In the photo, she could just see his right eye and the edge of his face. But it was the first she’d seen of him in years, and it shocked her to see how little he’d changed, how much he still resembled the man she once thought she loved.
Archive for the ‘Kind of true’ Category
Ill-fitting
January 12, 2009Absolutely nothing fit—her clothes bound her in the wrong places, the people she spent time with cut her without knowing what they did. That entire weekend, edges sliced flesh, voices barbed, and even the air scoured her upturned face.
Hips into it
January 10, 2009“You got to get your hips into it, girl,” he said, and she pretended like she had no idea what he was talking about. He got more insistent, and she pretended harder than she had a few measures before, and eventually, they reached an impasse that sent her scurrying for her drink where she’d left it on the bar.
They left the club separately, just like she’d planned.
Illegible
January 6, 2009At altitude, the ink cartridge exploded, marking my hands with signs I was trying to write. Words stuck to my fingers, illegible, but those who knew me well could read what they said: Heartbroken. Lonely. River. Missing.
Wick-lighting
January 2, 2009The day did not dawn, just lightened from murky to gloom as the sun made an unseen arc. It was the kind of day that required candles from just after waking, bright-dancing sentries against the fog outside. Inside my apartment, I moved from room to room in silence, muffled by weather, lighting wicks as I went.
Holiday travel
December 24, 2008The storms froze all of them in place—the ones in the airport sleeping in cots, the ones in the bus stations clutching their belongings, the ones who thought they were driving somewhere until their wheels turned and turned underneath them without moving them forward. They sat helplessly, waiting for a weatherman to say he could see it, see the clouds moving apart, exposing a star shining in the east. As night wore on, it became clear: they would take a star wherever they could find one.
Egg
December 20, 2008On that cold winter’s night, she surprised herself by craving a hard-boiled egg. Right from the water, it scalded her palm, but she cradled it in the sleeve of her sweatshirt and peeled it anyway, stopping to blow on her fingertips as she went along. It was egg-perfection, the yolk creamy and not too dry, the flavor sparkling with flecks of sea salt. Even long after she had consumed it, its warmth spread from her belly and tingled the ends of her fingers.
100 Proof 