What it almost was

There it goes. My grandmother gave her that plate. Now it’s on a UFO trajectory to the wall like it’s area 51. I don’t have to duck – she has terrible aim. Or unclear intentions.

Her eyes water when she yells this loud. Her hands flex out and she leans at me like she’s catapulting her words. When she stops screaming I assume it’s my turn to talk so I say the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing.

She pushes the lamp over because it’s going to solve our problems if that fucking blue lamp is on the floor. If she were a man we’d be four bloody knuckles into a fight by now. God I wish she were a man so I could beat the shit out of her. Here she comes.

She stomps over the floor like our neighbors pay her for it. Then she jabs me in the chest and drops my car keys in my hands. I have to leave, of course. In our apartment where I pay for most of the rent, but I have to leave. Fuck me, go fuck myself, fucking fuck fuck. She’s always been awful at using curse words in a sentence.

I walk to the door, but how did I know this would happen. Am I just going to leave? Just like that? Well shit, isn’t that what you wanted? Now she says I don’t care about this relationship. Maybe I don’t. Can I say that? I just want to tell her I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. I don’t care about you, I don’t care about our kids, I don’t care about this apartment, I don’t care about this life. I just want to leave. Hitchhike on the bumper of a semi headed right to Hell. I’d rather have Satan rape me repeatedly in the ass than inhale another molecule of your Britney Spears perfume.

She asks if I ever even loved her. She won’t like the answer so I don’t say anything. I can leave, she says, and she becomes soft. She’s raged out. Her body slumps like a bean bag chair and the tears breach her lashes.

Guilt settles into my gut. The crossroads. I’m here once a week and I always pick the wrong road. No, less like a crossroad, more like a roundabout. All I have to do is take the exit.

Of course I love you, I say. I’ve always loved you.

Sorry Satan, our date will have to wait.

the artist.

Auburn tresses caressing her neck and her chest and you guess by the flex of her lips ‘round her straw that she’s stressed by the fact that she’s lacked proper sex and your knack for the act would propose that you act on her now as she stares in the eyes of the cubes in her glass, she refuses to laugh as the men in the club try every ruse on the map, but it’s futile perhaps, because she’s used to this trap, she’s been used and been trapped, so she’s choosing a lapse, a floosy at that, she’s lousy at trying to reduce the attract, so she wore a black dress: more subdued than the red, not that it matters with those two beautiful legs, and you think maybe it’s you who should peg her in the bathroom stall with her arms pinned against the wall and her dress stripped and soon her bra is bested by your proven palms and her lips spread apart
like her legs
and you pound her fast-
er than her heart
can keep up,
and her breath
nearly stops
then it’s art
like you’re swiping a brush
and you paint her cheeks flush
as you bite her skin
and rip it apart,
you know that the scream coming
in your collar is soft
like the silencer on
a gun shot,
and this you can do, this as you watch her consumed with the blues, but that you can’t fix, so you stay at your table and back to your drink.

Photo Credit belongs to Fabian Perez

Remembering the canyons

Clear winter afternoons remind me of my mother. We used to go for hikes in the canyons and she’d be bundled up under a red hat and a scarf and a jean jacket. The image is burned in my brain. You’ll never find a woman like my mother, the way she smiled. Her blue eyes judgeless and wrinkled at the edges because she’s been smiling her whole life. The kind of woman whose skin tells stories. Sun spots and scars. She conceived my brother under summer skies after hiking the Camino De Santiago for an entire day. She gave birth to me in her own apartment. Raised us both as a single mother and pioneered a theatre troupe while freelancing as a communication therapist. We used to travel to Bordeaux by the overnight train and took a ferry to Soulac-sur-Mer to visit my grandparents. The saltwater prickled in my nose while I stood against the metal railing overlooking the ocean. My grandparents had spare bikes for us in their garage and the clearest memory I’ll ever have is the smell of sand and ocean in that muggy storage chamber. Later they’d remodel it into a sunroom, but it doesn’t matter because the garage will always exist in my head. We always biked, my mother and brother and I. Always, everywhere. The three of us experienced a lot together. I love them both enough to make my throat feel like it’s closing in on itself.

We moved to America and we branched out. Language will change people. My brother moved out of state and my mother moved out of the country and I’m still here, sorting through fragmented experiences because the canyons crowd me with them. Towards the end I was with either one or the other, but we were always in the canyons. In a way, every red rock clasped to the soles of my shoes tied the three of us together. It’s going to be hard to leave this place.

photo credit: KOLCHphotography

Modern Men at the Gym

Gym stuff. You’ll understand.

Conceited Crusade

Back at the gym. Thick neck guy and uncomfortable orgasm sound guy are here again. It’s not the same two guys, always, but they might as well be. They’re like Sith. There will always be two – hanging out by the squat rack or snapping pictures of their QUADS BRO. I don’t mind usually but today I didn’t bring my earphones and now every struggling rep sounds like he reached completion in the bathroom right as his mom walked in on him. You know the sound. Pleasure turned into utter distress. I want to get up and rip the dumbbell out of his hands. Lift something lighter, I want to tell him. It sounds like it’s too heavy. But instead I look at my own bagged eyes and shallow cheeks. I’m fucking tired. My hand still hasn’t recovered. I’m hungry. But if I don’t go to the gym I have…

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Here’s some words so you won’t leave

I’ve fixed the chain on my bike and now I’m back to sliding into streets like a curveball. I like thinking that maybe I’ll cut it too deep and my knee will scrape the floor and the bike will run out from under me and hug a tree. But maybe not. Because then I start thinking about the medical bills and I think man I could better spend that money on coffees and paying fines to my library. I haven’t written anything because I can only think of the one story but I can’t finish it. The characters won’t let me finish it. I can’t suck the air out of their lungs, they just want to keep doing shit and if I interrupt them it just ends like an unfinished

But I’ve never liked those authors who talk like their characters control the story because they’re just characters. I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking at it wrong. I just want to finish this damn story so I can go back to blogging about writing stories.