Ostrich soup

Catch Up

Wed, 03 Jan 2007 07:46:50 GMT

You tell yourself that you don’t break a little every time you disappoint him. He doesn’t say it, directly. But you imagine that those eyes aren’t as blue, stormier, that his smile, ridiculous and beautiful, fall a little at the corners.

You don’t know why you feel conflicted, why you feel like you’re betraying the concept of love, your relationship, why you can’t figure out why you won’t both things so much. You wish there is middle ground.

But, it’s just you, and your decision, your responsibility. Your selfishness.

Though he says otherwise, you fear the breaking is already done.

--

It is 2:41 AM, and you said you would be asleep around 1. You said you would wake up around 9, maybe 10 to make it to breakfast, but you don’t think that’s going to happen. You’re pondering going into the hall with your laptop, calling him because you can’t sleep, you feel like there’s still dirty water under the bridge.

You don’t know what to say to him anyways. You don’t want him to shush you, tell you that it’s fine, you don’t want him to comfort you when you have no comfort to give. So you write instead.

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 03:08:11 GMT

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, but the words are dead to her.

She breezes through his place, gathering only the things she brought with her, leaving the earrings, silk dresses, stilettos and picture frames. She says nothing, works quickly and packs her few belongings with efficiency. Within fifteen minutes, she is gone.

Maverick watches her hail a cab from the window in the wet snow. She wears only a summer dress and sandals. The raindrops lick her skin, and she disappears into the cab.

He watches the cab drive away. I’m sorry.

He looks at a picture frame. They looked happy.

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 02:52:05 GMT

She nurses the bruise on her cheek with ice. It is one of the few times she is thankful he cannot see her. She takes a seat beside Hazael on his bed. It’s been months since she could call it hers as well.

He keeps his room dark, the curtains suffocating the windows, but she lights a small candle.

They sit in silence.

He won’t begin a conversation, and she’s too hesitant to start.

She places her hand on top of his. He turns away and walks out of the room.

The words, “I’m sorry,” hang in the still air.

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 02:36:19 GMT

He has ice age eyes behind the nightshades he wears. Hazael keeps to himself these days. Those silent eyes stop wandering at the encroachment of sound upon his silent world. Cadence drifts in and out of the living room. She leaves him hot jasmine tea that he ignores.

She assuages her guilt by cleaning the apartment, even though she knows he can’t see the fine layer of dust. She rearranges the books, but not the furniture, that would be cruel. She brings him warm clothing and thicker blankets for the season.

He sits on the couch, waiting for three words.

Fri, 17 Feb 2006 01:49:57 GMT

Youth

she found out she was positive
from her mother who opened the mail
on her 18th birthday -- expecting money,
cards and good luck -- small bubbles of happiness.

her blood was rejected -- who would want it?
she slapped her boyfriend, that piece of horse shit,
and cried.

the birthday candles burned dimly -- small flames --
she wished, she wished, on her eighteen stars
for one more chance.

nine months later, in a sea of medical green and blue,
hospital beige, the crying of new life,
she found out from her doctor
that she was not positive.

Tue, 10 Jan 2006 04:29:16 GMT

His gallery opening is tonight. By some grace of god, he convinces Cadence to go.

They shop. She wears a size 0 dress and size 6 shoes. He buys her Sephora, and she ignores the blush and mascara lying on her dresser that night.

The mirror never lies, and it shows her that she is too desperately skinny. She could be a runway model if she were taller. Instead, she is his model.

The socialites laud his photographs. Whoever can the girl with the sad eyes be?

She tries to vanish, but for the always present hand on her waist.

--

Her days are uneventful. Maverick is at his studio, or flying to Jamaica or Paris. She has her television.

She watches the soaps and reality tv until she is sick of drama. She tries to watch the news, but there never is any good news. Instead, she turns to the weather channel as if it were comfort food. Twenty-five percent chance of precipitation, partially cloudy, highs in the mid 40s.

She knows the weather people. The man with the mustache and ugly ties, she imagines, has a wife and three kids. The woman with red hair, however, is an enigma.

--

Hazael writes. She supplies him with paper, but he isn’t sure if she reads his writings.

He writes about love: misery, desperation and despondency. He writes about life: dependence, loneliness and emptiness. He has nothing to do, no one to love, nothing to live for.

He doesn’t know why she is keeping him alive. A neglected pet. Except, he supposes, pets receive better treatment.

They should take him to the animal shelter and find him a home. No one cares about lost and forlorn people, but if he were an animal, he might get lucky.

He wonders where she is.

--

She has always been a quiet girl, but she fucks as if she were screaming. As if her body were one long undulating scream. Trill and wrenching.

The first time they fucked, she tossed him onto his back and got on top of him. Her eyes never left his, and he was the first to look away.

He initiates, but for the few times, she comes home late, cold and wet, her hands inky and needy.

Her scratch marks burn pink for days after. And he comes home and finds her uninterested and even more engrossed in the weather channel.

--

Fri, 25 Nov 2005 04:42:07 GMT

He makes her tea. Boils the water, spoons in some loose leaf jasmine, waits for Cadence to wake up. It is Sunday, the only day he lets himself not work.

She wakes. A series of shuffling noises. And then her silent walk into the kitchen.

He hands her the cup, and she mouths a thank you.

He watches her drink. Sunday is the only day he lets himself not work. But he still sees a thousand, thousands upon thousands of images that should be captured, immortalized.

He hands her a plate with buttered toast, eyes imploring her to eat.

No.

Fri, 25 Nov 2005 04:36:00 GMT

Maverick and his 1000 cameras whom he makes love to each day and each night. Whom he makes love with each day and each night.

And Cadence is beautiful, the autumn brown hair, the gentle waves of color skirting her collarbones. Her fragile smile, and naked gray eyes. Her lips always appear to tremble on film.

And of all things, Maverick loves beauty. Silent beauty.

She rarely talks, only nods slightly, or smiles in that delicate way of hers.

They met on the steps of the library. She, cold, wrapped in a thin black jacket. He, a smile, a promise.

Fri, 25 Nov 2005 04:28:56 GMT

red gold leaves in puddles, tragedy on her lips, starbursts in her eyes, the click click click of knee-length black boots.

a handwritten letter in her pocket, suede gloves, pink-painted fingers, a charm bracelet.

an irish melody, scent of coffee and cinnamon and nutmet, the splashing of car wheels.

heaven in her veins, divinity in her mind, guilt and shame in her soul.

the guicci watch, the jangle of heirloom earrings.

a gasping cough, a pause.

rain.

lightning.

Thu, 24 Nov 2005 04:51:31 GMT

She touches him. The first time in weeks.

And he thinks it's a hallucination. A murmur on his lips: I love you Cadence, I love you, please love me, please.

She presses her lips to the palm of his right hand. The scars are little ridges.

I'm sorry, she mumbles. I’m sorry. So sorry.

He doesn't hear, and repeats her name like a prayer.

She leaves him, the echo of his voice reverberating.

She stops in the middle of the street. Rain, deluge, thunder, lightning. Catches a shattered reflection of herself in the puddle.

And walks away in the rain.

Thu, 24 Nov 2005 04:35:59 GMT

She returns every other day, and finds him always lying on the bed. His eyes wide open. As fiery of a blue as the day they first met.

She always pauses at the threshold, her heart screaming with panic. So still. And she waits and waits for that sign of movement.

She brings him food, and tidies up the place, sometimes. Letters, there are always letters. Letters in the refrigerator, in the freezer, a path of letters from the door to every room. I love you, I love you, I love you in black scrawling ink.

And then: why? why?

Thu, 24 Nov 2005 04:26:22 GMT

She sleeps in his bed now, curling underneath the covers, against the soft pillows, in the warm, so warm, well-lit bedroom while Maverick is at his studio. When she wakes, it is to a clean empty apartment with soft white carpeting, tasteful furniture and decorated walls.

She tries not to think about Hazael. In the darkness, in the cold, alone. She tries not to think about Hazael. With his still bandaged hands, his useless eyes and ears, his loneliness and sadness and misery, and betrayal. She tries not to think about Hazael. Hazael who thinks all too much these days.

Thu, 24 Nov 2005 04:17:42 GMT

When she looks in the mirror, she sees dark circles under her eyes, the faintest of wrinkles, her weary face, an uncomfortably skinny body.

She feels as frail as she looks, and it doesn't help that the guilt eats her heart from the inside.

He asks her why she doesn't take better care of herself. But she only smiles weakly, saying nothing.

He asks her where she comes from, where she lives, where she works.

He asks her how she spends her days, what books she likes to read, when she likes to wake in the mornings.

She never answers.

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 04:10:21 GMT

He finds paper, and pen. And scribbles, I love you, I love you, damnit, I love you, over and over again, until his fingers are tired and the ink cartridge explodes.

He tapes it to the couch like a petulant child slipping a running away letter to his parents beneath the door.

And waits. And waits. And waits.

And when he wakes up the next day, the paper is still there, untouched, the couch cool and just as it was before.

He’s heartbroken that she didn’t come home.

He searches the medicine cabinets; not even finding a bottle of Tylenol.

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 04:03:57 GMT

In art school, he was the kind of man who women gave themselves to.

And now he has Cadence, except that she is slipping away. She has stopped sleeping in their bed. In the dead of night, he wanders to the living room and finds her sleeping on the couch.

He keeps telling her that he loves her, but she doesn't hear, or listen, or care.

Living with her, if one could call it that, is like living with a ghost who hangs onto him by the frailest of tatters.

He searches the kitchen drawers, but the knives are gone.

Sat, 19 Nov 2005 01:51:38 GMT

He was in the middle of putting together his exhibit when the car accident occurred.

He doesn't remember anything. Only a flash of red, reflecting the sun. Only a screeching of brakes, metal grinding against metal.

Collapsed retinas. Punctured eardrums.

He woke, cold, into the darkness and the silence, a world without form or punctuation. He remembers the stiff hospital bed, the scent of antiseptic, her hand resting in his. He might’ve screamed, but he only assumes he did because his throat felt torn and raw.

The exhibit was a success, but the artist, mused the papers, was strangely absent.

Sat, 19 Nov 2005 01:51:34 GMT

Come to bed.

The mattress dips from her weight. A cool hand takes his and the other strokes his hair.

I miss you, he says to her.

He stayed in bed all day, accompanied only by his thoughts and the darkness. He tried to remember the world of sight, of vision and of light, but the images are fading. Her hair is maroon brown, her eyes gentle gray. But he can barely picture her in his mind's eye. A blur.

I miss you.

She barely kisses him, a touch of her lips on her forehead. And then she is gone.

Thu, 17 Nov 2005 21:42:28 GMT

The bed is the only warm place in the apartment. The heat is turned off. If he stays in bed all day, he can keep warm.

She used to come home smelling of smoke and grease. She didn’t need to tell him, but he knows that she lost her job more than three months ago. That day, she cried in his arms before falling asleep and smelled like soap.

She wears her hair up more. She used to take it down. He used to run his fingers through it and through it. It was his greatest joy, but not anymore.

Thu, 17 Nov 2005 21:32:22 GMT

She used to be Catholic, but she never told him that. She used to wear the dresses with ribbons in her hair. She used to fold her hands daintily on her lap. She never fell asleep.

Sundays were her favorite days until the seventh grade. Then she refused to go to church ever again.

It has been seventeen years since she has gone into a church with the intention of praying. Hazael and she used to laugh and laugh and laugh. But now Hazael is blind and deaf. And she's too weak to not be afraid for her own fate.

Wed, 16 Nov 2005 03:25:43 GMT

They used to go to church Sundays. Not that they believed in it.

No, they went to amuse themselves with dogma and doctrine, the solemn faces of the ministers, the flower printed dresses of the ladies and the polished shoes of the children.

They would go to a cafe afterwards -- their house of worship -- and drink venti lattes that were too expensive for them. They were the stereotypical artsy couple. He painted, she photographed. Together, they made love under the stars, sneaking to the roof of their building.

He wakes up this Sunday alone. Just like last Sunday.

Mon, 14 Nov 2005 23:01:14 GMT

She takes a shower, but she can't disguise the scent of alcohol on her lips.

He says nothing and sinks deeper into himself.

There was a time when she cared, but she isn't twenty. The romance of Bohemia died.

His bandaged hands feel unnatural against her skin. She hates him almost as much as she loves him. She tells him goodnight, and leaves him to smoke a cigarette on the balcony.

There was a time she cared, but she doesn’t anymore, and he remains alone in bed, in the darkness he cannot see, in the darkness he can only see.

Mon, 14 Nov 2005 04:55:35 GMT

She goes to him when she grows desperate, and he comments on how thin she looks. She has always been slender, but now there are dark shadows marking her cheekbones.

He tells her to relax. He brings out the camera from the closet. He tells her to relax, hands her a glass of wine.

She sits stiffly on the couch. The weariness in her eyes sets the film on fire.

A curl of red brown hair trails down her shoulder. She sets the wine glass down with a chink. Her fingers tremble as they touch the buttons of her blouse.

Mon, 14 Nov 2005 04:46:02 GMT

The bandages wrap his feet and hands tightly. She is to change them twice a day, keep a close watch, and make sure he gets his fluids.

That night, he tells her that he's sorry, so sorry for being such a nuisance.

She kisses his forehead and sends him to bed.

She doesn't tell him that the rent is overdue, that she has lost her job, that she reads the job listings at the library all day, that the refrigerator is empty, that all the lights are shut off to conserve energy.

She looks at the hospital bill and cries.

Mon, 14 Nov 2005 04:41:14 GMT

The glass shatters on the floor, but Hazael does not know. He walks over the glass with his bare feet. Blood. Cuts. Pain.

The cry brings Cadence from upstairs.

He is rumpled on the floor, his artists' fingers scrambling along the bottom of his feet, getting cut as well.

"Stop," she says, involuntarily.

He cannot hear her.

His hands, his hands.

She touches his shoulder. He freezes.

Everything will be alright. Everything will be fine.

She bandages him lightly, brings him to the hospital. He moans all the way there, but is as still as his unmoving eyes: Sorry, sorry.

Mon, 14 Nov 2005 04:34:00 GMT

I dash off a letter to the editor, and sign it with love: elaborate curls, dips of dramatic lines, flourishes and flowers.

I spray perfume on it. And seal it with a gentle kiss.

I leave the envelope in the mailbox, no return address.

It is autumn and the birds are screaming overhead.

My heart pulses: thank you, thank you, thank you.

I read the newspaper the next day. The Editor of TIME Magazine Dies from Anthrax. And laugh, and laugh.

Ah, my love. You are just where you belong.

I attend the “private funeral.” You look lovely in dirt.