After the Kiss (6 page)

If God got a day of rest,

when will I?

Dramatic Shift

Face curled into my neck on the carpet, he says

Where are you?
and I say
Where I always am:

here.

And his strong arms are a band around me,

holding me in,

keeping me close.

No you're not. You're
—

And I can't help it—
You think I'm where?
—

And then the arms are gone with the rest of him,

holding me

but somewhere else, somewhere I sent him:

some distant place full of worry and frown.

I'm right here
—my hand on his arm—
it's just

there's a lot . . .

And he really lets go.

You should probably go, I guess.

And I
should
probably go. I have

too much to do

to be here now.

But now I don't want to.

No I can stay. You just know how Mom is.

Dinner, you know.

And it is too long a pause,

it is too much space,

before he says,
Yeah. I know.

I have nothing to say,

so I reach for my shirt.

It's just a phase,
comes out of my mouth—

but they are just some words I read in a magazine,

some words I don't believe in,

words that

—by the face of him—

he doesn't believe either.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Adjusting the doughnuts in their tray:

single file,

curve to curve,

holes lined up like a string of pearls.

Finding that

the whole milk (or half and half, or skim milk) pitcher

is almost empty

and filling it

before anyone

knows it's needed.

Pulling down

out-of-date flyers

—tacked up by anyone—

from the congested bulletin board.

Walking in for my shift

after school,

Nadia

—all black spikes and dimply smile—

behind the counter, chirping,

Well what took you so long?
and in general

being able to focus

on something else

for a change.

Thursday Night Latrine Duty

Someone has

spewed

in the women's bathroom—it is alloveritisreally a

mess

and Nadia needs me to clean it up; I say sure I have

four more tables to clear and then—.

Alec is

at the movies with Quinn-Blake-Steve and we

haven't texted in hours.

Maybe he is glad

that I am not there—maybe

I smell too much

like coffee and puke.

A Very (Un)Valentine (with apologies to Gertrude Stein)

Very not-fine is my valentine

very not-fine and apparently not-mine.

Very not-mine is my valentine very not-wanting-to-

be-mine and very not-fine.

Very not-fine is my valentine and not-mine,

very not-fine very

not-mine and not-(apparently)-mine is my valentine.

Valentine's Without You

Serving swooning couples all night long—

the wine and coffee poured

in scarlet-and-truffle streams for them,

their glasses glossed

with the sugar of sizzling smiles, but

my own chocolate center has filled up with poison,

the roses he gave me all twisted black.

He has decided to go out with friends

while I have to work,

covering for Nadia.

Tonight her woozy eyes will close in bliss,

her lips

part in succulent kisses, caressed,

while mine are clenched in all the things

I'm trying to say to him

but he won't hear—

too busy with everything he is doing without me,

(It's just a phase)

too surrounded by faces that are not mine—

those faux-friendly arms

twining themselves around him,

giving him something else

to focus on for a change.

My pillow is my only sodden comfort

until a bleary two AM—his silly sloshing voice

laughing,

trying to say he loves me,

wanting to know if he missed Valentine's.

My own voice chokes on anger he neither hears nor

understands.

Single girls weep today

but those of us in love

aren't supposed to be crying too.

Oh you stupid boy,

you have missed everything.

choosy

at the meat counter she points—not that chop but that one, not that filet but this. she is frown-lined and stern, difficult to wait on, difficult to understand. she pinches her purchases to her dragged-down bosom, clutches her keepsakes in her shawl. other people at the farmer's market move around her, avoid her disapproving glance, roll their eyes at the time she takes with her pointing, her assessing, her careful choosing. this sunday between mom and dad, clutching your own cardigan around your chest, frowning into yourself, you see her and pause. because you recognize her reasoning; there is a fraternity between you. she is careful. she is cautious. she is choosy and a critical judge. she will not take the imperfect meat. she will not bring the wrong one home.

empty calories

you certainly didn't think it was going to be edgar. sure, the boys had all been jostling themselves in your direction for the last couple of days, elbowing you unnecessarily, their laughter always too loud and too desperate—their eyes sneaking to see if you can see how clever they are, how much fun they're having, how much fun you'd have if you were with them. but you were figuring it'd end up being maybe simon or sam: one of the taller boys who at least has a sense of style. but no it was edgar you apparently swam up to on saturday (he made you laugh, you knew he was kind) and now it is edgar again here after fourth period, suddenly outside math class, wanting to see what's up, wanting to know what's going on after school.
we could get milkshakes
, he says, his earnest face going full-collapse when you snark something about it not being 1952.
or just walk around little five,
he corrects quickly, hunching his three-foot-wide shoulders over his five-foot-four frame. you are all about starting your next sentence with a stern,
look
, but then dorie passes by with a big confusing thumbs-up and all you can hear is the swim of bees. suddenly somehow it's after school and you are meeting him on the quad and no one is looking but everyone sees you, and it doesn't matter how casual they act with themselves and each other, they're all so very
serious
, and for a minute you
picture yourself turning around, walking away, saying never mind, but you are still the new girl, you still need your friends, so you lift your chin and make yourself smile and this is so boring already but there you are, walking toward him, letting his hand find the small of your back.

different types of alone

he drives like your grandpa jared used to: gunning up behind the cars in front of him and hanging there so close and so tight that you can't help but grab on to the door handle and press your foot to the floor. you are not sure what the big hurry is especially since the traffic stays at each light for twelve minutes and you are only a few blocks away. you consider jumping out at ponce and moreland, telling him you forgot something, telling him you have to be home, but then the light changes and he guns through it—tailing—and you grit your teeth and try to think whether you'll want nachos or else just a smoothie. when you finally arrive he parks too close to the car next to you and you have to squeeze yourself out like an octopus between. he is waiting for you—but not really—by the sidewalk, eager to get there—wherever you're going—and as he crosses the street you watch him not even looking to see if you're there, but you follow anyway just to see what's next. he does not offer you a soda does not offer anything just walks straight into criminal and heads for the comics. you watch him awhile: head down, fingers flipping—he doesn't look up for you, doesn't know where you are. and you understand that he might really like you, but is one of those guys who really only wants the kind of company that will follow him around while he does things he'd do anyway, on his own, just so he doesn't
have to look like he's alone. and while his independence is part of what made you kiss him at the lake house in the first place, you aren't that kind of lonely and there's plenty you could do alone yourself, so after flipping through some cds and buying a copy of
flaunt
you pat edgar on the back and tell him thanks but you're walking home. his face is a surprise-letdown swirl but you don't give him time to recover; you just half-wave and say thanks again. you don't walk home either—you go down to el myr instead and order a big plate of cheesy nachos and you sit there and read your magazine—glad to (really) be by yourself.

keep moving

you're all geared up for it to be maybe weird with edgar in the morning, but when you get to school you find his arm draped around some girl named holly. some girl from volleyball. some girl even ellen hardly knows; some girl you've never seen. and there's willow shooting her eyes at you and you trying to ignore them and edgar smiling like he just won musical chairs and you really just glad for that to be the end of it, but having to act a little miffed—having to give them something—just so they can leave you alone and let you go on with things, let you march with your drum in your own little private parade, because remember all you're doing is twirling your baton until you get to the end of the line. maybe it stings that he wasted no time, but he is a bee just like the rest of them and if he's found someplace to suck nectar you're glad it's not you who has to give him the buzz. you can already hear luli laughing about it anyway, wondering why you agreed to hang out with him in the first place. the goal is to keep yourself moving, remember? don't linger. don't hover. you are not going to stay.

things to miss about chicago #5

the el on a rainy day. stark skies. lakebeachwalking when it's way too cold. palmer house lobby. descartes coffee. needing a scarf. english class. that crazy kid in AP history with the weird slanting hair. sidewalk hot dogs. pigeons lifting up together. walking everywhere and anywhere. candace's small shoes next to your clodhoppers. sidewalks full of tulips. waving to boat-tour tourists from the bridge. feeling enclosed. feeling safe. art institute lions. the whorl of dark hair on the back of his neck. those hands that—

bridges

the trick about bridges is that—while they do span great distances: connecting two points that would ordinarily remain disconnected—if there's too wide a gap between their supports, the middle will sag and eventually break. even just a weak link will make the whole thing collapse. so bridges between things take time. you have to work from both sides. they require whole teams to design and construct. they take attention to detail, take great effort. and too many people are used to being islands, moored (isolated) in their own blue coconut seas of bliss, so it is harder and harder to find those who will build (who will believe in) bridges to anywhere else. you cannot make a bridge by yourself. there has to be someone working from the other end. and it is such a great distance. there is always, after all, so much (so much) water.

the coffeehouse

in charlotte it was starbucks, but that's only because it was two blocks from school and everyone went there and you were only thirteen, anyway. in sf you migrated to peet's which wasn't much better but you weren't allowed to go all the way over to vesuvio's, where you wanted to hang (even though they'd never let you in). chicago was intelligentsia, where you really developed your taste. special roast coffees, nonautomated espressos, counter people who wore their own clothes, music that wasn't chosen by some corporate office three states away, but it was ruby's that taught you about cake—real cake inches high and made by someone who likes it almost as much as you do. since the atlanta arrival you've been looking for it—your place, your hangout, your relaxing room, your coffee haven, your kingdom of confection . . . and today you find it. today, after school, tagging along into decatur behind ellen-jessica-flip-simon-willow, you catch a glimpse and take note of the friendly outdoor patio and the beckoning chalkboard with the dancing monkey and the grinning goat. the aroma wafting out the opened front door makes your toes curl with anticipation, but you make yourself wait until later. later, when you're alone, you'll slip into it like a much-needed bath.

by the bonfire

since it isn't raining this saturday there's a bonfire at the lake house, and of course that means there's some asshole who steps in it and melts half his shoe. there are girls with beers in red cups standing stupidly close to the flames, coughing and shifting away from the smoke, too dumb to step back, or maybe afraid they'll squash the couples sitting cross-legged together in the dark hem just outside the firelight's circle—sounds of their make-outs audible even over everyone else talking and the sharp crackle of spark. there's the helpful guy in the life is good t-shirt who knows just when to put the next log on—always ready with a big stick to poke things in place when they collapse. you are enjoying the orange on your face, the warm laughing banter around you, and tomorrow you will bury your nose in your sweater, relish the way everything still smells like camping.

more than meets the eye

and then suddenly you've got company. you knew when you saw him last time—everyone in the whole pot-fogged, beer-goggled
house
knew—that he was pretty much the hottest boy there—and now here he is, hesitating a little, his shoulders unsure, but very clearly standing next to you, watching the fire too. you remind yourself girls will be like baseballs to him: catch, caress, throw back out to the field. but when his eyes catch yours—catch your eyes sneaking over to him—somehow the scales tip and the fire brightens. or perhaps it dims. something in those eyes surprises you for a second time, gives you a little pause. the most popular boy by the lake and he looks genuinely lonely. you are blushing—or too warm—and give him a small smile, but start to step away (you have to keep moving). when he speaks at first you don't quite understand. you think he is kidding. you think he is making fun of you. you think you had him right in the first place, but when you challenge his eyes with yours there's no smirk, no asshole a-ha, and he says it again:
you seem you could use / a little kind of surprise / maybe some haiku?
then just stands there, open and waiting, while you count imperceptibly on your fingers. he waits for you to do the math, for your eyes to widen, for you to say,
in fact i do.