He came to me through the shadows;
at night we played chess beneath white sheets,
flashlight between skinned knees -
like the child that grows,
our love learned to swallow tears,
our lips learned to lie,
our mouths whispered good-bye:
Now, who will play with my fears?
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Monday, July 22, 2013
Tragicomic Cups of Coffee
Maggie had lost the ability to focus. She clicked on headlines in the NY Times and NY Magazine, glancing at the top paragraph of each article before closing the tab on her browser. In between these attempts to read the news, she would go out for coffee with friends and blame all her problems on Facebook.
The cafe nearest to her was one of those artsy places: Jazz played constantly in the background, and it sold salads with names like "Jerusalem Syndrome" and "Billy Holiday Delight". When Maggie was younger, she once dreamed that she was the Messiah, but then her teacher told her he had to be a king, and she was too young to dream about sex-change operations - speaking of which, there was some show about trannies that was the latest hit on Israeli TV, but being too lazy to read the article, Maggie didn't know exactly why the damn thing was so popular. The headline was enough, along with the picture of a drag-queen, wearing a silver necklace she would - what a silly phrase, "die for". Who on earth would die for a necklace, unless they were already suicidal? Well, give up a coffee for, perhaps.
Maggie had a date that night, with some British dude she had met at a party. He had red hair, and she liked the way he smiled -but most of all, she liked his ability to completely skewer someone with his words, while laughing. There must be a more eloquent way to express that, but it's hard to be eloquent when you spend most of your time stalking photographs of other people's babies.
When he showed up at her door with flowers, she was surprised - no one had ever bought her flowers before. She usually dated progressive types, who made you split the bill on the first date. She was beginning to suspect their feminism was merely stinginess in disguise. After she put the flowers in water, and spent fifteen minutes searching for a vase, they went to the local ice-cream shop. He ordered mint. She ordered chocolate.
Afterwards, she didn't remember much of their conversation. She didn't even remember her asking him to come inside, but soon they were a mess of chest and lips and thighs, and her dress lay on the floorm her bra strewn over a chair. His boxers had landed on her laptop.
Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other's arms, and when she woke up, she found a thank-you-note on her pillow. He'd forgotten his glasses on her desk. The entire day, she waited for his phone-call. She kept the note and the glasses in her top drawer.
But no phone-call had come by the time she went to sleep (2 am) after several stressful cups of coffee. The jazz trumpets seemed to echo the beating of her heart, syncopated and out of sorts, and she wished that her own body could sound as beautiful as the music of an era where people didn't waste their time looking up online pictures of cats.
The next morning, she took out the note and re-read it. She held the glasses to her breasts, and imagined his lips on her nipples. Again, he did not call. On the third day, she decided she might as well be productive and write some emo poetry, but the words would not come.
It took a month for her to throw out the glasses. The note remained buried in the miscellaneous file that she kept in her closet. Soon, she found herself another first date - this time at the local cafe. Her partner was very impressed that she knew all the waiters, and she felt herself smiling halfway through her first sip of caffeine - but she did not invite him in at the end of the evening, and he went home feeling anxious.
He spent the night weighing the pleasure of her laughter against the constriction in his chest when he felt pain - he had recently been spurned by another, and why risk a second chance at heart-break?
When the phone-call she expected did not come, she was surprised to find she had learned not to cry. The next time she went out, she practiced a frown to take between sips, lest the man in question think that she likes him, lest he break her heart - and the good man, taking note of her frown, decided she wasn't interested, and went home to bury his bitterness in a cup of coffee.
The cafe nearest to her was one of those artsy places: Jazz played constantly in the background, and it sold salads with names like "Jerusalem Syndrome" and "Billy Holiday Delight". When Maggie was younger, she once dreamed that she was the Messiah, but then her teacher told her he had to be a king, and she was too young to dream about sex-change operations - speaking of which, there was some show about trannies that was the latest hit on Israeli TV, but being too lazy to read the article, Maggie didn't know exactly why the damn thing was so popular. The headline was enough, along with the picture of a drag-queen, wearing a silver necklace she would - what a silly phrase, "die for". Who on earth would die for a necklace, unless they were already suicidal? Well, give up a coffee for, perhaps.
Maggie had a date that night, with some British dude she had met at a party. He had red hair, and she liked the way he smiled -but most of all, she liked his ability to completely skewer someone with his words, while laughing. There must be a more eloquent way to express that, but it's hard to be eloquent when you spend most of your time stalking photographs of other people's babies.
When he showed up at her door with flowers, she was surprised - no one had ever bought her flowers before. She usually dated progressive types, who made you split the bill on the first date. She was beginning to suspect their feminism was merely stinginess in disguise. After she put the flowers in water, and spent fifteen minutes searching for a vase, they went to the local ice-cream shop. He ordered mint. She ordered chocolate.
Afterwards, she didn't remember much of their conversation. She didn't even remember her asking him to come inside, but soon they were a mess of chest and lips and thighs, and her dress lay on the floorm her bra strewn over a chair. His boxers had landed on her laptop.
Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other's arms, and when she woke up, she found a thank-you-note on her pillow. He'd forgotten his glasses on her desk. The entire day, she waited for his phone-call. She kept the note and the glasses in her top drawer.
But no phone-call had come by the time she went to sleep (2 am) after several stressful cups of coffee. The jazz trumpets seemed to echo the beating of her heart, syncopated and out of sorts, and she wished that her own body could sound as beautiful as the music of an era where people didn't waste their time looking up online pictures of cats.
The next morning, she took out the note and re-read it. She held the glasses to her breasts, and imagined his lips on her nipples. Again, he did not call. On the third day, she decided she might as well be productive and write some emo poetry, but the words would not come.
It took a month for her to throw out the glasses. The note remained buried in the miscellaneous file that she kept in her closet. Soon, she found herself another first date - this time at the local cafe. Her partner was very impressed that she knew all the waiters, and she felt herself smiling halfway through her first sip of caffeine - but she did not invite him in at the end of the evening, and he went home feeling anxious.
He spent the night weighing the pleasure of her laughter against the constriction in his chest when he felt pain - he had recently been spurned by another, and why risk a second chance at heart-break?
When the phone-call she expected did not come, she was surprised to find she had learned not to cry. The next time she went out, she practiced a frown to take between sips, lest the man in question think that she likes him, lest he break her heart - and the good man, taking note of her frown, decided she wasn't interested, and went home to bury his bitterness in a cup of coffee.
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