Hey Friends,
In light of Covid-19 I have moved the creation of these #snapshots over to my Patreon page, which is where I’m centering all new content creation during the pandemic. I hope you’ll join me for writing workshops and more!
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She lay on her bed with her laptop open, thinking about her most recent conversation with Sylvia. Sun flooded the windows and she felt guilty for not being outside. The comforter was fluffy and white, which allowed her to imagine herself at some kind of culturally enriching hotel. Usually in this fantasy it was somehow France in 1925 and she would stroll out onto the balcony of her vintage hotel room to smoke a cigarette and gaze moodily at the passerbys. That was before smoking was bad for you right? Or maybe it’s never bad for you in Paris, since it’s good for your artistic look. Was she too old to start smoking now?
Before she started taking the medication, she would actually feel a slight panic about these thoughts. As she approached her thirtieth birthday, the quickening tempo of the seasons was a brand new vessel for anxiety. She could hardly associate an emotion or a smell with the past few years. In her memory they were just a frenzy of activity, but logically she knew a lot of important things had happened. A house, A marriage, the birth of a nephew, the impending death of a Grandmother.
She remembered being eighteen, looking at colleges and realizing that she was now in a phase of life for which she had no plan. No mental image of herself as an adult the way she had always imagined being a teenager like her older brother. And as their paths diverged, she had no ideal vision for which to strive. In her early twenties, depressed and unhopeful about her ‘career’ (what did that even mean?), she wouldn’t have allowed herself to even hope for her current life, since she had no idea how to work towards it. She felt like a dying fish gasping for breath on the dry sand while people just walked by and dove into the cool water.
Now in her bed, at four pm on a Wednesday afternoon in not-1920’s Paris, she felt sedated. She was sleepy all the time since the medication. She was sleeping through the night, too. That was new. She wasn’t making lists at 4 AM of to-dos for the day (practical) or the year (existential). She wasn’t running upstairs to drink water and check on the gas stove, in case she’d left a burner on and was about to asphyxiate. When her husband was out of town, she didn’t wake at every tiny noise, thinking that someone was in the room and that if she had only turned the bed to face the door, (which she had recently learned on one of her favorite interior design podcasts is the correct Feng Shui), she would see him before he killed her in her sleep.
Over the past few months, her brain had gradually started to gear down, making the days feel long and generous. Her house, which had previously been a black hole of effort and stress, was now a sanctuary of delight. How did she get here? Who had manifested this little cabin, artfully stuffed with the prints, plants, and pillows that she most loved? Of course, she had done it, but in her newfound state of calm that previous person seemed mysterious, as if they didn’t share a memory. The effort to build this place up seemed monumental, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy when she tried to recall laying the flooring, putting up the paneling boards.
With so much new space in her brain, previously filled by volcanoes of worry from which lava flowed into every hour of her day, she felt a newfound desire to intake. She started practicing Spanish every morning, she did Yoga videos that she found on Youtube , and was satisfied to see her abs start to poke out below her ribs. She lounged on her free Craigslist floral couch, clutching $2 throw pillows purchased at ‘Dirt Cheap’, and allowed herself to live inside of Netflix shows.
Gradually, a happiness grew around her body like an embryo, and she found herself reveling in it. Invisible to the passerby, her new bubble was perfectly tangible to her, and she defended it ferociously when anyone attempted to cut through the rubbery surface with Presidential updates or futile discussions about the terminal state of the music industry.
At one point before the medication, she had been so afraid of flying that she had unwittingly grabbed the shoulder of the unfortunate and slightly stale smelling passenger beside her every time the the toilet flushed. She had been flying to visit her sister in Israel, and was convinced that a terrorist was going to take down the plane. When she finally landed she spent four days in an anxiety and jet lag fueled insomnia and couldn’t decide if she was going to swim home or live the rest of her life abroad. Now, inside her embryo, she bounced through airport security, thinking of drinking hot tea and enjoying a paperback en route to her next gig. She rolled cheerfully out of bed in the mornings, looking forward to answering a few emails while eating a power bar. Yesterday, after taking a 10 mg dose, just as she did every morning now, she greeted Sylvia at her front door.
Sylvia was a friend from California, and the two were starting a new duo project. They sat in her sunny front room, on metal chairs which had been carefully spray-painted black to look more modern (she had found them on the side of the road) . Her house plants, a large cactus and an unidentified fern that grew out of moss, sighed happily around them. She felt a rare sense of joy and fulfillment as she realized that this was her job today.
The air in the small room felt humid with promise as they reworked a song that she had written almost a year ago, before the medication. Sylvia strummed confidently on her acoustic, occasionally looking up at her encouragingly, while she played a worn white electric. She had borrowed the guitar specifically for the session. It had a smallish body and felt good in her hands, like she was really in control.
As her mouth formed the words and found the old melody of the song, she only vaguely recognized the emotions that had borne them. Like an old friend she had grown apart from, the lyrics had a comforting familiarity, but simultaneously made her feel trapped, counting down the hours until she could leave.
When they felt they had successfully kneaded the song into submission, the two were giddy.
It’s so great working with you, she said.
You TWO giggled Sylvia. I love this song, it’s my favorite.
I wrote it about my sister, she said. I’m obsessed with her.
Oh my GOD said Sylvia. I have one of those, is she younger?
Yep. She said. Early twenties are rough, nobody warns you about them, do they?
My sister’s been going through that, said Sylvia. She’s so different to me though. I think her friend group, too. They all hit rough patches and just go straight to medication.
Oh ya, I said, disapprovingly shaking my head. Medication.
Later I went into the bathroom and moved my prescription pill bottles behind some Asprin so that they wouldn’t be visible.
That evening over cups of boxed wine leftover from a party, Sylvia asked how I had been doing.
Really great, I said. I’ve really been getting into yoga. I feel like a new person.
What was love after the adrenaline of the chase? She was finding out now, finding layers of warmth and affection, loyalty that she didn't know she was capable of. He was older than her, handsome and in good shape, but she still wondered if people questioned their age difference, passed judgement about it. In such a small community she knew almost everyone that they ran into. Everyone would know exactly how old each of them was, so there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.
It was winter in Alaska, and the daylight hours were short. On weekends, they went out cross-country skiing, trying to soak in the sun at every opportunity. She made hot chocolate and they stripped down and made love, laying around afterwards until she had a slight headache from too much sleep. Once the season started turning, and the days grew longer, life would become busy. Old friends would come through town, and the daily 22 hours of sunshine would fill with parties and festivals. But these dark, cold, winter days, they were just for the two of them.
It was their third winter together and in some ways it was more beautiful than the last two. Although the excitement and newness had worn off, and she no longer felt physically jolted by his touch, she felt more comfortable, more relaxed. She was more able to anticipate what they might do together, and there was a deep satisfaction in the routine.
She loved him, she was realizing, beyond romance. She knew his bad breath and his moodiness. His annoyance at his brother's quips over family dinners. She'd seen him be petty, she'd seen him be jealous, seen him spend too much time on his phone. And yet, when she pictured herself, she pictured him, and she couldn't seem to disentangle the two. He had become a part of her identity, and she liked how she looked in his eyes. He made her feel young, small, and beautiful. He was handy and steady. He knew how to build things, carried a gun in case of bears, could fix things that were broken. He was a giant in her mind, the master of all trades, the capable one.
He brought adventure into her life and yet she simultaneously worried that he made her smaller. She knew what she had to offer him, loved how he responded to her body, loved his sense of pride when he introduced her to his friends. But what did she herself have to offer outside of his desires? What would she be without him? She was a person given meaning by another person, a girl made purposeful by a man.
Fairbanks was as glorious in the summer as it was dismal in the winter. Each summer she saw the possibilities of life beyond Alaska unfold as the sunshine and long days made her believe she could move away, do something else. Her friends came back home to visit and told her about their new jobs and apartments. Maybe she could finish her degree, go to law school, rescue animals, be someone who wore pantsuits and talked in absolutes. She could live in Los Angeles, drink fancy wine, have insightful opinions about the news.
But each winter as the days got shorter, she clung to what made her feel warm and safe. Her family, who lived just ten minutes down the street, her job nannying a couple kids who adored her, the local bars and their easy traditions, and the glow of their small community bearing the dark days together. But above all, she clung to him. She clung like a child and she hated herself for it.
At age 29, she found herself noticing the way that young men interacted with their small children. She imagined the way she could love someone with whom she shared a child, romantic love turned familial, an unbreakable bond. She scrolled through the instagram account of one of her favorite actors, and felt her body warm at the sight of photos of him holding his gorgeous blonde three year old in his broad, caramel covered arms. He was Mexican and Italian, with thick features, and very handsome.
She had always wondered if this would happen at some point, in fact she had been waiting for it. In her early twenties she had sat awkwardly silent as her girlfriends chatted about wanting children and she had felt like a foreigner, it just didn’t appeal to her. And yet, she knew that many women felt this procreation instinct kick in at some point. Therefore, she had remained vigilant, alway warily searching for it. Now here she was, looking at photos of young families, and imagining her husband cuddling with a toddler.
She watched a TV show featuring four divorced working mothers, and found herself craving the chaos. The mothers dropped their children at school, and ran to their jobs at which they excelled. They would get emergency calls about forgotten flutes and rush to the school in professional outfits with good hair. They were super heroes, needed in an existential way. They were beautiful and strong and probably had zero time to nurse anxiety about global warming and the meaning of life. Was that why people had children? To make themselves too busy to think?
Shit, she thought. It’s really happening now. She imagined her husband Tim and her raising a child. She would land at the airport only to find him waiting in the car with a carseat in back. “Your turn” he would say. He would look tired, and his clothing would be stained and rumpled. She would smile wearily and pretend to be excited for the next two weeks of lone diaper changing. Then he would get out of the car, kiss her goodbye, and board a plane for his tour. She would load her instruments into the same car and drive home with their now wailing child. A life of alternating single parenthood. An interesting idea, but it didn’t really appeal.
She could give up touring and become an interior designer. She imagined herself stylishly dressed, sipping on a latte as she strolled around a half empty craftsman home with a well-off couple. “We just aren’t sure what color to go with”, the one woman would say. Her partner would chime in “She loves purple but I just think it’s way too much, even for lesbians”. She would sit down at a table and pull out a mood board featuring shiny magazine photographs. “This is what I’m thinking for the color pallet,” she would say. Then she edited this image in her brain, it would more likely be a Pinterest board on a laptop, it wasn’t 1995. In her fantasy her phone rang. “Oh, I’m so sorry, my kid is sick,” she said. “I have to run but I will have all these edits done for you by Thursday!” “Of course! Of course” they would say. “Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver!”.
Then she imagined herself never touring, never playing songs again, never writing them. She tried to really feel it; a mindset in which she wasn’t committed first and foremost to songs. “I still like to play and write, I just don’t do it as much” she would say to friends over dinner. In reality, she wouldn’t have touched a guitar in months. What would she be rooted around? She would be a planet orbiting a sort of black hole, grounded by nothingness. Her work propelled her, she realized. And songs were above all, her gravitational pull.
SCENE: Jeanette is walking through park mid-afternoon on a sunny day.
FRANK: Hey gorgeous how you doin today? (walking alongside Jeanette)
JEANETTE: (uncomfortable); Hi. I’m good, thanks
FRANK: Can you help a guy out? See i’m trying to get to my sister. She sick and she live in Harlem. I told her I’d go there and visit but I need a couple dollars for the train
JEANETTE: Sorry man, I don’t have any change
FRANK: I just need a couple bucks.
JEANETTE: (over-apologetic) I can’t help you i’m sorry
FRANK: You ever heard of Jesus? Jesus helped the poor.
JEANETTE: (Sarcastically) Don’t get me started on him.
FRANK: You don’t love Jesus? You better watch out, you goin’ straight to hell.
JEANETTE: And why would you believe in the lord? What has he ever done for you? You don’t even have enough money to go see your ‘sick sister’ (uses air quotes)
FRANK: My sister sick. And she might be dying. But at least she know she headed for heaven. Better than you can say. And, the Lord brought me to you! You real pretty.
JEANETTE: Well thanks. And sorry about your sister.
FRANK: God bless you. Where you goin’ in such a hurry? You work a job?
JEANETTE: Yea, I work at the ACLU, you know about them?
FRANK: The lawyers?
JEANETTE: Yup.
FRANK: That’s good, good for you, you a lawyer! You real pretty for a lawyer.
JEANETTE: I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I guess thanks? Maybe you should consider your expectations of what a lawyer looks like.
FRANK: Oh, OH! You got them big words. PUT ME ON THE WITNESS STAND, Oh Lawd! (feigns fright)
JEANETTE: (genuinely laughing) Haha. Sorry sorry.
FRANK: (kindly) Don’t be sorry, gorgeous! You just fine, i’m jus playin’.
JEANETTE: So what kind of illness does your sister have?
FRANK:: She got cancer. And she got three little boys too.
JEANETTE: Oh wow, I’m sorry. That’s really hard. Is she getting Medicaid benefits?
FRANK: Naw naw, I don’t know ‘bout all that. We prayin’ for her.
JEANETTE: I’m sure there’s a program that could help with her medical costs.
FRANK: I got a program that can help you find the lord! HA HA! First teaching of Jesus is ‘give to those in need’. Like me. Now, you don’t have a couple quarters ?
JEANETTE: I’m sorry man, I just don’t have change today. Maybe I could buy you a sandwich
FRANK:: A sandwich? That ain’t gonna get me to Harlem.
JEANETTE: Well, sorry then.
FRANK: So what, you don’t like black people?
JEANETTE: What? No, of course not, of course I do!
FRANK: White folks is all the same. Always got to keep the black folks down
JEANETTE: Your race has nothing to do with me not giving you money!
FRANK: What is it then?
JEANETTE: You know what, you’re right. White folks have kept the black folks down.
FRANK: Like I said.
JEANETTE: You know what, here’s two dollars. I’ve really have to go now.
Sal watched the girls load their instruments and gear in from their minivan which was parked outside of the old opera house. Their movements were punctuated my loud shrieks and laughter, and he felt a mild headache building at his temples as he walked into the dark building. It was chilly outside and the sky was a beautiful cloudless blue, a perfect northern May afternoon. He yearned for the desolate quiet of his land, for the long stretches of flat fields with nobody in sight and cows bellowing softly into the wind.
As long as he could remember, he had known himself to be a farmer. He knew it the same way he knew his own name, not that he could specifically remember anyone telling him, he just existed in the fact of it. His family kept cows and a few horses on their 500 acres of land. Even on the coldest days of winter, when three inches of ice walled the inside of the barn, and he’d had to throw down hay and extra feed with his numb hands and separate the calves from the cows to prevent them from getting Pneumonia, he’d loved the work. He’d taken pride in caring for the animals and the soreness of his muscles. He slept deeply every night and consumed huge meals at midday, feeling the calories convert to energy almost instantly.
It didn’t get so cold in the winter anymore. It used to stay below zero for two weeks at a time, maybe more. Now those breathtakingly cold days that knocked the wind out of you as soon as you opened the door were few and far between.
Now he reluctantly abandoned the beauty of the day and slowly plodded through the entryway of the theater and up to the stage, where he laid out XLR lines for each microphone, and found and unfolded five tired and taped up mic stands from behind the velvet curtains. He felt a sharp complaint in his lower back as he dragged monitor blocks to the front of the stage and positioned them in what he hoped would be the desired spots.
In high school, Sal had started a rock band with two of his classmates. They practiced in his family’s barn through the Spring and Summer, and Sal had slowly pieced together an entire PA system from various parts he found at the local junk shop and at various garage sales. He was never really more than a mediocre guitar player but he became the go-to guy for sound equipment repair, record players, tape machines, CD players, speakers, and mixing desks, although there really weren’t too many of those around Stoughton.
Around the time that his bandmates had left town, one for college in Madison, and one to Minneapolis with a girlfriend he had gotten pregnant, the town had rallied and raised funds to restore the old opera house, which had been abandoned for twenty odd years. Excited by the idea of live music coming through the small town, he had volunteered to help purchase and install a world class sound system, and he soon found himself employed by the venue, working sound for touring bands that did not bring their own tech.
Through the years, as his parents aged and his siblings moved away, one to Chicago and two to California, he had watched the farm slowly go into disrepair. He did his best to keep up with it, but milk prices were so low, and they were reaching their credit limits almost every year. The trade war with China was impacting soybean exports, and the farm barely brought in enough income to keep itself afloat and pay for the hired help, let alone support his parents in their old age. So, as it turned out, all those years spent tinkering with gear in the barn in hopes of blaring AC/DC into the rafters had been a lucrative education.
As the band set up and he began to dial in the monitors, he imagined being out in the fields on an afternoon like this, riding around on the green tractor, feeling the sweat on his back and a cool breeze across his face, smelling the scent of cow shit and mowed grass.
Can I have more guitar? Said the fiddle player
He didn’t even hear her. He stared at the wallpaper, a royal blue with a gold fleur de les pattern, imagining raising a family in the old farmhouse.
Excuse me, said the dark haired girl again. I need more guitar. She sounded annoyed
OK! He barked. Hold your horses.
The dimly lit room made him feel sad and sleepy. What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun on his face right now.
When he opened the front door, Seth was greeted by a waft of old food and body spray. Tom was splayed out on the couch in red sweatpants and a white T-Shirt, playing a video game. Loud bursts of noise punctuated the steady clicking of buttons.
Hey, Tom said, without looking up from the TV, How was the tech?
Um, they messed up the lighting again so I did half my songs in the dark, and the band really needs to get their shit together. But other than that, it was good.
Huh, said Tom, distractedly.
Seth lingered awkwardly behind the couch, wanting to continue the conversation but Tom was absorbed in his game, so he walked through to the kitchen. He was giddy and tense, he knew he should eat something. After last night, he felt himself teetering on the edge of Tom’s whim, afraid to fall, nauseous and simultaneously hopeful.
A half eaten pizza lay in a soggy cardboard box, folded on top of itself on the table, and there were dishes piled up in the sink along with a plate of spaghetti, now sauced with brown dishwater. He went to the counter and carefully plucked a package of ramen noodles from the wreckage, and began searching for a clean pot in the cabinet below. He wondered if Ramen would make his mouth taste bad.
The house belonged to the small theater company that Tom, himself, and their four other roommates were working for. His contract ran for nine months, and he was three months in. Only six more months of using dishes encrusted with frozen bean dip and waking up to flies buzzing around leftovers in the morning.
Everyone in the house played video games, constantly. The atmospheric shooting noises and dead stares of his roommates gave him a dull headache and sent him down frequent existential spirals, but he tried to mask his hatred of the pastime in an attempt at camaraderie.
Outside of the housing situation, he was enjoying the work more than he thought he would. When he took the job (the only one he’d been offered after an entire season of auditions) in a rural community outside of Nashville, he had been a snobby conservatory graduate, and it was embarrassing to tell his friends that he was headed South while they went to New York or Los Angeles. But now, with most of his classmates from school waiting tables six nights a week (they tried to make it seem more glamorous than that, but he knew the reality), he was feeling grateful for the opportunity of a full time acting gig. The theater was surprisingly professional, and each time he got a paycheck it still felt like some small miracle.
Tom had arrived at the house just a few weeks ago. He had been hired to play the lead in an upcoming show and was starting rehearsals. The company was small, and when a new actor arrived he was usually preceded by a good-natured gossipy review from those who had worked with him before.
He’s straight, said Khalil, pouting, but such a babe.
This is honestly such a straight company, said James. I’m so glad I have you Khalil, I’ve never worked with so many straight people in my life. WHERE ARE ALL THE GAYS?
Seth laughed, Sorry! Sorry, jeez. I didn’t know I was so undesirable.
Shut up, you know we love you, said Khalil
On the day that Tom arrived, Seth came back from rehearsal to find him the kitchen, waiting on a piece of toast. Seth popped his head into the doorway enthusiastically.
Hey man! You must be the new guy, he said.
Tom turned to him with a slight smile and droopy stoner eyes. He was tall and uncomfortably handsome, with serpent-like features and broad shoulders.
Hey, he said slowly with a hint of humorous sarcasm. Yeah I’m Tom.
Seth immediately felt overeager, sweaty, and childish.
Cool, nice to meet you. I’m Seth, Welcome.
He retreated to his room as quickly as he could, hating Tom for his faux coolness. Why had that been so weird?
The two had hardly had a conversation since. They were working on different shows, and came in and out of the house at different times. Tom joined the video game constituent, which pretty much rendered him a social dead zone in Seth’s eyes. Still, Seth found himself overly aware of his appearance and actions when Tom was around. He loathed this feeling, which he picked at and analyzed like a scab.
Last night, after his rehearsal, Seth had returned to the house to find Tom hanging out with a few of the girls from his show. They were perched on the sectional like turtles, passing around a vape pen and watching Tom play Zelda. One of the girls, Chloe, was particularly cute. She was rumored to have a boyfriend, but that could change. Seth was feeling wound up from rehearsal, and he sat down on the couch between Tom and one of the girls with a beer and tried to get into the spirit of the hang.
Hi and bye, said Anna, the girl seated closest to him. I gotta get going, early rehearsal tomorrow.
I’ll come with you said Chloe, and then all three got up to leave.
Within three minutes of his arrival, Seth found himself sitting alone with Tom on the couch, full beer in hand. Tom said nothing and continued staring at the screen.
Seth had seldom felt more disgust for gaming then he did at that moment. How infuriating that he could be seated next to a colleague at the end of a long day of rehearsals and not even be worthy of a conversation. Surely, he and Tom had something to talk about. Acting? Music? Girls? Life in this weird fucking town? I am living among zombies, he thought.
He stared at the floor moodily, feeling sorry for himself.
After a few moments, he noticed a subtle heat against his leg. It was a hot pressure that he realized all at once, but must have accrued while he was lost in thought. Tom’s thigh was touching his own. He quickly moved his leg away and looked up. Tom continued staring at the screen and pretended not to notice what had happened.
Seth took another sip of beer and felt the cold liquid loosen his tightly clenched jaw. He looked down again, and as soon as he did he felt Tom’s leg press against his own once again.
Seth didn’t move this time. He was frozen, and burning hot at the same time. He tried to analyze the characters (himself and Tom) in the current scene. What was the motivation? What were the past experiences each was drawing on? what was the body language saying? His heart was racing and he felt himself get hard.
Tom paused his game and turned to look right at him with a slight smile.
Want to fuck? He said.
He was fighting with the espresso machine when she came in. He didn't actually care about timing each shot to perfection, but he was hoping to avoid a reprimand from his sweaty and over-eager manager Andrew.
The cafe was in the basement of a new storefront for a brand selling expensive handmade leather wallets and watches, packaged neatly with socioeconomic responsibility and the rebirth of Detroit. Along the darkly painted cinder block walls were three separate record players with headphone listening stations, and a stack of albums, carefully curated for sense of cultural longevity; Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Young, Miles Davis, and Dolly Parton.
Andrew, whom he had spent almost every day with for the past three months, was passionate about coffee; a feeling which he was actually envious of. Occasionally, he fantasized about impressing future girlfriends with perfect latte art, but now that he actually had the chance to learn, he maintained a safe distance of apathy. Caring about coffee in that way would mean giving up some rough edge of himself that he still took pride in.
Working behind a counter, he felt an affinity with the espresso machine. He was a smiling hub of input and output without any real personality. In the eyes of his customers, he was the guy working at the coffee shop; a seemingly singular character which fully described all guys who worked at all coffee shops. He didn't mind, he actually enjoyed the chance to embody a persona which he felt with certainty was not his own.
Looking at the new interloper, he couldn't decide if she was pretty or not. She was small and slightly boyish, wearing jeans and a bell-sleeved floral top that had the soft faded look of a secondhand store. A canvas backpack swung loosely from one of her shoulders. Her eyes moved around the room like a vacuum, taking in the details. After flipping through some of the records with a sort of performative confidence, she approached him.
Hi, he said, giving her his most generic smile. What can I get for you?
Greetings, she said, How is your day going? She spoke with an ironic, almost flirtatious tone.
My day is fine, he said flatly.
She seemed not to notice his failure to engage, and continued with her interrogation.
Do you like working here?
Um, he said, suddenly feeling blank and awkward, what?
Do you like working here? She asked again.
Oh. yeah, it's good. He said, looking around to see if Andrew was listening. Do you want an application or something?
No, I was just wondering because you seem bored
He felt annoyance manifest as a slight headache. His anonymity had been intruded on. Did he have to be supremely enthusiastic on top of friendly and functional now? He wiped his hands on his work pants, a pair of khakis that was slightly too short and made him look like a teenager.
Oh, sorry. He said, in a tone which conveyed exactly how not sorry he was. I'm fine. What can I get you?
She sighed. Just a regular coffee, please, and one of those, pointing at almond croissant. Her face had gone slightly pouty, and she sounded dejected.
Jesus. He thought.
He gave her a quick, insincere smile and placed the croissant on a small white plate with a pair of tongs. He filled a mug with coffee and handed it to her.
Thanks, she said, taking the plate and mug, and sitting down at the small industrial style table directly in front of the counter.
He felt flustered by the interaction, and continued to study her from his vantage point behind the counter. As she sat down, the hem of her jeans pulled away from her white canvas shoes, revealing what looked to be a sort of metal pole in place of her right ankle, a prosthetic leg.
At this unexpected sight, a wave of hot adrenaline passed through him, like he'd seen something he shouldn't have, and he looked away, suddenly feeling a desperate need to clean the counter of coffee grinds.
His annoyance with her evaporated, and was replaced with a dull, pounding shame. I'm such an asshole, he thought, mentally reviewing their entire interaction in his head. How had he missed it when she walked in? He tried to reassure himself by thinking of all of the morally righteous things he had done recently. His Grandmother lived in a nursing home 30 minutes away from his apartment. Since his dad had taken a job in Minneapolis, he visited her frequently. She always smiled and told him to cut his hair, and asked him when we was going to get married. She smelled bad, like formaldehyde and feces. He was a nice person, wasn’t he?
He looked back up at the girl. So, he said, trying to sound casual, do you live around here?
Oh, now you want to talk, she said, flashing him a grin. When she smiled, her face relaxed, and she seemed like an entirely different person than the one who had accused him of boredom just minutes ago. She seemed suddenly fascinating, a person who had fought battles that he could never imagine.
Sorry, he said, genuine this time, you just caught me at a bad time with this machine.
She looked down at her coffee, and then pulled a battered book out of her bag and opened it in front of her. The book had a picture of a shirtless pirate man on the cover, his shirt ripped open with abs glistening in some kind of faux moonlight. A busty teenage girl clung to him, her arms around his waist.
He had no idea how to redeem himself so he shuffled around behind the counter, arranging and rearranging large bags of coffee beans. He picked up his phone but the sight of the screen made him mildly nauseous, and he put it back down. He scratched his left elbow with his right hand and then mindlessly ran his index finger over a geometric black and white tattoo on his wrist. The dim lighting in the dark basement was making him sleepy and he wished someone else would walk in, but there was no relief to the tension. He could hear Andrew clomping around upstairs, showing customers beautifully backlit displays of leather belts with monogrammed initials, displayed against stark white walls.
The girl quietly sipped her coffee and appeared to be engrossed in her pirate romance. After twenty minutes or so, she reached into her bag and pulled out a ten dollar bill and a white dentist’s office pen with a green clip. She carefully wrote something in the front cover of the book and then put the pen and the money down. When she pushed her chair back from the table, it made a scraping sound which rang out almost apocalyptically. Then, she got up and pranced out of the room with her backpack slung over one shoulder.
At the sound of her chair he looked up. Her jeans were still pushed up around her waist and as she sauntered away, and before they fell back into place, he could clearly see the bottom of her legs, both looking very normal and flesh-like. Confused, he looked down to where she had been sitting and saw, for what seemed like the first time, the strangely jointed metal chair legs.
Her book lay carelessly on the table and he walked out from behind the bar to pick it up. He opened the front cover, inside of which she had written
Call me sometime, Pirate
734 662 3490
