When you go to the bus station or the train station or the airport, there’s a woman sitting there always, with frizzy hair and smelly clothes and a broken heart, which would be cliché if it weren‘t so true. She hums to herself and talks to Shelley or Kelly or Tiffany or something, and you look away, embarrassed for her.
In her melodies, which you can’t recognize as any particular song you’ve ever heard, she tells you her story. The story is this:
When she was a girl, she was a Shelley or Kelly or Tiffany, even if now she can’t remember which it was. She was blond and perky and turned guys down like she was sending away those black-clothed men with Bibles that knock on suburban doors. It was miraculous, really, how she stayed way up there above everyone else, and it was even more miraculous that she one day believed a guy named Matt or Mike or Mitch when he told her that he loved her, that he only wanted to be with her, that he wasn’t with anyone else. I’m kind of a liability, she said, meaning that she was a virgin, but he kissed her on the mouth and then in other places, and when she breathed in and out and he was there, it was a miracle. And more miraculous that she opened up her legs for the very first time to him, and he filled her up and emptied her out and filled her up again, and by the time he went away for good, his baby was growing inside her.
He’d been gone two months before the heartbreak got really bad, and her internal organs got all mixed up and her heart started pumping some kind of poison, instead of it staying in the liver where it belonged. To make a sad story short, her heart shot that bile right into her belly, and it found its way through all sorts of membranes to that baby. That baby died, which was just as well, because if it couldn’t survive a little second-hand heartbreak, it had no business being born in the first place.
The baby melted out of her, but she kept on talking to it, calling it Shelley or Kelly or Tiffany or whatever blond and perky and well-liked name she’d thought of that week until, pretty soon, people thought she was crazy just for loving some man who’d said he loved her and for feeling kind of bad about the heartbreak that dissolved the little thing growing in her. But still she sits always, waiting for the bus or the train or the airplane that might bring back the people that she loves, or that at least she thought once loved her. And sometimes, when it’s really noisy in one of those places, she likes the quiet.
It’s always so quiet when the sounds are loudest.
You stop to listen.
When she hums at the bus station or the train station or the airport, this is the story she’s humming.
After that, after that first time you listen, she’s finally told her story to someone; or rather, someone has finally listened to her song. And now, even though you’re stuck in that seat waiting for whoknowswho to come back, she’s gone.
26 January 2008
19 January 2008
Dead Girl
Wake up, he says. He looks down into the long wooden box. She lies still.
I know you can hear me, he says. She opens her eyes and sighs.
See, you’re still there, he says. She sits up.
Well, he says, aren’t you going to say anything?
No, she says.
Just a little something, he says.
No, she says.
We can spend some time together, he says.
Well, she says. Maybe.
So let’s go, he says. She starts to climb out of the box.
What should we do, she says.
What, he says.
What should we do, she says.
But you’re dead, he says. Why can’t you just stay dead?
Hey, she says, closing her eyes again. I’m not the one talking to a dead girl.
I know you can hear me, he says. She opens her eyes and sighs.
See, you’re still there, he says. She sits up.
Well, he says, aren’t you going to say anything?
No, she says.
Just a little something, he says.
No, she says.
We can spend some time together, he says.
Well, she says. Maybe.
So let’s go, he says. She starts to climb out of the box.
What should we do, she says.
What, he says.
What should we do, she says.
But you’re dead, he says. Why can’t you just stay dead?
Hey, she says, closing her eyes again. I’m not the one talking to a dead girl.
12 January 2008
But Not We Can't
When they decide to have the party, neither one of them thinks that maybe it will rain and everyone will have to stay inside. But it does rain, and so Jolie and Mack and their guests pack into the house, and it smells stuffy like wet wool and yeasty like beer.
Nothing happens until much later, even though Mack invited Hannah, whom Jolie knew he’d slept with the year before, and Hannah planned to stay over since she’d driven from so far, along with the other guests that drank too much to find their car keys. Of course Jolie complains, especially after another and another martini, the fruity kind but with more vodka than sugar. But these complaints are more flirty than vicious, seeing as how they are made to Nick, a young twenty-something guy who just joined the force with Mack and who didn’t talk much, especially to her.
But your eyes are so pretty, she tells him, running into him by the bar cart where she shakes herself another martini. She leans in close, but nothing is still happening.
Later, even later than her leaning into his pretty blue eyes, Jolie is falling over, trying to sleep under the folding table they set up inside for the food, long gone. I’m not respectable enough to be standing up here talking to you, she means to say, but it comes out as a moan, and Nick catches her and keeps her up talking to him. To let her sober up, Nick reminds himself, eyeing Mack, who fell asleep on the couch. And didn’t Mack say they were divorcing anyway, he reasons, eyeing Jolie, who fell again into his pretty blue eyes.
And when she pulls him through the dining room, where they step over Hannah and one of the other police officers (single, at least, she notes, even through her stumbling) sharing a thin blanket on the floor, and into the office, where she sits him in the office chair and sits in his lap while she insists on checking her sister’s email, since she is impressed that she can remember the password, even if she can barely pronounce her sister’s name.
See, she says, turning toward him, leaning into his pretty blue eyes, and in the dark with only the glowing of the computer screen to light up the room and with Hannah (that slut) lying outside the doorway, Nick looks like Mack, with his strong shoulders and law enforcement crew cut, which is enough of a reason to lean far enough into his eyes to kiss him, and suddenly it is forty minutes later and her lips are still on his, only now his hand is up inside her shirt and her fingers are tracing the zipper of his pants.
The chair creaks loudly.
The floor, they say and slide onto the carpet Mack had installed a few months ago, and instead of closing the door they whisper shhh to each other, and when she says things like, That feels good, or Don’t stop, or Pretty pretty eyes, he can’t hear her but he smiles at her anyway. And soon her dress is up at her waist and his face is buried between her legs and she tells him no, that it’s going to make her beg him to fuck her, but he sucks the words out of her, and when he crawls up her to kiss her sticky-sweet on the mouth she says, Fuck me. I’ve never, he tells her, and she doesn’t really believe him, because she can feel him up against her. He reaches down to guide him into her.
We shouldn’t, she says.
But you didn’t say we can’t, he says.
But we shouldn’t, she says.
But not we can’t, he says, as he pushes inside her, and he still looks like Mack but the weight of Nick’s chest is heavier and his hair is coarser and it scratches her. More rug burn on my front than on my back, she says, but he only smiles at her and concentrates on lasting longer, which doesn’t work because it’s coming, he’s coming, but at least he’s pulled out. Hi, she says. Hi, he says. Her stomach is wet and sticky.
Jolie sleeps on the floor of the office, and Nick sleeps on the floor of the living room, next to the couch where Mack had passed out. Mack is the first one up, and Jolie wakes up smelling the coffee he’s made, which she will drink but not he. She walks into the laundry room, right outside the office, and pulls on one of her husband’s t-shirts and a pair of his boxers from the dryer, taking off the dress right there in the open. She puts it, not thinking, into the dryer with the clean clothes.
When she walks into the kitchen and her husband is standing there, he says, you didn’t sleep in the bed. Neither did you, she says, and she crawls under the blanket he’d slept under on the couch, right above where Nick is sleeping.
Hannah comes into the kitchen then, with the other officer, and talks loudly (that slut), and Nick wakes up and sits up, leaning against the couch where she is not sleeping but thinking that she’d like to. He reaches back and tickles her feet. She pulls her legs away. I’ll move if you want to sit up here, she says, and he gets up and sits next to her but they don’t look at each other.
When Nick goes to leave, she offers to move Hannah’s car, which blocks Nick’s in the driveway. You remember how much of last night, he says. Everything, I think, she says. Well, I’ll see you around, he says. Thanks for coming, she says. And he drives away, and she goes back inside to drink her husband’s coffee.
Nothing happens until much later, even though Mack invited Hannah, whom Jolie knew he’d slept with the year before, and Hannah planned to stay over since she’d driven from so far, along with the other guests that drank too much to find their car keys. Of course Jolie complains, especially after another and another martini, the fruity kind but with more vodka than sugar. But these complaints are more flirty than vicious, seeing as how they are made to Nick, a young twenty-something guy who just joined the force with Mack and who didn’t talk much, especially to her.
But your eyes are so pretty, she tells him, running into him by the bar cart where she shakes herself another martini. She leans in close, but nothing is still happening.
Later, even later than her leaning into his pretty blue eyes, Jolie is falling over, trying to sleep under the folding table they set up inside for the food, long gone. I’m not respectable enough to be standing up here talking to you, she means to say, but it comes out as a moan, and Nick catches her and keeps her up talking to him. To let her sober up, Nick reminds himself, eyeing Mack, who fell asleep on the couch. And didn’t Mack say they were divorcing anyway, he reasons, eyeing Jolie, who fell again into his pretty blue eyes.
And when she pulls him through the dining room, where they step over Hannah and one of the other police officers (single, at least, she notes, even through her stumbling) sharing a thin blanket on the floor, and into the office, where she sits him in the office chair and sits in his lap while she insists on checking her sister’s email, since she is impressed that she can remember the password, even if she can barely pronounce her sister’s name.
See, she says, turning toward him, leaning into his pretty blue eyes, and in the dark with only the glowing of the computer screen to light up the room and with Hannah (that slut) lying outside the doorway, Nick looks like Mack, with his strong shoulders and law enforcement crew cut, which is enough of a reason to lean far enough into his eyes to kiss him, and suddenly it is forty minutes later and her lips are still on his, only now his hand is up inside her shirt and her fingers are tracing the zipper of his pants.
The chair creaks loudly.
The floor, they say and slide onto the carpet Mack had installed a few months ago, and instead of closing the door they whisper shhh to each other, and when she says things like, That feels good, or Don’t stop, or Pretty pretty eyes, he can’t hear her but he smiles at her anyway. And soon her dress is up at her waist and his face is buried between her legs and she tells him no, that it’s going to make her beg him to fuck her, but he sucks the words out of her, and when he crawls up her to kiss her sticky-sweet on the mouth she says, Fuck me. I’ve never, he tells her, and she doesn’t really believe him, because she can feel him up against her. He reaches down to guide him into her.
We shouldn’t, she says.
But you didn’t say we can’t, he says.
But we shouldn’t, she says.
But not we can’t, he says, as he pushes inside her, and he still looks like Mack but the weight of Nick’s chest is heavier and his hair is coarser and it scratches her. More rug burn on my front than on my back, she says, but he only smiles at her and concentrates on lasting longer, which doesn’t work because it’s coming, he’s coming, but at least he’s pulled out. Hi, she says. Hi, he says. Her stomach is wet and sticky.
Jolie sleeps on the floor of the office, and Nick sleeps on the floor of the living room, next to the couch where Mack had passed out. Mack is the first one up, and Jolie wakes up smelling the coffee he’s made, which she will drink but not he. She walks into the laundry room, right outside the office, and pulls on one of her husband’s t-shirts and a pair of his boxers from the dryer, taking off the dress right there in the open. She puts it, not thinking, into the dryer with the clean clothes.
When she walks into the kitchen and her husband is standing there, he says, you didn’t sleep in the bed. Neither did you, she says, and she crawls under the blanket he’d slept under on the couch, right above where Nick is sleeping.
Hannah comes into the kitchen then, with the other officer, and talks loudly (that slut), and Nick wakes up and sits up, leaning against the couch where she is not sleeping but thinking that she’d like to. He reaches back and tickles her feet. She pulls her legs away. I’ll move if you want to sit up here, she says, and he gets up and sits next to her but they don’t look at each other.
When Nick goes to leave, she offers to move Hannah’s car, which blocks Nick’s in the driveway. You remember how much of last night, he says. Everything, I think, she says. Well, I’ll see you around, he says. Thanks for coming, she says. And he drives away, and she goes back inside to drink her husband’s coffee.
05 January 2008
Birthday
She takes the bus back home, which she's never done before, so she's nervous about that in addition to being weak from the thing she's just had cleaned out of her belly.
The bus smells like urine, and she thinks that she might fall asleep, but every time the bus rocks around a turn or slides to a stop with a hydrolic hiss, her insides lurch. So much lurching, she thinks, for being so empty. She stays awake and even gets off at the right stop before she climbs all those stairs up to the apartment and falls down on the bed.
He comes to get her hours later, because it's her birthday, and she's dressed up and put on make-up, and not even just a little mascara and lip gloss. She's got her game face on tonight.
He takes her to some dark restaurant and requests a booth scrunched into the corner, which she sort of likes because it feels cozy and safe. What's wrong, he asks her, and she cocks her head to the side. What, she says. You look like shit, he says, and she almost tells him that she's saved them, that she sacrificed for them. We made a mistake, she'd told him. We fucked up, he corrected her.
She lets the hair fall in front of her face so he doesn't have to look at her, and they talk a little bit about how work was, what he did that day.
Listen, I brought you here for a reason, he tells her. She looks up at him without moving her hair, but he doesn't wish her another great year. I saw her again, he tells her. We made a mistake, he says.
You fucked up, she thinks, but she keeps it behind her hair. So, she says, what will happen.
He waves away the waitress who comes and starts to ask if everything's okay with their food.
I have to be with her, he tells her. I can't just leave her.
He can't just leave her.
And I can't let her take care of it by herself, he tells her. I wouldn't want her to do that.
She doesn't look at him anymore, just brushes the hair completely out of her face, and she slides up out of the booth and pulls her purse, which almost gets stuck but hits his water glass, which spills and shatters on the floor, and she walks out of the section of the restaurant and into the lobby, and the floor is moving under her feet as she walks but she doesn't fall down, and when she pushes the glass doors open in the front of the restaurant and runs outside into the fluorescent parking lot lights which blind her, she slips and falls hard on the ground.
That hurt, she says.
The bus smells like urine, and she thinks that she might fall asleep, but every time the bus rocks around a turn or slides to a stop with a hydrolic hiss, her insides lurch. So much lurching, she thinks, for being so empty. She stays awake and even gets off at the right stop before she climbs all those stairs up to the apartment and falls down on the bed.
He comes to get her hours later, because it's her birthday, and she's dressed up and put on make-up, and not even just a little mascara and lip gloss. She's got her game face on tonight.
He takes her to some dark restaurant and requests a booth scrunched into the corner, which she sort of likes because it feels cozy and safe. What's wrong, he asks her, and she cocks her head to the side. What, she says. You look like shit, he says, and she almost tells him that she's saved them, that she sacrificed for them. We made a mistake, she'd told him. We fucked up, he corrected her.
She lets the hair fall in front of her face so he doesn't have to look at her, and they talk a little bit about how work was, what he did that day.
Listen, I brought you here for a reason, he tells her. She looks up at him without moving her hair, but he doesn't wish her another great year. I saw her again, he tells her. We made a mistake, he says.
You fucked up, she thinks, but she keeps it behind her hair. So, she says, what will happen.
He waves away the waitress who comes and starts to ask if everything's okay with their food.
I have to be with her, he tells her. I can't just leave her.
He can't just leave her.
And I can't let her take care of it by herself, he tells her. I wouldn't want her to do that.
She doesn't look at him anymore, just brushes the hair completely out of her face, and she slides up out of the booth and pulls her purse, which almost gets stuck but hits his water glass, which spills and shatters on the floor, and she walks out of the section of the restaurant and into the lobby, and the floor is moving under her feet as she walks but she doesn't fall down, and when she pushes the glass doors open in the front of the restaurant and runs outside into the fluorescent parking lot lights which blind her, she slips and falls hard on the ground.
That hurt, she says.
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