“Are you an only child?” she asked.
For a moment, I wondered if I had an extra tattoo somewhere I didn’t know about.
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought so,” she said. “So am I.”
Missing summer
July 12, 2009In 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.”
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.
No response at all
July 6, 2009The assumptions and announcements dropped in from a distant country, so innocuous it was easy to ignore the subtext.
Out in the sun, I rolled up my sleeves to bare my shoulders, absorbed warmth against the chill. A cup of green tea, a new freckle or two, a moment to remember each mile I traveled to get here. I left any response I might have given somewhere out on the highway. In the golden light of afternoon, there was nothing to say.
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.
100 Proof 