In ordinary time, we skipped marbles across sidewalks, the summer blacktop softening under the pressure of our hands and knees. Losing an aggie or a bumblebee was tragedy then, one less smooth ball to slip back in our pockets. On summer nights, now, we sit on our porch, staring out at the front yard with sweating beers in our hands, imagining how much more fun we’d be having if someone would just say, “Not it.”
Archive for the ‘Not so true’ Category
The White Trash Pompadour King of San Diego
July 10, 2009They call him the White Trash Pompadour King of San Diego. You would know him if you saw him. And that’s why we’re here, on this park bench, watching the ducks and waiting to kick some ass. No one should have hair that puffy. Not in America, at least.
Midway
July 8, 2009She stood on the gravel under the Ferris wheel, the colored lights reflecting in her hair. Above her, couples held hands in the buckets, kissed much closer to the sky. She had just enough tickets in her pocket for a single ride.
For a moment, she looked up at the swaying cars, overwhelmed by the motion, the smell of funnel cake, the bead of sweat rolling down her spine, the thumping of the bass from the faster ride across the way.
Host/hostess
July 2, 2009They masked deeper troubles with clinking glasses and noisy dinners. Every night, another friend over. Dinner, plated. Wine bottles, opened. Every night, the dishwasher humming just before they turned in.
In the morning, the glasses sparkled, but their eyes glazed as they wandered the kitchen, the rhythm of their hosting interrupted by sleep. They did not want to know each other, anymore, in bathrobes, with coffee.
Neighbors
June 24, 2009He found her crying outside her apartment door.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost my key.”
He would have kissed her then, but he just put his arms around her. They were neighbors, he thought. There would be other opportunities.
Bitter in her mouth
June 18, 2009Her kitchen is full of mistakes tonight—salt where there should be sugar, not an uncracked egg to be found, a hair resting on the surface of the soup.
She was more careful, once, with her measurements, with her ingredients, with her mise en place. But tonight, she went from too cautious to not cautious enough, and her dinner has turned bitter in her mouth.
Implications
June 10, 2009“I asked for this,” she said. “I mean, didn’t I ask for this?”
He shrugged, not sure whether to stay or go.
“This, in fact, is what I demanded,” she said. “I’m glad you made up your mind.”
He shrugged again, unclear, suddenly, whether he was comfortable with all these implications.
100 Proof 