leslie

It was when she turned up missing that all his problems began. Alive. There. In front of him. He could trust her. He did trust her. For 12 years. And she him. Now, everything would come out. All of it. Before, they would’ve covered for one another. Now, he had to make a choice – come clean, or build a story that would wash. He hadn’t much time. Minutes, probably. Within them, his phone would buzz. It would be Henna or the police or the reporters. Henna he could handle. She would believe what she wanted to believe and that was that they were ok, the two of them. The police ranged from being dumb to just being polite. And most of them wanted him to like them. He had that sort of cachet. The reporters? He thought for a minute. Them, too, he could handle. And why not? They reported what he said. He loosened his tie, sat back in his chair, nodded slowly, to himself. His phone vibrated; he checked the number. He didn’t recognize it, but this was the wrong time to be ignoring a call. “Hello?” “Dad,” Leslie said, “I’m using Nancy’s phone. Can I stay at her house for a while?” “Yes. Sure.” “Thanks, dad. Bye.” “Wait …” But she’d hung up, already. Gone. He wondered when he would see her again. Maybe never.

nooodles

The dog wandered across the street. It was lost, or at least losing itself, and innocently, in the heat of the sweltering afternoon. A man came up to it, tried to pet it, but the dog ignored him, almost politely, kept going, down the alley, toward the back of the thrift shop, stopping, but only for a moment, before moving on, toward the main street. Traffic was busy, there, hectic; it was Friday afternoon. The dog paused for a moment, then attempted to cross. Two cars stopped. Then another. And another. The fifth didn’t. It was an old model Toyota, driven by a 83-year-old woman, Mazie Wolcott. She never knew what she’d hit and, in fact, kept going, oblivious. Four blocks over, a nine-year-old girl borrowed her mother’s cell phone and sent out a text message to family and friends about her dog being missing. Nooodles – three o’s – was its name. It had never gone off, before. She hoped someone would find him. Her name was Alicia.

rat-a-tat-tat

Toni Zamboni had 19 tattoos
by the time she was almost sixteen,
an eagle, a heart, a harp and a fish,
a turtle, a tortoise, James Dean.

A walrus, a wizard, a Jesus, the sun,
An angel, a dove and a man with a shoe,
A skull with a noose, a mean Dr. Seuss
And 13 fat llamas and 1 skinny gnu.

Her father disowned her, her mother did, too,
her boyfriend, he just wondered why,
she had zebras and snakes and a dozen red hens
but no vow, “Earle’s my love ‘til I die.”

Then a funny thing happened one dark, cloudy day
As she sat in Liv’s “Ink-4-U Store,”
Awaiting the tat of a privatest part,
when she wondered if, yes! less was more.

So proud was she that she stood up and cheered
For herself in the midd’e of the place,
Fright’ning five artists and Liv, in mid-draw,
And she said, “I know I’ve got space …

“To put those three words on my back, thigh or butt,
or my cheek, or my jaw, neck or ear,
to finish the message, it will be complete,
those final three words must appear.”

And, so, they did ... with a heron, a horse and a grizzly bear
And a picture of Beiber with all of his hair,
A Chinese translation, a pack of french fries
And a skinny old cat and her skinny nine lives.

Of course.

after life

She saw it all, when they put her under. And she remembered it, perfectly, when she woke. The light. The calm. The sense of self, true self, real self. She knew who she was and, more importantly, why she was. But why her, she wondered, and the thought bothered her, taxed her, almost obsessed her in the succeeding days. So, she prayed, daily, and usually more, whenever the thought crossed her mind, which was so very often. I need to tell someone, she thought, someone who would understand. But everyone was too busy. And not in ways that seemed frivolous. There were kids to tend and relationships to mend and jobs – real life. So, she finally decided that she would tell no one, at least not for the time being. She would deal with the knowing as though it were her hardship, though ironically, she understood, and with a gentle smile. At times she almost wished she didn’t know. But she did. And maybe it was that the others just would be surprised. And that wasn’t so bad, either.

you can call it Al

“I can’t think of you, like that, anymore,” she said, and he said, “But you do,” and she answered, “I don’t,” and he said, “You do,” and she knew that he was right, because she did, and, worse, she tried to ignore it, or deny it. “It’s alright,” he said, but she looked away and said, “No, it isn’t,” and he said, “It’s not going away,” and she said … nothing, for she could think of nothing to say. “This is a dream,” he said to her, for it was, and she hoped that he was right, because it seemed all too real. “Please, leave me alone,” she said, and he said, “I have nothing to do with this, this is all you,” and she tried to wake herself up, because things always seemed better when she was awake and she would move and do things. He said, “I love …”, and, then, he was … gone. She woke, and sat. It was 6:17. Ayem. She felt herself, and she felt moist and warm. It was a nice feeling. But why? The dog barked. His name was Spencer. He’d named him. She’d wanted to call it Al.

what's in a name?

The dog looked up, with those dog eyes that seem to ask “Why?” but she didn’t have an answer, or at least one that she wanted to share, even with him, it. She stopped for a moment and collected her thoughts. She needed to cover her tracks: where she was; whom she’d seen; what she’d said. He was due in a few minutes. Home from work. She needed to slow down. Things were moving way too fast. Him. Then. There. Where? Jesus, Christ. She took a deep breath, then nodded her head, more slowly. She would be all right. She would be ok. She was a good person. She’d had no choice, she kept telling herself, and finally believing her own voice. “Hey, babe,” he said as he arrived. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips. Her name was Elise. His was Roger. The dead lover was Alex.

the beach

I’m going to pitch my tent on
the beach,
he thought,
and
watch the stars come out, while
the gulf
rushes into its highest tide,
and the rest
of
the world sleeps. He will sleep, too,
he understood, but only
to the sound
of the waves. He will think of her
as the darkness
falls, of the quiet and
the silence
and the stillness,
when they lay,
together. He will think of her, but she
will not
think of him,
for she no longer feels
the stillness, nor
the silence, nor
the solitude of
... them.

what if ...

Everyone is either searching for something or is dead. He believes this and it makes him a bit nervous, anxious, because he doesn’t know for what, whom or that which he searches. He thinks for a moment, then wonders: What if I already found it and didn’t know? This is his paranoia, his guilt, and he curses himself, again, for being so Catholic. Guilt is such a stultifying thing. Worse than paranoia. Much. So, he frees himself from both by assuming that he’s not yet found it. A lover once said to him, “All who search are not lost,” and he saw it on a t-shirt, later, which mean, of course, that it must be true. So, perhaps he’s a searcher. Perhaps that’s his calling, he thinks, wondering if everyone has a calling. He wishes he could talk with someone about this, but his friends, mostly co-workers, have families and he knows, from experience, how families usurp thinking. His phone vibrates; he keeps it on vibrate. It allows him to stop thinking, for a moment. So, he does. He can think later about it. If so.

away

“Do you remember
our first kiss,” she asked, and he said, “No,”
and she felt her heart shrink, a bit, because
she
remembered
it so well. “You asked if you
could kiss me,” she said, and he shrugged, with
an embarrassed, apologetic smile, because he
was that sort of sincere. “You
actually
asked,” she said, and he felt good about that,
because it was important to her, that,
but he wasn’t
sure why it was so important to her
that
he
remember, as she did. Then, he saw it
in
her
eyes. “If I ask you again,” he asked, “will it make up
for my forgetting?” and she smiled
a sad smile and said, “No,” then shrugged and
turned away, a bit, not too much, because she wanted him to
love her,
but,
still,
away she turned,
enough, enough.

gone

It is the one curve on her body that he remembers. Her cheek. Her breast. Her stomach. He has an idea about those. But this one he knows. It is the part, the place, as she lay flat, between the small of her back and the back of her thigh. He remembers the times, moving his hand across the curve, as if trying to make it an indelible memory, in which he may have succeeded, which sometimes brings a gentle smile to his face. It is not a sexual memory, though it could be; the sex they had was wonderful. It’s more a knowing, a comfort, a beauty, a calm. It’s the kind of feeling some might liken to coming home. Perhaps that’s why he misses it so. It was like that, and he’s away now.

Rufus

He watched her walk to the far shelf, where the coffees were shelved and then he watched as she scanned the selections, picking up one brand, replacing it, picking up another and studying it, then replacing that one, too. Such mundane movements that seemed somehow graceful and expressive, alluring and somehow innocent. She caught him watching her and he blushed. “Are you watching me?” she asked, and he shrugged, bashfully, and said nothing, then blushed, again, nodded, because he couldn’t lie to her. “I love you,” she said, and he said nothing, again, but she smiled, because she knew. “I think I’ll wait on the coffee,” she said, “The prices are better at the uptown store.” Then, she moved close to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek and whispered, “I love it when you watch me. I can feel it and I like the feeling.” For some reason, he wanted to ask her if she ever watched him, but he didn’t. He was afraid to ask. Maybe some other time, he figured. Some other time. Later. Maybe. Her name was Andrea. His was Sam. They would be married for 23 years, soon after which she would file for divorce, citing irreconcilable difference, singular. Their dog was named Rufus. She got him.

hmm

What goes around, comes
around, except,
when it
doesn’t, which would
mean
that
it goes, where? There? Over there? Waaaaaay
over yonder? In the past,
if
it
could? He considered this perplexity
with some
acknowledgement of
complexity, then decided
it was best if he just
didn’t
use
clichés, at all, and, better yet, avoided
redundancies, like – oops, such as –
at
all, when in trail
of
avoid and the like.
Or similar.
Be it therefore
known.
Amen,
can I have an?

visitation

The pelican appeared
to him in his sleep, speaking
in perfect English, which he found not so
surprising, for some reason, at
all, and it said, only,
“Be true,” and he awoke, not suddenly,
but after some
time, and sat – not up, but just – and
said, back, “Yes.”
Then, he lay,
again – not down, but just – and
stared at the ceiling for minutes, then
hours, then
fell back
asleep.
He awoke at the alarm
and
remembered
nothing, as was supposed
to
be.

roselyn

She slipped into the bathroom, into a stall, took a deep breath, and slipped off her panties, folded them, put them in her purse. She’d never done anything like this, that. Never. In high school she’d been named Miss Goody Two-Shoes. That was years ago, now, but time hadn’t made her any more daring. Until tonight. And it hadn’t been time, tonight, either. It’d been the young – well, relatively – boy at the bar and the few drinks she’d downed to bolster her courage. She’d decided an hour ago to have sex with him. Just like that. She sucked in a deep breath, now, checked her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, pushed her hair back, but in a sexy, willing way. Would she respect herself in the morning? Maybe not. But she didn’t really care, right now. She just wanted to fuck him. Or have him fuck her. However it went would be ok. Her name was Roselyn. She was a teacher. At a Catholic school. Of course.

anonymity

He'd fired the bullet that put him down, but it wasn’t until hours later, at least not until they’d reached the carrier, that he realized that it would be the shot fired in anonymity. Someone who decades earlier would’ve been celebrated as America’s greatest hero, would take his deed to the grave with him. He found it odd to be thinking like that, now, even though they’d been briefed before, earlier, about the after, about what would happen after, success or no. He sat back in the tiny stateroom where he’d been sequestered since they’d arrive back aboard. No one. Just him. They’d all been separated. They would convene, later, somewhere else. Then, they would celebrate their success. He looked forward to that moment. They could talk about it. But only them. And, for the first time in his life, he needed to talk to someone. It would be his lifelong curse – the wanting. He wondered how he would deal with it. He wondered how well he would deal with it.