Vignette 7

Almost always, it begins like this: a glance from the corner of an eye, head flashing towards motion. Already, curiosity murmurs like a rising cat. A turn to look again. It never matters what they’re wearing or what colors, except, that it does. It’s the way the clothing falls on them—the way they feel in your left brain, their form sneaking up like whispers. Soft, almost sensual. Quiet, but there. The way melancholy follows them, drawing you after. You imagine things to fill the place of answers you can’t get. What ifs and maybes that seem emptier somehow for their being. Regret and saudade for someone you never knew. And it shocks like the suddenness of intimacy between strangers.

Vignette 6

It’s ingenious really when you think about it: you take a river chock full of silt and debris; so clogged with decaying fronds and algae blooms that it’s green, and you work.

You dredge it until you’ve dug up most of the rubbish buried in there—the black tires so old you can rip their rubber with your hands. The bits of wood rotting off the jutting dock. Even concrete chunks more ancient than your grandpa. You take them all away, but around this river, you build a park.

You plant grass on its cut banks. You put up new trees. Public seats spring up near a long, winding, cement trail you’ve just poured. You even put a gazebo on the bank, because for some crazy reason, people like watching bodies of water. You notice then the willow trees that have always grown upon each of its banks. They are old and their branches tired with the years they’ve kept this river. Below them, you see how the waterlilies bloom along like gems set to limn a gold chain.

There are warblers and thrushes singing in the bushes. Geese come in to cool off on the river.

Behind you, a girl sees the biggest dragonfly of her life and shrieks. The flashy insect dashes by you like a spirit drawn from a coloring book. You smile. You’ve created. You’re content.

Vignette 5: Anxiety

You wake up alone in your room again. You’re convinced you heard something in the dark, but there’s nothing there, just you. It might’ve been a car down the street, the dog next door, or a tree branch scratching against your bedroom window. Or it might’ve been the noise in your head. The buzzing that began last week at your mother’s place, or your friend’s new apartment in the city, or at work. Somewhere. When everyone was gathered around the table laughing, you were the only exception. There you were in the corner with the coffee pot, rubbing your temple in that determined way of yours, trying to think straight through the cloud filling up your inside.

You are ashamed because the panic of your youth has returned; the anxiety that kept you awake at night when your parents fighting set your teeth on edge. Do you remember the feeling in your chest? How it scared you that you might suddenly forget how to breath?

You’re afraid you’re becoming like your mother. You don’t want to be weak. You’ve spent your entire adulthood running from your past. You’ve bought a house. You own a car. Your friends even say they love you. You haven’t touched the rope in your closet in months. But you don’t tell them about times like these when you lie awake in your bed and all you see is death. 

Vignette 4: Lies I told a Woman

I heard some lies were only lies because you choose not to believe in them and some truths were only truths at certain times. But if you were to say something true in that moment, does that relativity make it any less truthful? Is it a lie if in a moment of drunkenness you turn to a perfect stranger and say to him, “I love you”? Doesn’t the feeling of peace and goodwill exist in you in that one transcendent instant?

If in a moment of lust, our heat fueled by the union of our bodies, I look at a woman I’d normally find plain and I say to her “you are beautiful” is it really a lie?

She seemed to think so but I didn’t want to argue that point with her. We’d met in the library the Friday before the break. I was trying to study for an Eco exam and she had a psych paper to submit. She had one of those strange and unusual names that you hear once and quickly forget because it sounds weird. One of those names that your parents usually gave you a nickname for but you grow up and start reusing to look more adult.

I was bored and couldn’t focus on my notes. There was something so oppressive about the silence of the library at that time of night and her movements drew my attention. I said “hi.” She smiled easily and laughed in soft, low laughs at my weak jokes. We ended up in bed.

I didn’t think she’d be so caught up over the statement. It didn’t seem like such a big thing to have said, giving the activity we were engaged in. I call flowers “beautiful” and birds “beautiful”; and dancers and actresses and geniuses. They are. I’d wanted her to feel good about herself and the easiest way I knew was to adorn her with compliments. I didn’t expect her to seem so wounded and stung. She asked me what I meant by it and I didn’t know how to explain it to her.

It made me think that maybe I didn’t know what I’d meant. Over the week, she called. I got tense. I didn’t want her to know how unsure I’d become over a little white lie. But I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

Vignette 3: Light

In the kitchen, my mind clears in the light. There is a single naked bulb above my head, strings of sticky fly-traps coiling down from its screws, but its light is a weak and ineffective thing. No, there is light pouring in like a river from windows placed perpendicularly at this end of the house. They are portals. When the Sun rises as it does now, its rays rain refracted from one but crowns boldly at the other.

It is an assault of heat and light that makes my eyes scream and my brain to exhale like an amorphous creature slumbering in a dark, liquid, cave. But my skin exalts at the ecstasy of the Sun’s heat, and warmth spreads all throughout my body, clearing the cobwebs of my mind.

I can think straight. I can see the way sunlight plays on the walls; it’s strains and strands filtering through the window bars; the patterns on the fridge; and the silver plate piled with cereal.

For a moment, I am entranced with how the milk shines back in its glow.

I am filled with sunlight and milk and cereal and I do not want to move. But then, the moment is broken by a voice, and I put my plate away.

Vignette 2

I returned to the pool today after 3-years. Forgotten how deeply chlorine sticks to your skin long after the fact. How it doesn’t come off in the showers (no soap on me) and lotion doesn’t really hide it. And how the smell gets into your hair and your fingernails so that every time you bring your hands up to brush your face you’re left with its sudden odor. I’m sure you know what I mean:

I. Gathered together, my friends crack jokes about the smell. I complain about how dry it’s making my skin, how dehydrated I am. I’ve tried to mask the chlorine on my skin with a high dosage of Axe body spray.

II. In class, I am filled with confidence that I’ve dealt with it, but notice people making faces and sniffing the air. Signs of trouble. I realize that I not only smell of chlorine, but more repugnantly, I smell of it and the Axe on top. Panic sets in. I try to keep my head low ‘til the end of class. The professor still calls on me.

III. It’s almost eight o’clock now. I’d wanted to go to the gym at school and run a mile, but the prospect of leaving a trail of chlorine behind does not amuse me. Undecided, I head to the newspaper office to get my equipment. I’m distracted by videogames.

IV. Gym is closed. Deciding (reluctantly) that I should probably finish editing that article, I turn to it, but my fingers smell like chlorine. I’m angry at how stubborn the stuff is but proud I can continue to teach myself to swim. I Google “cool swimming technique” with plans on hitting the pool again. There’s a cool illustration, pictures of swimmers, and prominently, a woman in a bikini. I Google “sexy swimming technique.” There are more cool illustrations, naked swimmers, and pornography. I decide I’ll just Google “swimming technique.” I click the first link and browse. I recognize myself as “the Bambino.” I get angry and do push ups. The smell of chlorine attacks my nose.

V. I get water and brown paper and begin wiping my face and neck. I flick my clothes and smell more chlorine. I sit, unbuckle my belt and pulling up my T-shirts, begin wiping my belly and chest hard. I drink more water, consider stripping (don’t) but return to dechlorinating. Keys are heard outside the door. Panic. Door opens.

VI. I pull shirt over wet and shiny torso, hunch as casually over unbuckled pants with a slight “wassup.” One finger tries to ALT-TAB the half-nude swimmers off the page. More half-nude swimmers come up. ALT-TAB again. Tab switches to naked sexy swimmers.

Some day, I’m sure, we’ll all forget about this.

Vignette 1

My phone’s still off and we’re chatting over Facebook. She asks me, “why do you just be someone’s lover, lover?” My mind goes quiet. It isn’t that I don’t know why. I’ve thought about it, rationalized it; have done so for five years.

But my rational mind has always been a secret and intimate part of me and I’m never used to explaining myself out of the blue. I like physical surprises, material surprises…things with physical and material responses like deep kisses. Sometimes. And I like great minds, too. Sometimes.

I respond—I always do—and it’s always a quick joke so people never know when I’ve been caught unawares. A digression. I digress from that with a solemn question to let her know I’m paying attention. I don’t want her to feel insulted, like I’m not taking her seriously. I am.

At this point—were I with her—I would have taken a deep, calming, breath and a look deep into her eyes.

She goes blank, does not respond and I take the time to think: why lovers? Because boyfriends and girlfriends don’t mean a shit to me. I think too many people who tag themselves in relationships are playing roles. They take on these labels to conform but they don’t know what it means. Why? Because they’re lonely. Maybe. Just like the rest of us, but now, they’re all mechanical dolls. Lovers can be fluid. Lovers can be organic. They can be physical, and material, and have great minds. They can be sensual people, driven people, people with dreams, but ultimately people. And because they’re not mechanical, they can surprise you even when you don’t expect it. Or want it.

She returns and I find that I like her question. I won’t turn away from her directness. I return.