we can see it

not everything i write about, not everything i remember, are girls.

i remember boys too. sitting with the boys, smoking with them. we all wear slacks and blank t-shirts. we all want to be kerouac. we are seventeen. don't let that cop come near me with his bullshit, we say, hiding the trembling joint behind our thigh.

i remember seas. the irish sea passing below us in the afternoon as i bite into my cold klm sandwich with a mind as blank as the clouds around us. i don't know what to expect, i don't have any fears, i don't have any hopes. here i am, world, take me for a ride but get me home in one piece because my parents, how they worry.

i remember rooms. rooms comatose but still warm with life in the summer in the public school where they round us all up and show us disney movies to pass the time. the windows betray the bright light of midday july but it's just that, it's just light. there's a whole world out there but who cares? this is the part where bambi's mother gets shot. jonathan starts crying but buries his head in his desk to hide it from the others. i think i'm the only one who saw.

i remember the first fear of something out there dark and indescribable, the row house where the policeman put the gun to his head and left it all in one quick bang, scaring the neighboring filipino woman half to death as she stood cooking her family's dinner. sneaking with chris and jessica at midnight to stand by the side of his building, maybe there's something you can still feel, some lingering energy that explains why someone would do it, maybe we can solve what the adults and the newsvans and the sobbing relatives can't. seeing the bundle of discarded police tape like a huge venomous snake coiled under the white street light in a pile of autumn leaves and running like holy hell back to the light and safety of my living room, knowing that even in horrible, violent, uncertain death a side of it stays on to remind us how much we want to live.

i remember such shame, stealing the young couple's cell phone and wallet and running as fast as we could down the alley, taking the cash and throwing the billfold in the garbage. later that night we'd be drunk and i'd drop the phone from the top of a building downtown, pangs echoing throughout my mind that i'd stepped into a side of life that would only grab me by the hand and pull me further with its coarse embrace. the next morning i sat across from my parents silently eating cereal and made a decision to roll by myself, no more friends.

i remember pain. my mother's best friend flies in from chicago to visit that bruised summer, sits across from her on the sofa as she says "well, sandy, i'm glad you came to see me before i croaked." walking out of the house in a daze and going anywhere, miles of avenues and side streets just to keep moving, just to stay one step ahead of processing what was unfolding before me.

i remember the joy of comfort. not simply repeating "time heals all wounds" but seeing it, feeling it. sitting in my apartment with my best friends playing cards all night, the music softly playing, the wide world asleep outside waiting for me. thinking, there is nowhere else i'd rather be than here.

i don't remember boredom. i am living it. i remember everything else because at one time it cut into my memory like skis in the fresh winter snow, like the first scoop through a new tub of ice cream on the hottest day of the year. now nothing sticks. now i'm at the bottom of the tub, the snow has all but melted. nothing makes an impression except that one large gash, the sharpest knife of them all, the one that slid across us menacingly that midnight behind the row houses. the one that's waving in front of us no matter how hard we maintain our steely reserve. no burying our heads in the desk will make it go away, no half-hearted wisecracks will change the fact that it's there, glinting in the corner of our eyes.

i remember girls the most because they're the only ones who can take me softly by the shoulder, turn me slowly away from it and whisper.

you won't remember, i probably will

saturday afternoon in december. my mind is a mess from the drinking the night before. after two hours wandering around the apartment in a daze i say 'fuck this' and catch the fast train into the city. the snow is swirling down from a concrete sky. it doesn't feel as cold as it should.

on the train i fold over my fleece coat and wedge it between my head and the window. i fall asleep right before reaching the station and when i am forced to exit the train i am even more disoriented than i had been back home.

i walk the empty blocks to my office. passing sixth i see crowds of holiday shoppers up the avenue but on these side streets there is no one. i walk into the building and nod at the security guard but he's asleep. it's one of those days, i tell myself. the world wants to just curl up and be asleep.

somewhere else, far from here, i think, it is sunny and warm. the opposite.

i get to my desk and turn on the monitor, graze over the news and sports listlessly. the quiet is unsettling but at the same time comforting; i know i'm alone here and it puts me at ease. outside the large picture windows the empire state building is barely visible. the roofs are all coated in white like powdered sugar liberally sifted over the entire city. in the distance yellow cabs with their lamp-like headlights on coast slowly in long strings northward. i am alone but it is peaceful.

at 4:30 i find an email from beth. this one isn't like the old ones, when she had a boyfriend and i worried he'd find out about that day we took a drive out to stone mountain, when she--these aren't like the old days. in it she talks about how her day went: pier one, buying candles, lunch at ruby tuesday with her sister, cleaning the apartment.

i suddenly feel a weight in my heart and i call her up. voicemail. i hang up.

i sit and watch the snow swirling around. summer is a distant memory. as i'm turning the computer off and getting ready to leave, the phone rings.

she apologizes for not picking up earlier. she's getting ready to leave for a wedding in alpharetta. it's ok, i tell her, nothing special, just wanted to say hello. she says we'll talk later and i tell her to drive safe. she sounds happy and excited and i imagine the 30 minute drive through a warm, sunny afternoon.

i hang up and sit staring out the window some more. it was just a car ride.

it's history.

you wear a flower in your hair

last night:

the sushi restaurant looked like a mexican cantina. (i'm not complaining.)

why is it when i'm with you sunset lasts seemingly forever?

when we had to split ways after dinner, you to your mom's house to watch the musical and me to the airport, you asked to kill the rest of the sake. i love surprises.

you're beautiful and have a mind like a sleek marble counter at midnight but waiting for the check for 30 minutes is painful no matter whom you're with.

mike and i stumbled through the terminal looking for the arrivals board but all the monitors were flickering with cascading white lines. we looked out the window of the corridor and saw the aeroflot plane taxiing towards a gate. you could see mike's mother's hair through the tiny windows.

after everyone had gone to bed and all the vodka was gone i threw my car keys into the jungle-like backyard and walked off down the street, no moonlight, just steamy pavement bathed in orange. i zoned out and when i came to, i was on southwood by eric's house, a block from mine. the row houses were all in various states of demolition or renovation. two middle aged women with small dogs walked past me, out of the night and back into it. i made my way around the building and to the grassy spot where we used to play baseball.

laying in the clover i fell asleep. when i woke it was light out, i looked up and saw the rows of buildings towering over me. this is all so familiar, i thought. but it didn't seem so strange. there was none of that powerful feeling, the weight in my heart that i expected. i stood up and walked about.

it took me five minutes to find our old apartment. i felt ashamed and concerned that my memory was fading. i knocked on the door and a middle aged woman with dyed black hair answered but i felt strange so i apologized. "wrong house." she looked afraid.

walking down bedford in the brightening sunlight i saw a little girl playing by a parked car. when i walked by she said to me, "we're off on a journey to the center of it all!" and made a swooping motion as if she were a superhero. i smiled and kept walking past. at the corner i saw a cop in a crisp, slender black uniform kneeling to check a license plate. as fast as i could i ran towards him, to kick him in the side of the head with a flying leap. and then

wicker

i'm with jason and his girlfriend elizabeth. we're out at a cafe in robertson park just passing time on a saturday afternoon. there's a party later, on the southeast side, and until ten we seem content to just sit back in our chair and watch life go by. beth's phone rings and she animatedly tells someone to come join us.

it's ian, her former classmate at georgetown. he lives in the neighborhood. he arrives a few minutes later and instantly i don't like him; there's just something about his stance--it seems aggressive rather than confident, confrontational rather than exploratory. he stands there with his sunglasses perched on his forehead and eyes all of us, his hand firmly on beth's shoulder. i see jason shift slightly in his chair.

ian suggests we all go out to dinner at les halles. "i can get a table, doneski." at this point i figure what the hell, i'll go along with this: i have nothing better to do, i don't want to leave jason in his own private hell, i do quite enjoy good french food. perhaps i am a masochist for discomfort at times.

we pile into ian's audi and drive the six miles to the restaurant. i sit in the backseat watching the houses fly by in the late afternoon sun. i think about what the people are doing inside each one, who is fighting, who is making love, who is asleep, who is anticipating a night that might change their life, who is secure in an evening where everything stays the same.

at the restaurant ian approaches the stout, taciturn maitre d' and whispers something. I see a bill flash quickly between his hand and the host's stand. having refrained from doing so yet, i allow myself this opportunity to roll my eyes. ian sees this and the corners of his mouth turn down on reflex.

we are led to a respectable table outdoors, on the patio. the setting is nice enough. low yolk-colored walls surround a large parallelogram of space, the floor sleek stone and lights positioned discreetly at various positions. the effect is one of tranquility, a refined ambiance. just enough darkness to relax you, just enough light to remind you not to get too comfortable.

we are sat and ian starts making a fuss about the water being poured. "you don't have voss? i'd expect better," he tells the mexican busboy. i am sensing this dinner will be an ordeal. beth smiles at him cordially and he grins back at her, eyes locked. jason checks his iphone with a feigned concentration.

the amuse arrives, something or another with foie gras. ian pauses his soliloquy about the problems with his new apartment to insist on serving the dish himself. the startled waiter hesitates between acquiescing and suddenly the plate is upturned, its contents spilled all over the tablecloth. ian begins cursing and time seems to slow down as i take a deep breath and wish i was anywhere else. i scan the room, see the other tables trying desperately to ignore us, and there, being seated in a corner near a babbling fountain, there you are.

it's like a movie how ian's babbling just slowly fades away as i rise up from my seat. the rest of the patio, the rest of the city, the rest of the world blurs and you are the center, in clear focus. you're in a red dress, your hair pulled back loosely and your purse on your lap. as they fill your water glass you scan the room and there you see me, striding towards you and you smile. it is a sunrise after a night in the hospital, it is truly the light at the end of a smoke-filled tunnel.

we make small talk. i pull a chair up next to yours. you are waiting for a date. it has been a year, i don't know why. i can see the reflection of the lowering sun in your eyes. at one point i say the hell with it and as you tell me about how your work is going i brush my cheek past yours, listening, nodding. i can smell the shampoo in your hair. it smells like when we were young. you reflexively reach for my knee and stroke it, slowly smoothing out a crease in my jeans. your date arrives. he's blonde, hair slicked back, designer shirt. i don't feel any jealousy. i take your hand and say "well, until we meet again," cheerfully. i smile at the date and shake his hand. "old friends," i tell him. he grins politely before turning his attention to her.

i walk back to the table. the most unappetizing dishes are presented, all crude browns and wan whites, sickly green speckled here and there. ian says something about me being too good for the rest of them and i tell him rudely to learn to relax. after a sip of wine i get up and leave the restaurant. the maitre d' scoffs softly as i walk out and i think about saying "fuck you."

i walk fifteen blocks in the reddish sunset to kingsway, where i catch a downtown bus. the traffic hums along, punctuated occasionally with the low rumble of bass or a shrieking horn. staring out the bus window i see an ambulance far off in the distance, its white and red lights flickering like diamonds and rubies deep in the bottom of clear, still water.

i get home and lie down on the sofa. hours later jason and beth arrive home, arguing. they are drunk. jason stops in the doorway of the living room and gazes down at me as beth slams a door down the hall. he shakes his head.

i nod. i can hear the lamp buzzing softly in the silence.