michelledanger

Well, the good copy was lost so here is the rought draft if you are bored:

FIVE

Her stomach ached from coughing and sex. She read it over on her mirror, the lipstick still in her right hand. “Rouge de Hearthrob,” sighed the writing utensil.

“And what do you mean by that?” she asked the tube of red paste, “I only know two meanings to the phrase and I suspect you speak of neither. You’re selling romance, not truth.” At that point she gazed off into a very distant plane of the mirror. The woman stood there remembering a childhood game called Hearthrob where each player would acquire date after date, game after game. Laughter erupted as she hypothesized that perhaps that game was the root of her promiscuity. At that point she realized that her two perceptions of the word “heartthrob” were much more similar than she had originally thought.

The stirring from her bedroom awoke reality for the second time that day. She had forgotten that he was still there. Another reading of the mirror cast a wave of nausea through her as she hoped he wouldn’t need to use the washroom before he left. As suddenly as the wave had risen, it fell and she returned to her apathetic demeanor. The reality was that she would likely never see him again in such a large city. If by chance she did, there would be no friendly exchange, rather she would turn her head as if she did not recognize him.

She cast a gaze directly into her own eyes and saw nothing; no window into a soul, no emotion. She was green, saw eyes, she saw exactly what she expected. She also saw that you can’t look into both of your eyes at the same time and that made her a bit nervous. She thought lovers can never really look into each others’ eyes, thus lovers can always hide. Then she frowned at herself for thinking such a romantic thought.

“You’re just reading too much,” she told herself as she turned away from the mirror. She sighed in disapproval to the sleeping body in her room because he was there too long for a one night stand. His presence would not interfere with her plans. She headed out the door, jacketless in the winter, to the market across the street. Bitter winter made her cough and she cursed all the colds of the world that seemed to constantly plague her. In the market she sauntered through the rows, methodically pulling her groceries from the shelves. Her mind was on the body in her room. She complained to herself that he would probably still be there when she got back and groaned at the idea of having to make breakfast for him as well. She despised the idea of someone using the empty chair across her kitchen table and conversing about the news or the weather, or even worse, about feelings. She began to pick out ingredients for two and fretted that he might latch onto her, or ask for her number, or even want to date her.

Back into the cold, she planned their meal as she ran into her home and the door was unlocked, but sometimes she forgets or doesn’t bother to lock it. Into the kitchen she got straight to work on a breakfast of omlettes and fruit and Irish cream coffee. Strangely she enjoyed cooking the creation of a meal. As the omlettes fried and the coffee brewed she went to check on the body, but there was nobody. He had let himself out without a note or a number. In the empty washroom words called. She read her mirror, then looked into her eyes one at a time. She saw the green and with lipstick to the mirror she drew on a smile.

Four

Nothing. Complete emptiness was what the arm found until he let it rest on the crumpled, damp sheets. In such a solitary moment he believed he was at home. Between the throbs of his alcohalized blood beating into his skull, he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. That image thrust forth the memory of the night and clamped his eyelids into locked lashes. His insides were aching from fucking and dehydration. This was a familiar morning illness and he pondered his paradox that kept him from completely enjoying such affairs. He would like to drink less in the name of better sex and milder hangovers. However, he knew that without his liquid courage he would resort to a sullen stumble home in the name of unrequited love.

Silence. His ears reached for the fumbling sounds of a morning woman but all he heard was the frequency of abandonment. Again, his eyes opened and he forced himself out of bed earlier than usual. The empty apartment granted his assumption true but still he felt an anxious knot clot his heart. Right hand rubbed his chest as his twisting stomach bent him forward. “Don’t drop the soap,” he thought. “I need a pen.”

Name, number, call me. She too could become one of his angels, nobley fighting the evils of loneliness. Each angel stayed for varying durations but there were always some buzzing around. Through them he believed emancipation would proceed.

“Everything is utility. Or utility is everything.”

Unhandled hands and empty eyes signaled.

“But where is she now?”

Insulted, he crumpled his note into his pocket to deny her the opportunity. He labeled this pride and used it to walk out her door on a cloud of dignity.

Chilled oxygen enlarged his lungs with a crisp emptiness. Home could be reached in less than fifteen minutes by foot. “She is a true whore. I don’t need her. There are so many others who desire only me.” The images of these others warmed him like the winter sun. Icy breaths penetrated his chest and he could not keep from looking back.

“Embrace the sun. There will be messages when I return.”

“I love you darling. Call me.” The voice of his recorded mother, the only voice.

He rested his head back on his sofa, unsure of what small tedious act to do first. Eat, nap, shower? All he could do was sit, consumed in thought, until the phone rang.

“Deliver me.”

Three

Hesitation did not get the better of her this time. She decided to call him, despite the fact that she contacted him last. He was always telling her to call which led her to believe he was quite interested.

Anxiety comes hand-in-hand with hesitation, the perfect match, the passion everyone desired. She dialed to the point of no return and waited. Before she could even wish for the relief of an answering machine, he picked up. No more than one ring every time, and she was ready.

Analyze: Forced Cheerfulness.

Analyze: They were to meet amidst a drinking, dancing crowd.

Relief: He was “drinking with his good friends last night.”

Restlessness ailed her like insomnia, the longer the list of necessary activities, the less she felt like doing them.
Sigh. S-i-g-h.
Mind set and the girl spun into a search for a black magic marker. Felt tip to the wall and hesitation was defeated once again as she wrote:

There is no right to this restlessness

“Now this is necessary, unlike the scholastic endeavors I am thrust into. I am always thrust into.”

Against her wall she leaned and regarded the three other duplicate constructs and a closed door. White, vertical blinds presumed to conceal a window to the madness of the city. Inside she was alone; outside she would later face the “too many” but not before indulging in liquid courage. “It’s best not to think about how distant my old home is. It is best not to realize that I no longer have a home. Reading will take me away.” But reading could not take her away and her mind wandered on planes she did not wish to visit. Every effort to shake thoughts escalated the viscosity of the images. She ran her hands through her hair in an attempt to comfort herself but she was failing and falling.

Heart
Beat
Faster

She envisioned her heart explode again and again until she feared it possible. Nauseous and light-headed, this was her anxiety; she was being attacked.

Fortunately she was accustomed to such an assailant and was able to talk herself down over a glass of water. The phone rang and another man called:

“You sound strange, are you okay?”
“Of course.”
“I will see you tonight then? Dancing?”
“Of course.”

Both of them would be there and this frustrated her. Officially she was with neither. The man who called was backup, filler, but she was afraid of ruining her chances with the other. She knew the answer was in apathy, a state both revered and feared by her. It was time to get ready for the night; with a beer in one hand and mascara in the other, she began.

Two

Mirrored images of himself surrounded his focal range. He brushed his hand through this thin hair and strands fell to the counter, they were always falling. It was a daily alarm that night was on the horizon but he was determined to press the snooze button. His blond locks receded like a sunset, casting an ever-expanding shadow that he blanketed by pulling his hair forward.
“I look five years younger than I am,
and all my friends are even younger than that.
I am youth.”

As he lowered into his chair, aches resonated through his body. It had been another week of 9 to 5, the same 9 to 5 for eight years. There was still time, there was always time. Searching was his constant mode, he would find inspiration, a direction, one day.

There was always time.

Beside him the phone reminded him of a girl he desired; she could be the one. A phone call was in order. Such a device assured him that he was connected; that despite being a single entity in a room, a plastic box presented solidarity.

She picked up sounding strange and lying to be well. Uncertainty filled him as his insides sank and twisted. He likened this state to drinking bleach and thought perhaps he should do laundry but Friday night sensibility told him to wait until Sunday.

Precise ticking faded away from his musing. She was an image. She revealed in slights then throttled him with questions to which he had no answers under such pressure. Out of the blue ponderings he could not offer to a girl hidden in an image.

He was staring at a clock. Soon he would see her and he was unsure of a strategy. Youth was her trap, it drew him to her and made him feel old at the same time.

“I will leave it up to her. Whatever happens, happens.”

The small stretch of time between dinner and party awaited him. A move to the couch and in it he waited.

“Everyone is fumbling,” whispered his mind as it delivered him to sleep.



One

I fucked God, or perhaps God fucked me.

I was lying in a glorious field of waist-high grasses. Above me there were stars and clouds; marshmallow dogs were jumping through constellation hoops. I felt so beautiful I cried. Then I stood to find thousands of people standing around me, thousands more kept popping up from the grasses. I wasn’t the first, or the last, or anything significant. At that moment everything around me lost meaning. I looked with uncertainty at all the faces and every time I met another’s eye all we could think to do was look away. I didn’t want to move, it was all the same, fields and strangers.

I can’t tell you in time when I screamed, there was no time and there is no chronology- only in the sense that my memories arise.

I screamed my brilliance to God. I demanded to be released from mediocrity.

The next thing I remember is divine sex, much like earthly sex. It just happened, and I don’t remember much.

Afterwards, I asked God “why?”

But God asked: “Why do you fuck?”

I thought, and I answered: “Because I don’t know what else to do.”

J.R.V.A.

Great story, I really liked getting into this. Thanks for putting it up here.

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart