the other shore

“Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness, and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was a time when they both loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other moral trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.” 

 -GGM

happy tea

Hers would be just like the one on Valencia Street. Because the city needed it – a place where single origin coffees and teas could be sipped, where revolutionary minds could be muddled and spiced, where blood-red roses in jam jars could mirror the tattoos of the clientele. Do you belong to the order of the root beer rooibos tea slurpers? Do you play chess on your laptop against the computer, or against your ex who now lives in Ashland? Which table are you drawn to: the porcelain rounder beneath the replica light bulbs, with those excellent push-button switches and single-loop carbon filaments?  Or will you sit by the window, with three ghostly guests, and read Sartre, or A Passage to India, with a double-decker sea green tea pot all set about with fever trees?

Hers would also incorporate jute. Lots of twine. Vintage wallpaper. The snow would fly but so would the paper flock of Japanese cranes under a chicken wire skylight. Salt would be tracked in, swept out, and tracked in again with black mascara stains. Nothing is waterproof these days. Hers was also prone to disorder. Mustaches uncombed, pomade globs unmassaged into the locks of straw-blonde employees, arm hairs unkempt and threatening to garnish the happy tea, a flavor she blended by gloved hand.

Music was another matter entirely. Too old and it was cliché. Too new and it evoked a crowd that clashed with the theme of an ambiguous ‘then’. Hers would play a combination of obscure and oldies but goodies. Subtle, like the cucumbers in the community water jug save but two that rested on her eyes before dawn. Refreshing, refined, and fully retrofitted from a time when shower caps were floral and fabric, when bread was implicitly homemade and soups not warmed by an electric kettle. Hers cheated, sometimes, out of sight.

Hers had a lavatory inside an old elevator shaft. Pull the chain and open the flue, let out the unwanted, lure in the blackbirds. Replace underwear – she preferred knickers –to original position in the honesty of natural light. Return refuse to proper place in iron waste basket. Partake of organic hand soap and wipe hands on pants in the spirit of eco-friendship. Hers wasted not, and wanted only in secret.     

secret ops

we were standing in a hangar, where a helicopter was about to launch indoors. you had been chosen to lead a mission, secret ops, with one other man. i had also been selected to go along as a spy, someone to extrapolate information, find weaknesses, snuff out the enemy. you didn't know i was there until the prop started to turn. when you saw me, i had just looked down and noticed that on the day of the mission launch, i had forgotten to wear shoes. but somehow i had remembered to pack a pair of yours -- old hiking shoes you had retired and then lent to me once, socks too. too big, dusty, burrs in the laces, they would have to do. hopefully this wouldn't involve a lot of running away from the enemy, i thought. you saw me tying the shoes, and i couldn't tell what upset you more -- that i was wearing your shoes or that i had been chosen to go on the same mission.

once we arrived, we were on a deserted college campus. somewhere, someone was hiding, lying in wait. my job was unclear, and i could hardly walk. you seemed to know what you were doing, you had a gun and the other guy listened to you. i wanted to talk to you, ask you what exactly i was supposed to be doing, make sure it was alright if i borrowed your shoes, tell you i was scared.  but i couldn't.

we found ourselves inside a church. gunfire outside. i realized that it was my job to go out and discover the identity of the enemy, but you grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye: you can't go out there.

why not?

because they'll kill you.

and that would bother you?

stay here, i'll go instead. get up on the roof.

i watched you disappear into the hedge. i could only see leaves, the dark rubber green and lime yellow undersides of leaves.

majestic

when lights fail,

remain in place

until lights resume.

die

stairs

you were standing at the top of the stairs, the ceiling was low and geometric -- you had to turn your head to the side in order to fit in the door frame. a red light was shining on your face, you seemed to gaze at me. i couldn't see the source of the red light behind me, but when it hit your face it turned lemonade pink. you were young, as i remember you, plush and perspiring.

stay with me.

you know i can't.

i felt summoned -- a wistful invitation -- like biting into a hot peach, like melted butter surrendering on toast.

you look like the devil.

i smiled and turned my head to match yours.

you said something under your breath, people rushed up and down the stairs between us -- on their way to the stage -- makeup bright and feathers flying.

ride

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