherwomen. “Excuse me, sir,” shouted Carla McNeil, her voice almost silencing the loud drum of thousands of droplets. “I’m Carla McNeil with –“ “I know,” said Erich, his voice only a whisper. “Oh, well then, I assume you are a local resident, would you mind answering some questions about the hurricane in your area?” “Not at all. I mean, no, I’d be happy to answer any questions you got.” “Perfect. Would you mind telling me what happened when the storm started?” Erich thought as hard as he could but couldn’t come up with an answer. Gah, that light on the camera was so damn bright. What happened though, what the hell happened? Carla was on the TV talking to him, then what? She appeared, actually talking to him, that’s about everything he could recall. “Sir?” asked Carla McNeil. Carla McNeil ran her hand through her soaking blonde hair. She turned to the cameraman and shook her perfectly sculpted head. “Cut it, this guy’s a dud.” “Before the cameraman could follow Carla McNeil’s orders, Erich responded. “I, I went outside and felt the rain. There was lots of it. There’s still lots of it and my power is out.” “Alrighty, thank you, sir.” “That’s all? Do you want me to say anything else, Ms. McNeil?” “It’s actually Mrs. But no thanks, that’s about all we need. Tonight’s hour is wrapping up and we got families to get home to.” “But where can I see it? Where can I see our conversation if it’s live right now and my power is out?” “I don’t know. TiVo? Youtube if the station likes
the segment enough. Or catch the 11 o’clock rerun. Thanks, guy.” The camera light went out. The two headed back inside their warm, dry van and soon disappeared, back to their families. Erich stood still, thinking how Carla wasn’t what he imagined all these years. Actually, she was kind of a sonuvabitch. Or a daughteruvabitch. Erich kept standing, still and wet and almost numb. He felt like crying, for some odd he reason he couldn’t explain, even if he had someone to explain it to. He knew if he cried, the rain would wash away all the evidence, even if there were people that would see the evidence. On his walk home, Erich was no longer sure whether or not he was crying. It was still raining so hard that he couldn’t see or feel the evidence, the wet tears. I guess that’s what hurricanes do, he thought, as he finally walked through his back door. Erich sat in his living room until the power came back on. It didn’t take too long, but long enough for the rain and tears to transfer from his shirt and body onto the couch and rug. It didn’t matter, he thought, no one else would sit there anyway. The TV glowed again. Erich grew a slight smile. He liked the way it looked and sounded, he always had. The hour from 10 to 11 seemed to fly by, though Erich would never be able to recall what was on the screen in front of him at that time. He just kept thinking about all these new parts of his neighborhood he saw, these new parts of the world he saw. There were unkempt bushes and sidewalk cracks and even flowers. They were all dark and wet tonight, but they were still there tonight, just existing. Erich liked that. He hoped they would still be there tomorrow. When 11 rolled around, Erich hear the familiar sound of Carla’s voice. It didn’t have the same ring to it this time, however. She said the same thing as she did at
9, about the hurricane, about caution. She went on to talk about staying in doors, about how Tennessee would probably be wet tomorrow, something like that. But before Erich knew it, he saw his own face. He heard his own voice. “There’s still lots of it and my power is out.” Erich leaped up from his couch like he never had before. He wanted to rewind the tape, he wanted to hear his voice and see his face again, even if it meant he couldn’t record the rest of the segment. But Erich couldn’t see his face or hear his voice like he wanted to. The recorder never started up again, even when the power came back on. Carla McNeil’s voice was the only thing on the tape. There was no Erich, no evidence that he was ever broadcasted to the whole world, no evidence that he left his house or ever lived. Erich sat down on the carpet, the tape held firmly in his hand. For some reason, he didn’t really care that he wasn’t on the tape, he didn’t to care about what was or what wasn’t on any of the hundreds of tapes, actually. As Erich laid down on the carpet, his clothes and body still soaked, he could only think about what his neighborhood might look like tomorrow, what the world might look like tomorrow, and the next day and the day after that. When all the clouds were gone and everything was dry and back to normal as it always had been, but still different than it always had been, before the hurricane. Erich wondered what those flowers would look like when the droplets dried up, when they could stand tall and alone and be okay with that. Erich liked this thought. It tucked him in as he fell asleep on the carpet, the TV still glowing, as he finally felt ready to wake up tomorrow and see whatever he would get to see.
polar easterlies Emmy Tuchmann
When she arrived, I would be found waiting.
I sighed, leaning against the metal pole holding up the sign for the bus. It was late, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. After living in this Connecticut town all my life, I knew the bus had never once arrived on time. Still, I showed up early that evening, 17 minutes ahead of schedule.
The wind was blowing cold against my face, and I shut my eyes. When she arrived, I would be found with my eyes closed.
“Marnie!”
I opened my eyes with a start, and she wrapped her arms around me, her infectious grin brightening the cloudy day. I smiled back at her. Her bag, obscenely large, was slung about one shoulder. Her hair was springing out of the ponytail holder she had perched on top of her head, completely unkempt- the bus ride was a long one, she came all the way from the west coast. Why anyone would ever want to visit Mansfield, Connecticut, I still couldn’t be sure. “Oh my god, Imani. I’m going to fall, I’m going to fall-“ I shrieked. I struggled away from her heavy embrace, and managed to straighten up. “Let’s get inside,” I said, rubbing my hands together before pushing them back into my pockets. “It’s fucking freezing out here.” When we got inside, she threw her bag down in the entryway before she collapsed heavily onto the couch. “I’m so tired. Why am I so tired? I was literally on the bus for the past, I don’t know, forever. It’s not like I was doing anything.” She stretched her arms up in the air before dropping her hands over her eyes. “Goodnight forever.” “You don’t want some food or something?” That got her up in no time. Still, she went to sleep early. I tried to use this time to prepare for her visit better. I brought down blankets, an unused pillow, dug out the old camping sleeping pad from the back corner of the attic. Her visits were becoming few and far between, and she rarely announced herself ahead of time. She never really had. I hadn’t known she was coming today until my phone buzzed to signal her call, an hour before the bus was supposed to arrive. Unbelievable. Just when I was starting to get used to life alone. It was a still life, a stagnant life. But I had come to terms with it. “You’re going to fuck everything up, aren’t you.”
Sleeping, she made no reply. I decided to take that as a yes. I grabbed an extra blanket for myself when I went to bed. The cold still hadn’t left my bones. I woke up early, a weak sunbeam finding its way between my curtains. The sky still had a faded hue, the world blue and washed out. I glanced over at the sleeping form of Imani. Only her hair, a tangled, curly dark thundercloud above her head, poked up from beneath the covers. As silently as I could manage, I stretched, bones cracking, before groggily making my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Then did some homework assignments. Made breakfast. The day finally began, turning as grey and dull as yesterday. I washed dishes. I waited. And, finally, Imani awoke. “What’s cooking?” She rubbed her eyes, smiling up at me. “Smells really good.” “Well, what was cooking was breakfast. Veggie bacon-“ She made a face at this, as though she hadn’t just been praising the scent of it five seconds ago, “omelette, all that. It was pretty amazing. Too bad you weren’t around for it.” “I’d like to order the continental breakfast, please.” “There’s no room service offered here.” “What kind of shitty hotel is this?” “One that is run by a deadbeat student who only cooks for one.” Naturally, I ended up making her the food anyways. I didn’t really mind. Cooking for two, as my mother liked to say, is always better than cooking for one. She would hate to know how often I was cooking for one nowshe had never been one to treasure solitude. Neither had I, really. It was no wonder dad couldn’t stand us. “Okay, so. You have some explaining to do.” I sat on the ground in front of her as she dug into her breakfast. She probably, I realized, hadn’t eaten much yesterday on
that long bus ride. “What are you even doing here?” She seemed to chew her food slower than usual before she spoke. “I don’t know. I just wanted to come see you, I guess. It’s been a while. I do miss you a lot, you know.” I didn’t say anything. Silence always made her squirm, and she put her plate carefully on the blanket. “Things at home just weren’t super great. Dad was getting really mad at me for leaving school, as if I’m not working and taking vocal lessons and getting gigs, as if all that is nothing. I guess he wants me to get out into the world and, I don’t know, magically get employed and cure all disease or something. And you know what he’s like when he’s angry… it never ends. And mom never says anything about it… you know the drill. So I left. He probably just needs some time to cool down or whatever. I figured you wouldn’t mind me staying for a little bit, like I used to. I don’t have to though. I mean, if you want, I can just go to some motel nearby or some-“ “God, Imani, I’m not going to ask you to leave.” I sighed, pushing my hair back from my eyes. “I just… I didn’t even know you were going to come, you just showed up- it’s fine, it’s not as though I had any other plans, it’s just… it was sudden, is all. I mean…” I picked at the carpet. “I haven’t talked to you in so long. Whatever. I’m happy to see you again.” She picked up her plate from the ground, and resumed eating. She was smiling. “I’ve really missed you, I’m serious, it’s just that everything has been super hectic for me, and I barely even had time to talk to Jean-“ her little brother, I hadn’t seen him since she moved out, “so it’s not as if I was trying to avoid you or anything like that. Honest. I’ll do a better job keeping up once all of this shit dies down some.” A lie. That was a lie. She always said that. Plate emptied, she stood, leaning forward to kiss
me gently before walking over to the kitchen. She knew me now, she knew what tricks I would fall for. She knew her lips were my favorite thing about her- full and soft, always gentle. Her kisses were once my downfall. But even that couldn’t make me believe her anymore, not yet. I suddenly felt cold, goosebumps rising on my skin. I shivered. “Hey, do you have a dishwasher?” “No, you’ll have to handwash them. You really should have picked a nicer hotel.” I didn’t turn to look at her, instead standing and walking through the open door to my bedroom. I made my bed, taking time to fluff the pillows, to smooth the sheetsI hated my hands idle, which gave me a meticulously clean apartment. The icy tightness in my chest would not yet let me occupy these anxious hands with her, with the warm embraces and touches we once shared before she had moved away. Before she had moved back home, and my life had halted here. By now, I knew even she could not disrupt it. When she lived nearby, it was like a whirlwind had been released in my home, in my life. She dragged me wherever she went, and I came willingly, starstruck, in awe. She stayed in motels and went to clubs, sometimes travelling all the way to New York to find the good ones, where she sang and danced, sometimes paid in cash, sometimes paid in drinks and dinner. She always had me there, often able to convince whatever venue to let me sneak backstage to use all that helpful Stage Tech knowledge I had stored up from high school, a hobby she knew I still loved, though high school seemed far behind me now. We both grew up here, went to the same elementary schools, went to the same parks and the same movie theaters, but somehow managed to shine more than anyone. Maybe this was why she was so glad to move
to California, a place where people shined just like her. When she came here, it was only for a day or two. Why she did, why she would travel so far just to see me, would always be a mystery. At this point, her visits did nothing but show me what my life had become. “Hey, Marnie!” I jumped as she flicked cold water on the back of my neck. “What are your plans for the day?” “I…” I just shrugged. She only looked disappointed for a moment. “Well, it’s your day off, right?” I can’t believe she remembered that- I’d had that same waitressing job at the diner for such a long time, and my schedule still had not changed since I last saw her. “We can just, you know, go visit our old haunts or something. I refuse to stay in all day after that ridiculous bus ride yesterday.” “Sure.” I smiled. She would never fail to bring me, however so slightly, out of any dark place. I laughed. If this girl, who came and went so swiftly, was the light of my life, then I was totally screwed. Together, we roamed the town- the town I had to force myself to face every day, the dreary place that I grew up in, went to school in, would probably die in for all I knew. I hated it, but I stayed. I stayed for the days she was here, and it became home again. That day, we did everything and nothing. We visited the old park, with the swing set that squeaked so loudly we had to stop after just a few moments. Here, we remembered that time when a bird rammed into my bedroom window during a sleepover in 6th grade, and she led a solemn funeral for it, eulogizing as I carefully dug a perfect, round hole in the earth. My mom had cried, just a little bit, as she watched from the kitchen window. We climbed over the gate that barred outsiders from the old water tower, a crumbling structure full of broken beer bottles and cigarettes. Here, I recalled the time when we were 11 and she told me
she wanted to marry me, but I didn’t say a word. I don’t think she remembered it. We went to the diner, not the new chain I worked at, but the old one with plastic seats cracked and sticky, and we split an order of greasy, cheap fries. We talked, we remembered, we recalled. We did nothing new. I had memorized this place, and so had she, from the old days when she lived here. Still, it was better with her. Her laughter made me feel more awake than I had felt in months. We kissed everywhere we went, and it seemed, for a moment, that these old places, these old memories were new again. When we left the diner that night, I told her I still loved her, and she smiled wide.
The next day, she left. I folded her blankets, tucked them away in the closet. I threw the sleeping pad in the attic corner before getting in bed. I closed my eyes.
And I waited. I would be found waiting.
sleet Evan Marcey
Rhonda watching out living room window, checking email for work update, awaiting cancellation, road closure, transit stoppage – no news as of yet, forecast to be finalized during night. If temperature picks up: rain (no closure); if temperature drops: snow (closure); goddamn weather can’t make up its mind. Charlotte municipal services not prepared for inclement winter weather, not enough snow tires, not enough plows, not enough salt: won’t be able to get anywhere. She stokes fire, kisses me on back of head, joins on couch, says she’s going to set an alarm just in case so she can take a look at the weather and hopefully crawl right back into bed; say: that sounds nice; she says: wanna watch a movie, something Christmasy? Rummage through remnants of parents’ old DVD collection; find Elf. Says: that’s fine, I can watch Elf. Asks: do you know yet if you’re going in to work tomorrow? Say: definitely not – office at conference in Vegas, remember? Thought I told you? Most of office gone, enough that Andre said people staying can take the day off – just me and Dirk and Sue’s all that’s left. That’s nice, she says, having the day off. Why didn’t they take you to Vegas? Response: Only “top performers,” – smug air quotes – maybe next year, you know – (nudging) – you can rise up the ranks, she says, commit yourself a little. Agree on the face of it, say: maybe next year (think: never wanted this to be rise-up-the-ranks job, wasn’t supposed to be permanent, intended as stopgap, intended as rent-paying measure). Grown to enjoy it; or, grown to enjoy picket fence it affords.
Start movie, open Fat Tires, microwave PopSecret, flop on couch – beer makes me drowsy now, even from the first sip – feeling old – stretch out, nuzzle in under her arm. Asks if I want to just go ahead on up to bed. Say: in just a minute, it’s the first scenes that are my favorite – her arms strong, induce feeling of safety, ease – Will Ferrell off to find his dad – Rhonda smells like vanilla lotion and popcorn butter – feel found – fall asleep on couch, still dressed. Still in bed, a comforting thing to watch her sleep, see her at peace; domesticity takes me downstairs to make breakfast. Got milk, Bisquick, eggs, Jimmy Dean links – fix up pancakes, watch pre-taped Today show, Al Roker says it’s cold as shit – gonna snow for a few more days, if I’m lucky work will be stuck in Vegas, wouldn’t have to go in all week, could relax with Rhonda all week. Plug kettle in – comes downstairs 30 minutes later, smiles seeing me make breakfast, asks what I want to do today, say nothing, just: nothing; she agrees, says maybe finish our game of Monopoly , watch the rest of Elf, says I was asleep within first ten minutes. Say: Must be getting old – lazy day curled up together, watch snow fall, neighbor kids’ snowball fight – next-door-neighbor twins, boy and girl, building snow-fort on the lawn together, something about their smiles is warming. Snow still falling. Catch it on their tongues, powder flakes make for best snowballs; Rhonda watches with me from the den. Watching them is nice – feel warm – girl makes a snow angel on our driveway, snow in her hair. Looks nice for the first time: having kids, settling down in my parents’ old house, investing time, energy, desire into work, becoming top performer – no air quotes – being picked for Vegas trip, could bring Rhonda along, could hire a sitter for a few days. Comforting image of future – feel content, watching neighbor children in the snow – warm and comfortable and still somewhere unnerving – strange – think about settling
down with Rhonda – making it a life here together with Rhonda, having kids, Rhonda having kids, having kids together with Rhonda – think about spending the rest of my life with Rhonda and with Rhonda’s and my kids – increasingly sympathetic thought – didn’t think it would sound appealing so young, thought I had four-five year at the least – this, this is young to be settling down. Isn’t it? Things I still want to do: see Grand Canyon. Paris. Hike Appalachians. Swim in Pacific. Adventures supposed to have. Been on list for years, forgotten now, forgotten adventures – feel old – feel old, old, old – feel too late – feel lost, feel small – feel like work got in the way. Wasn’t supposed to be the job that got in the way but it got in the way. Was job I could leave for the Grand Canyon at drop of a hat but it got in the way. Rhonda got in the way – feel unnerved, agitated: Rhonda got in the way. Rhonda asks if I want a beer. Say yes. A beer might be good for now. And finish our movie? Sure. Finish the movie, relax. Relax, everything’s fine, just being antsy – Snow’s all everywhere, turning to rain now, slush is what it is, sleet. Snow turning to sleet turning to rain. Nothing to worry about. Deep breaths. Follow Rhonda into kitchen where she gives me Fat Tire and asks: Have you thought about having kids Not sure what to tell Rhonda. (Been thinking about it), say: hadn’t given it a second thought, until… Until today, she nudges, imposes: since seeing the kids outside this morning. Nod. Says: I noticed. Says: We have been together a while. Emphasis on the have, like have, like expectation-of-next-steps have, like We CAPS-LOCK HAVE been together a while; says: I’ve been thinking, you know, the last few weeks. Thermostat’s up too high, starting to feel hot – tug at collar, neck constricted, unbutton shirt, throat raspy, like frog-in-throat-can’t-speak, heartburn bubbling, lights are real bright in here or is this just me and feeling a little
lightheaded and clammy hands, like say: I need to sit down. Asks if I’m alright, say fine. Fine fine. Fine. I’m fine I said you don’t have to keep asking. I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine. Says: only asked the once. Brings over a glass of water. Spill beer on rug. Fucking ugly rug Mother-in-law gave us last Christmas. Rhonda dabs rug with paper towel, foam gurgle, beer setting into fabric. Says, don’t even like the rug much. Agree: say it’s a fucking disgusting rug, now we got an excuse to get rid of it. Says: I’m starting the movie. Sits on opposite end of couch, curls feet up at her side; distancing mechanism. Stretch into empty space – watches movie, refusing to look at me – got pimples on her cheek, stress pimples, crow’s feet – skin’s started to stretch, drawn too thin around jaw – never going to look younger than this again – doesn’t look young now – aging, we’re aging – feel old – don’t look young anymore imagine in twenty years: stretch marks scraped along stomach, babyweight paunch – excess fat folds over waistband, still be wearing scrubs with searing elastic lines – hair will grey, thin, chopped short – feel bald – worse from here on out. Already hit the peak, everything worse from here on out. Feel only decline now. She asks: can you get your feet out my face, they smell like shit. Say: what’s with you? Says: You’re such an asshole. Say: I’m an asshole? Says: talking about Mom’s rug like that, you’re an asshole, that makes you an asshole. Say: You said it was ugly too. Says: but you were a dick about it. Say: fuck you. Says: excuse me. Drop quiet. To kitchen, she follows – Buddy and Jovie on first date; giddy; excitement in their eyes, – we both stop to watch – bleak realization, break eye contact, nervous. Lash out (Rhonda got in the way): just a fucked up rug is all. Says: Fucked up? Say: the caribou are fucking; says: the caribou are not fucking; say: that’s worse if it’s from your mom, your mom wants our kids to grow up with a caribou porno
floor. Screaming now, so you have thought about kids? Say: Enough to know I don’t want your mother’s fetish on my floor. She says: For God’s sake, they’re silhouettes, the deer are jumping – grow the fuck up. (Incredible) say: Grow the fuck up, grow the fuck up, what do you mean, grow the fuck up? I’m the one who takes the dog out to shit, I’m the one who cooks dinner, I’m the one who settled on a shit job so you could stay in school. I need to grow up? Says: I never asked you to do any of that. Say: but you don’t have a problem with it, do you? Quit your job, she says, I don’t give a shit, quit your job, I’ll support you. Say: I don’t want your support, I’m the man, me, I’m the man I’m me the goddamn man here and I’ll support my goddamn family. Faltering: Jesus, Alex, I’m thirty-two, it’s not ridiculous to want kids now. Kids? say, Kids! Can you take kids to the Grand Canyon? Yes, she says. Can you take kids to the Pacific ocean? Says, people do it all the time. Can you take kids to an Amsterdam whorehouse? Says: you think you’re going to an Amsterdam whorehouse? Scream: Maybe! If I want to! I’ll do what I want; I’m just – I’m feeling cooped up – I think, I think we should see other people – I think you should get out. I think, (cool confident controlled) I think you should get the fuck out and never fucking come back – she gone quiet – swipe poker from fire as extension of hand: point, demand: We’re not having kids. Flushed, whimpering, she is starting to cry; bitch. Blubbering: We don’t have to have kids, okay? Put the poker down, we can work something out, we don’t have to have kids. Say: I’ll make sure of that. Lunge with poker to extract uterus, flesh sizzle from heat, scream, screams, grips poker in hands, palms burn (smell like Jimmy Dean), withdraw, blood spurt on my shirt, catches entrails in her arms, falls. Return poker to fireplace; leave house; quit job; see Grand Canyon, Paris, Pacific.
frost Yves Menshikova
The Astroturf beneath your feet is no longer emanating heat in quivering mirages. You’re standing at 10 yards trying to keep your balance as the plastic grass ripples into your soles, your breathing staggering a little from the effort. Spools of spun sugar escape your lungs and disappear into the flickering of the morning streetlights. Their universal hum will probably get louder once the sun comes up, you think sleepily to yourself and yawn, pretending to ignore the tinny morse code whispers coming from the goal posts that speak of your death and rebirth. No wonder they call it the end zone. There’s still about [4 fl. oz.] of time left before school starts, (as reads the writing on the Nutrition Facts label. 179 servings per bottle.) You’re on your own. Slowly making your way to 20 yards, hoping that the alignment of the midfield planets won’t cause another gravity shift, you begin feeling a sort of emptiness settle in. It calls somewhere from your tenth vertebra and yet pushes you forward, as if someone is dunking you in a clear blue swimming pool in the middle of the winter -- the pool covers are the bedsheets to your six foot deep cradle and the rotting leaves taste vaguely of Kool-Aid. The pine trees behind the chain link fence stand still with bated breath and the stadium lights stare down on you condescendingly, occasionally blinking. They know what you’ll find. You don’t. You know your sixth finger on your right hand is
about to fall off from the cold but at least it’s not as bad as that one time your mom packed you liquid nitrogen for lunch in the 13th grade, and all of the kids except Him laughed when you spilled it on yourself. The nurse said you would be fine and sent you off with a lollipop. He walked you home. It is not as bad as that one time you shed your skin right in the middle of class in second first grade, and certainly not as bad as when you were sent home crying because you were the only kid who did not know the answer to life, the universe, and everything. You shiver both from the embarrassment of the memories and the ice creeping into your capillaries. At 30 yards you give in to the possibility that the overcast morning will not dissolve into a clear, enlightened day illuminated by the delicate rays of the gods with infinite horizons, and the snakes in your stomach start tying themselves into carrick bends and bowlines, preparing for the storm that is to come. You know that something is there. You feel its presence. It has no heartbeat but the one that faded hours ago, the one that still resounds in the morning mist and it scares you, it terrifies you because it reminds you of how every night your father comes home from work and drums on the toilet seat, then draws blood from his arms into the bowl as sacrifice to the Lords above. The crispness of the air cuts into your gums and lungs the same way that new toothpaste formula does. (“Now With Extra Bite!”) 40 yards leaves you drained. There’s no way to explain it but the feeling you get when you want to fall cold asleep with at least two of your eyes closed before you even begin to think about taking the homework out of its cage and tackling it. It’s the kind of fatigue that hits you when you are trying to avoid responsibility, except this time it’s trying to shirk the threat of death, not your essay on multiverse theory. You continue dragging yourself forward, forward, forward, forward.
It hits you when you see it. With all of Laniakea tangled around His ankles, frozen tennis shoes glaring with celestial bodies, He lies on the line between this earth and the ones that came before and after. Two eyelids sealed in eternal reverie by a thin crusting of ice, the third glows dully in the middle of His forehead, pulsating with the beat of the universe. All of His white varsity jacket sleeves are speckled with flecks of red and His once rosy cheeks now take on the color of blue marble, purplish lips parted with no autumn breath to let out. Two of His calcified hands are poised in abhaya mudra, the rest hold lotuses and roses, but you wish that they could hold you, and you wish you could cry. The field is a catacomb, the frigid scene of your silent grief echoes on and mixes with the eternal sounds of the highway that continues into forever.
hail vivian shen
“Pitiful,” she muttered as she stomped through the narrow alleyway, hands held high over her head in a vain attempt to shield herself from the downpour. “Just pitiful. Overcast day, foreboding clouds, and yet I still forget to bring one goddamn measly umbrella. How much more useless can I get?” She growled to herself, kicking a nearby can and sending it skittering into the cardboard box of some unfortunate street rat. She had the list of the days’ chores tucked into her back pocket, but no motivation to complete said tasks. Still, she trudged closer and closer to the cornershop in the unusual weather – anything to distract her was a welcome relief. Upon entering the shop, she noticed that her least favorite cashier was there: Bart the Irish boy. He excitedly jumped up as he saw her walk in, calling to her. “Ms. Amelia? Ms. Amelia! I didn’t expect to see you today, what with the hail and all. What a dreary day it is today, eh? Mother nature must be in a bad mood.” She gave a little internal sigh, then turned back towards the door as if she hadn’t noticed. “I guess it is a pretty big hailstorm today,” she conceded, forcing a small chuckle, “Nothing I’m not used to, though.” “Used to? Little lady, there hasn’t been hail here since 1995! This isn’t a normal thing around here, I don’t know where you’ve been.” “Of course of course, I was just trying to make light of the situation,” she muttered stiffly, taking a sudden interest in the nearby rack of toiletries. She began to fill
up her shopping basket with the needed items, taking care to compare prices and quality before making the executive decision of which brand to buy. Moments like these were what she enjoyed most: she was alone, and she was in charge. She loved to pretend that she had more money than she really did, filling up her basket with luxuries and goodies of all sorts, imagining the sort of life she would be able to live with them, and then slowly returning them to their spots one by one. That, too, was a kind of fun for her, like one big scavenger hunt through the aisles. She invariably spent an hour or two in the store each time she went, to the point where she was sure she had every aisle memorized down to the last generic box and brand. Her next chore definitely wasn’t as fun, especially with the added weight of the groceries. She always felt... uncomfortable, especially in such male dominated areas. Upon walking into Men’s Wearhouse, she wrinkled her nose at the musky scent, wondering why anyone would ever find it attractive. A chipper twenty-year-old folding clothes near the entrance eagerly greeted her, startling her into a blush that she quickly tried to conceal by lowering her head. She walked briskly to the tie section, avoiding all eye contact and quickly selecting the appropriate tie. Thankfully, the woman behind the counter seemed distant and disinterested, so she was able to avoid conversation and leave. She walked out onto the busy street, and quickly found a roof to duck under. Even though three hours had passed, the hail was still going strong, and it smarted as it struck her tender skin. She looked at the crowds of people walking by, taking almost no notice in the weather. Of course, they held umbrellas to shield themselves from the stinging downpour, but surely circumstances as unusual as this deserved more than a passing glance and a sigh? She marvelled as the tiny ice bits bounced off the nearby rooftops, creating a din that almost covered up the loud
cacophony of the mid-afternoon downtown street. A devil in disguise she thought to herself as she reluctantly left her protected alcove. She pulled her thin jacket closer to her in a vain attempt to ward off the pellets, which were nearly bullets considering the speed and rate at which they were falling. “AMELIA!” came a cry from down the street. She jumped in surprise, turning to see her college friend Shirley flying down the street, nearly knocking her over in excitement. “There you are! I’ve been trying to text you all day to see if you want to get coffee!” “Oh, hey, Shirley. Sorry about that, my phone’s with... it’s not on me.” She cringed at the force of Shirley’s excitement. Although the two girls had kept in touch since graduating three years prior, she still found Shirley’s eternal happiness a little daunting. “Nevermind, nevermind, you’re here now and that’s all that matters. Anyways, about my offer… you free right now?” “Uhhh… I need to be home in about an hour, but I guess I have a little time…” “Oh you, always rushing about. What is it this time? Important date with the boyfriend?” Shirley winked at her, and was rewarded with a half-hearted smile. “Anyways, that’s perfect. I know the quaintest little place just a block away from here, and we can totally stop by for some hot drinks and cute pastries. Hey, wait, are you okay?” Shirley noticed that Amelia was wincing with every oncoming piece of hail, to the point where it looked like she was doing a spastic dance. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just the hail… doesn’t it hurt? I’m so stupid, I forgot an umbrella.” Shirley stuck out her hand under her umbrella with a confused look. Shrugging it off, Shirley offered her umbrella, and together they walked to the cafe at the corner. They sat down and Shirley, in that particular, exuberant fashion, began to rattle on
about her life, from finding a devilishly handsome boyfriend to working her butt off in grad school. One thing about Shirley was that she could talk your ear off if you let her, which Amelia didn’t really mind: she was more of a listener. “So anyways, tell me about your life, Amelia. We haven’t talked since last month, when you just up and disappeared from Facebook! Did you ever end up moving in with Aaron? Are you two still disgustingly cute lovebirds? Thank god I have Tim, because now we can go on double dates in the city! Won’t that be cuuuuute?” Shirley beamed expectantly, waiting for an affirmation. Amelia clammed up, sitting up stiffly before allowing herself a smile that was almost a grimace. “Yeah, I moved in about a month ago, and we’re okay.” “That’s all you have to say? Just okay? C’mon Amelia girl, I want to know all that juicy gossip.” “There’s nothing else I can tell you.” Shirley pouted, obviously disappointed by the lack of substance in her words. “Okay, but just let me know if you ever want to talk, alright? Dang honey, you’ve changed. If I asked you this question a month ago, you would’ve definitely been bouncing all over the place, eager to tell me of his stupidly cute escapades or his cheesy compliments.” Amelia grimaced again before standing up. “This has been great, Shirley, thank you, but I really have to go. I can’t be late.” Shirley smiled at her, but worry clouded her eyes. She stood and gave Amelia a tight hug before they both exited, heading down the street in different directions. The hail was still going. It was almost ridiculous how constant it was, seeing as how storms usually passed through the city fairly quickly. Shuffling along the street, she ducked under every underpass she could find, trying
to avoid the beating that the hail was giving her. She felt drained, as she did after every social interaction nowadays – it was just too hard for her to focus, too hard for her to be as optimistic and cheerful as she used to be. She trudged forward, and with every turn around a corner, she felt her hands grow colder and clammier. Even though the weather had been constant throughout the day, with each passing step the storm seemed more and more threatening, as if it would swallow her whole. Finally, she reached the familiar and rundown blue house, signifying the end of her long trek home. Slowly, she approached the front door, the wind whipping around her and the ice pellets stinging her face and hands. She opened the door timidly, calling out into the hallway: “Aaron?” Silence. She stepped through the doorway, removing her drenched jacket and waterlogged shoes while taking care to make as little noise as possible. With a start, she noticed someone standing by the coat rack, tapping his foot against the ground and giving her a menacing glare. “Where have you been? It’s half past five. You were supposed to have dinner served by now. I’m hungry.” “I… I saw Shirley… we were having coffee… I didn’t see the time… I...” She was interrupted by Aaron stepping forward, backing her up against the wall. The day ended like any other, despite the strange weather. Before blacking out, she only remembered his hands, worsening the bruises the hail had already gifted her with.
softly, sweetly Natasha Lasky I. The other day Alison realized she would rather be dead. She isn’t depressed, or suicidal. That would imply a certain level of melodrama (the Depressed Person, who cannot leave her bed and who cannot bear to live anymore, holding the knife/gun/razor in her hands, only to be dragged into an asylum/hospital in tears) which she did not possess. She didn’t even cry. She just lay in bed, awake and alone in the darkness, trapped in the churning of her own thoughts about her mom or her grades or her friends, begging for sleep, and she wished she could sleep forever and never have to be jolted out of blissful unconsciousness. It then occurred to her that she could sleep forever— it’s just called being dead. Even the euphemisms for death are pleasantly passive: losing your life, breathing your last, passing on, slipping away. To be clear: Alison isn’t going to kill herself, she knows that. But now wherever she goes, Alison realizes that this could be the place where she dies. It isn’t an unpleasant feeling. It’s always the same moment: right when everything blacks out. As she drives past the train station she feels the cold metal of train tracks under her spine. An office building: her tailbone sliding off the balcony concrete on the 25th floor. A hotel: the slowing of bubbles underneath the freezing chlorine of the pool. Then a weight and an oppressive calm, like the swift hit of an anesthetic. She shouldn’t be thinking about these things. The beanie babies certainly aren’t helping. Bookshelves stuffed with overwhelming amounts of beanie babies line
all four walls of the receptionists’ office — behind her, in front of her, to the sides, beanie babies of all (neon) colors and kinds (bears, lions, unicorns, kittens, etc.) lay supine or slumped over, their limbs hanging heavy with plastic sand like dead weight, their eyes black beads glazed over. She should’ve brought her phone. Ms. Hammack looks up at her from her desk, with narrow eyes heavily lined, and Alison becomes aware of the silence in the room. She hopes Ms. Hammack will not try to make small talk. She barely made it this far. Luckily, Rosie bounds through the door in pigtails and a uniform, with a backpack too big for her bouncing up and down as she slows to a stop. “Hi, Rosie” says Ms. Hammack, completely dropping the suspicious, low tone of voice she had used with Alison for so long. “Hi, Ms. Hammack.” Rosie sing-songs back, grinning, but it quickly fades when she notices Alison. “Where’s mom?” “She’s at a meeting, so I’m taking you to the doctor today.” “Oh.” Rosie’s face drops. Rosie’s face is like most faces of children who have not learned how to properly lie yet, a mask made out of clear glass, so she cannot help but telegraph what she is truly feeling, in a way that utterly charms Alison. Ms. Hammack takes out a pen and paper. “When will Rosie be back?” Alison smirks, already leading Rosie out the door. “I don’t know, it might take a while.” Alison takes Rosie’s hand, and they run across the Rosie hops into the backseat of the car, sitting on top of Alison’s hoodie. As she starts the car, she can see Rosie putting it on in the rearview mirror. Alison laughs at how ridiculous it looks on her, . Rosie giggles, sticking her hands in their pockets. She’s
silent for a second. “Oooh!” Rosie holds out a dog’s collar, red with a little silver tag. “Who’s dog is it?” “I don’t know. I found it on the ground somewhere.” Rosie takes the collar back and looks at it closely. “Samson. That’s a good name.” Alison doesn’t necessarily agree with her, because it’s such a weird, regal name for a human, although you could easily make it a diminutive “Sam” or “Sammy.” But she decides not to press the issue. II. It’s criminal to have a freeway so beautiful when they are in a drought. The news says that it is the worst drought that California has ever seen, catastrophic, apocalyptic, but what the people on the news do not seem to realize is that it has always felt like a drought. 280 is still as beautiful as it ever was, hills wrinkling around the freeway’s edges, parched-beige with chaparral and stained gold under the sun, like they always are. But then the front lawns go brown. Soon Alison will begin counting the minutes she spends in the shower. Now she can feel the drought on her lips, cracked and chapped sticky. Rosie still hasn’t asked about anything. As she drives under the 92 overpass, she remembers a story her teacher told her in Drivers’ Ed, about driving home from teaching another class and getting stuck in a sudden onset of traffic. In half an hour he barely moved an inch. Then it grew dark, but he moved no faster, inch by inch, inch by inch. Finally he drove under the overpass, and on the other side saw shrapnel scattered across the ground, surging police lights, the metal front of a car contorted so much that it didn’t even look like a car anymore. He slowed down to stare at the damage, but drove home without thinking much of it. When he got home he thought he’d turn on the local news to see what happened. But then he flipped to the channel and froze. On the screen, on the
freaking news, right next to the botox-ed face of a blonde anchor putting on her best “serious face” and everything, was a picture of a student he taught, a white kid with a hoodie and a blank face. He didn’t have a particular emotional connection to the kid or anything, but still, there he was, on TV, dead on the ground, covered in blood. Apparently his friend was driving him home from a party in Half Moon Bay, and he drove straight off the side of the 92 overpass into the freeway below. They were both drunk. The kid was launched straight through the windshield onto the highway. The driver died as well, choked by his twisted seatbelt. That is the only thing she remembers from Drivers’ Ed. Alison knew that the story was exaggerated, designed to terrify her into compliance, but it was the way her teacher told it that truly scared her. With each sentence his face subtly grew more and more somber, as if it were melting to the floor under the weight of his sorrow. It still scares her now. She would not like to die this way, in a car crash. It’s too theatrical. Everyone driving by would see her and stare. What if it was someone she knew, like her mom or one of her friends or her teachers? If she died, she would rather go in a more peaceful way, although she hadn’t made up her mind about how. At first dying seemed straightforward, negligible, temporary, but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like dying was the real trouble. She couldn’t hang herself (painful), drown (painful), take pills (painful, high failure rate), or shoot herself or slit her wrists or get hit by a train or jump off a building (painful, theatrical, gory). And even if she did decide to go through with it, she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like while she died. Would she look like the drunk kid shot through the windshield, color draining from his face, drenched with the smell of decay like another kind of roadkill? It shouldn’t matter to her what she
would look like if she died, since she obviously would not be there to witness it, but she can’t help it. She has seen only one thing die, only one real thing, and it still feels fresh enough that she can still summon at will what it felt like to watch the life seep out of a thing that wasn’t supposed to die. She felt simultaneously nauseas and empty-stomached but also like she lost all of her words except for no so she held onto no like it was the only thing she had left. No no no nonononono. It lost meaning every time she said it until it was just a sound, a vibration in her throat, a tongue tapping the roof of her mouth, air passing through her lungs, and then nothing. “I’m not sick.” says Rosie. “What?” “I’m not sick.” Rosie is still looking out the window, but repeats it with a slight tinge of harshness. “So why are we going to the doctor?” Alison looks back at Rosie through the rearview mirror. “We’re not going to the doctor.” “We’re not?” Rosie furrows her eyebrows, unsure whether to be pleased or hurt. “So you lied?” “Sort of.” Alison begins to smile with fake guilt. But Rosie is still considering this. “So what are we doing?” “We’re doing something fun, like we could go to Chuck E. Cheese, we could go to Target...“ Rosie’s eyes brighten immediately. Sometimes Alison forgets that children are so easily pleased. Rosie grins thinking about the prospect. She loved Target more than anything in the world, the rows and rows of plastic toys, the snacks, the makeup all under bright, clean light. But Rosie’s eyes narrow, as if she’s still thinking about it. “Let’s get Samson.” Rosie says, finally. “Samson?” “Yeah. Let’s call the number and get Samson.” “We can’t.” Alison blurts, and then thinks about it,
staring at the road. “You can’t just ‘get him,’ it’s not like you can just take other people’s dogs.” “Yeah, but maybe they’ll let us play with him.” “We can’t, Rosie.” “Why?” Rosie draws out the “y” in a fake, tweengirl drawl she assuredly learned from the Disney Channel. “We just—we can’t.” “Pretty please?” Alison sighs. “Maybe later.” III. Target is all fluorescent lights and big, colorful sales signs. They walk through the aisles of snacks first, grabbing giant bags of popcorn and kit-kat bars and Red Vines and piling them up into the cart like bandits. Next is the makeup aisle. Alison is not as interested in makeup as Rosie is, but she still lets Rosie put on lipstick, firetruck red. Rosie sprints over to the nearest mirror and lifts her heels to admire herself. “Um— Allie?” Rosie puts back the lipstick and looks up at Alison, eyes seeming to grow larger by the second. “Yes, Rosie?” Rosie still shifts on her feet back and forth, and Alison wonders what is the matter. “Could I, um, borrow your phone? So I can take a picture of a toy for mom to buy me for my birthday?” Alison smiles, the request was so innocent. Rosie was very particular about birthday presents, creating lists of specific toys that span pages and pages. “I could do it for you, if you want.” She says. “No, I — want do it myself” Rosie decides, confidently. Alison smiles, handing her the phone and Rosie takes off, grinning. She is still wearing Alison’s jacket, billowing back like a sail as she runs. She watches the tubes of makeup. A baby screaming in a shopping cart going by. Alison realizes how
uncomfortable she is, in all the stimuli. She had been alive for 17 years, and she had decided that she was about done with it. She had tried it, being alive, and doing seventeen years of anything is enough to decide whether or not you like it, and living should not be an exception. She walks through the aisles of cosmetics, then hair products, then deodorants. People walk by her without making eye contact, without noticing. She prefers it that way, as if she was a ghost. Was she suicidal, really? She didn’t want to die, she only wanted to be dead, there’s a difference. But it still follows her like a shadow, the word. In a moment of weakness she wants to google it, because what does it mean to be suicidal, really, anyway? She feels embarrassed even reaching into her pocket to take out her phone. And then she remembers: Rosie has her phone. Rosie has been gone for a while now. Alison figures she should go find her. She wheels the cart over to the toy aisle, but Rosie is nowhere to be seen among the other screaming children, the sad parents. She hears Rosie’s voice behind her. “I don’t know. My sister found it —.” Alison turns around to find Rosie, back facing her, talking on the phone. “Hey! Who are you talking to?” Rosie jumps, startled, shooting around to face her. “Nobody.” Alison snatches the phone out of her hand, but doesn’t recognize the number. The voice on the telephone is deep and authoritative but also strangely plaintive. “Hello?” Rosie growls. “Give it back!” A different, female voice from the telephone: “Can we talk to your sister for a second? About where she found—” Alison hangs up.
IV. Rosie sits in the car and frowns. They pass by front lawn after front lawn, dried and dead and brown. The phone rings, the number is the same from before. She lets it die out. “I thought we were supposed to be having fun.” says Rosie, pouting. “I thought so too. But we can’t have fun if you’re always stealing my stuff and lying,” “I wasn’t lying. I was getting Samson back.” “Samson isn’t even a real dog.” Rosie inhales quickly, glaring. “Yes he is. You found his collar.” “What if he was lost?” “We could help him.” Alison doesn’t know if she finds Rosie’s willingness to fix anything, like the protagonist of a kid cartoon, charming or frustrating. “What if he was dead?” Rosie seems perplexed by this, so she thinks about it for a second, staring out the window. “He’s not dead.” “But what if he was?” Rosie shakes her head, growing more bitter, more insistent. “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.” “But what if he was.” Alison says softly. They stop talking for a second. Rosie’s face is red and swollen, silently looking out the window at the brown grass and dry air. V. Alison refuses to go back inside, to see Ms. Hammack and her beady eyes and her beanie babies slumped over like corpses. She watches Rosie walk across the street, looking both ways without looking back. Alison doesn’t know what to do now. She cannot go home, because then she has to drive down Portola Road and see it. She still has the collar in her pocket and seven missed calls from the number. Tears run down her
face, and her face contorts into an open mouthed gape. she cannot help herself. She cannot call them like this, she can never call them, because what can she say to them? What do you want to hear from the person who could only kneel on the side of the road, watching blood soak his white fur? What do you want to hear from the person who could only leave him there on the road to decay? The person who cannot choose whether to call or not call, who can only keep his collar in her pocket like a talisman? The person who does not know if she wants to live or die, who can only stay alive through inertia? The person who has only one word and is holding onto it with all the strength she has, who can only repeat a constant mantra of no no no no no no no? VI. “Are you ok?” The receptionist is a nice mormon woman with blonde hair and cat eye glasses. Her voice gets higher with saccharine, maternal concern. “Are you sure you don’t need more time?” She asks. Alison realizes her face is still stained red and swollen, sticky with tears. She is excited to go to history class, to hand her teacher the note and sit down among the thirty other students and become anonymous, to let the drone of european history wash over her and let her forget. “Yeah.” Says Alison. “I’m fine, just need a note.” The woman slightly shrugs, and takes a piece of paper. Alison wonders what she’s writing down. What excuse does she have? She thought of saying something but she is too tired to come up with some convenient lie— she had no doctors’s appointment or headache or emotional trauma to hide behind. So she waits. After a few seconds, the woman hands her the note, and under “excuse” was nothing but “late,” written in meticulous cursive. She was late because she was late, as if late was a perpetual motion machine, an ouroboros
that fuels itself infinitely. Alison smirks, and the woman notices. “Don’t worry about it,” The woman says softly, sweetly. “Late is the only excuse you need.”
Clear Skies anonymous
I think I woke up around 2:00 that day. It was the year I had gotten into the habit of staying out late and waking up far past noon, but it had been a long and boring summer and I found the night to be more exciting than the day. I completed my morning routine like the ritual it had become, and by the time I had finished, it was nearly 3:00. The sun was already in its descent by then, and I felt it would be good for me to do something, to not waste the entire day. So I grabbed a book and a pen and made my way down to the Post. The Coffee Post was a café a few miles down the street that I went to often and never seemed to grow tired of. There was a single-top table by the big window near the front of the shop, away from the counter and the majority of the other patrons, and I claimed it as my spot. On rainy days and nights in the summer, I liked to sit there with one of my marble notebooks, watching the passersby through the window. Sometimes they looked back; more often they did not. I sat down at that table with a cup of coffee and no plan in particular. It was 4:00 by then, and I felt bad for wasting most of the afternoon in bed, but the Post was warm and welcoming, and I was happy to accept any sense of welcome on that day. Lately, I had been finding it easy to get lonely in the long nights of the summer. If only I could meet someone new, I remembered thinking, as I had heard that exact line in a movie a few days before. I emptied my bag out onto the table—a book, a few pens, a notebook half-filled—and got to work.
At around 7:00, the sun began to set and it painted the streets in a yellow-gold light. Sunsets have always left me with a sense of longing, though the reason is still unclear. It felt like the end of the day was a metaphorical end of something else, too. They reminded me of Ireland, where I had spent a semester when I was younger. Clear skies in Ireland were a scarcity, but when the sun set, the clouds above lit up like waves of fire crashing over the horizon. I can’t deny that it was beautiful, but it could never really compete with the blue sky. I continued to work, and the sun continued to set. As the streets grew darker, the Post began to fill up—what is it about the evening that makes coffee shops so appealing? I watched a younger couple come in, laughing and holding hands, and I remembered a girl from high school. My memory of her was less than complete, but I can recall her having skinny wrists and dry hands and the extraordinary ability to stare into your eyes and make you feel like the single most important thing in the world. I thought of her often in those days. The Post was getting a little too loud for my tastes. I had begun to notice that the prime hours of café abandonment were between 3:00 and 7:00, then after 10:00— not many seem to want to spend their nights in a coffee shop. I packed my things and decided to return later. I went outside to go get a bite or maybe buy another book. The bookstores in this town felt like the cafés I liked, as they were usually small and local. Sometimes I would go and just watch the people, trying to determine a person’s demeanor solely on what they were reading. Occasionally, a pretty girl would reach for book I loved, and I’d begin to imagine how we could spend the rest of our lives together if we happened to bump into each other holding the same novel. We never did, of course, but it’s more than alright. My fantasies were enough to keep me occupied.
I went to a diner a few blocks down the road. I’m pretty sure they know me by now—I’m the guy that comes in around 8:00 from time to time and eats alone. I sat at the counter, and the waitress seemed happy to see me. Then again, I suppose she’s paid to. My food came quickly and I read while I ate. Occasionally I would look up to spy on the girl that was sitting across from me, alone in a booth with a single place set. She wore glasses and a dark red dress, and I felt that she chose well, to sit next to the brick wall of the diner. She looked like the quiet type, and that made me happy. I got along well with quiet types. Besides, it seems like those are the ones that have the most to say. Eventually I returned to my book, and by the time I had finished the chapter, the girl had gone. I wondered if she had just been waiting for someone, but I didn’t let my mind dwell on it. False notions of strangers already took up too much of my time. I finished eating, paid my bill, and made my way back to the Post. It had gotten fairly dark and a light sprinkle of rain had begun to fall, and as a result, the pavement glimmered with the reflections of the street. The sight of wet concrete in the summer always reminded me of something, though I couldn’t remember exactly what it was. Instead, I thought back to the diner. I liked the color of her dress. Perhaps if I had been paying attention, I would’ve noticed that red peeking out from behind my window sooner, sitting where I always sat. I arrived at the Post, my head in some far-off place, and I looked up at my table, expecting to find it waiting for me. But it wasn’t, and it took me a second to comprehend that my spot had been taken. And it was by the girl. A long moment passed, and then she looked up and saw me. I hadn’t realized that I was staring. I dropped my head and entered, not brave enough to look back as I made my way to the counter. I ordered something hard,
then took it back to a table near another window, pulling out my notebooks to give the appearance of preoccupation. The girl was just a few feet in front of where I sat, facing away from me. The red dress swooped low on her back. I tried not to notice. I dove into my notebook and found that I was surprisingly productive for the next hour, despite the distraction. In the moments between my work, I would look up to find the girl hunched over her table, scribbling away something of her own. From time to time, she would pause, maybe to think, and chew the end of her pencil or look out the window. From where I sat, I could see her reflection on the glass. At 11:00, an hour before the Post closed, I was working with my head down when I heard the girl’s chair scrape against the floor. I looked up, expecting to see her leave, but she just pushed in her chair, turned to my table, pulled out a seat, and sat straight down. I stared at her, unsure of how to react. She ripped a page out of the notebook she was carrying and placed it on top of mine. “It’s you,” she said. And it was me. Standing outside the window, mouth slightly agape, messenger bag over my shoulder, staring in. It was a sketch of sorts, but it didn’t look bad— it was me, with a stupid look, captured on paper. I laughed, she laughed too, and then we began to talk. Her name was Lucy, and I remember thinking that Lucy was a pretty name. I wish I had told her. She said to me that she was just visiting town for the weekend and that she lived a state away. This was her escape: coming to a quiet town, eating in the diners, going in the bookstores, sitting in the cafés. I asked her what she did, and she told me about her school and her classes, her cats and her friends. She was originally supposed to come with her roommates, but they had both gotten sick at the last moment. “It’s alright,” she said, “I like exploring alone.”
She liked to draw and to paint but said she would never pursue it professionally, as she thought she lacked the talent and the confidence. Still, she had many drawings in her notebook, and when people asked to see them, she was happy to share. It was nice that she had something she seemed to love. It took no effort to listen well. The Post closed at midnight and we stayed until they kicked us out. Once outside, I asked her if she had been by the lake, and she said she had, but she wouldn’t mind going again. It had stopped raining by then. When we reached the waterfront, I pointed her down a street that ran parallel to the shore where you could see the lake from afar. It was a one-lane road that was generally deserted after dark, with a sidewalk that had antique lamp posts lining it to the left, and a small park running alongside it to the right. I had just discovered it that summer. We walked down that road, occasionally looking up at the sky through some trees, and further along, Lucy found a bench where we could see the water. The lamp posts had ended far back on the street and the park was mostly void of light. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind, and I was staring at the moon and mulling over whatever thoughts were in my brain when I felt Lucy turn her head to look at me. She looked a long moment. Then, without much warning, she sighed a deep sigh and leaned her shoulder in against me. I was surprised, but her body felt warm and close to mine, and close was good. I hadn’t felt close to anyone in a very long time. I put my cheek on the top of her head, and she seemed to like it. We sat like that, close together, for a long moment. She smelled like clear skies in Ireland. Eventually, we got up and made our way back to the Coffee Post. She had to leave early in the morning, so we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
Thinking back now, I don’t think that the scarcity of clear skies is what makes the weather in Ireland so glum. It’s more that every day, I would see a break in the clouds, and every day, I would expect the sun to come streaming through. It never did though, not completely. Not when I thought it would, at least. I don’t know, maybe there is an Emily who wears red dresses and draws and lives a state away, and maybe she is planning on visiting my town very soon. Until then, I guess I’ll just be waiting. Waiting at the Coffee Post. At least now, you know where to find me.