You used to leave your shoes beside the doorway, letting the season drip off onto the carpet. Now, you walk them off wherever you please, one foot out, one foot in. Sometimes, you grab the wrong shoe out the door, so you walk around mis-matched. You used to bring home honey on Saturdays. A treat from nature. You used to cradle my body to your chest and kiss the back of my earlobe. You used to pull quarters from behind my ears. It’s magic. Now, my ears are un- kissed and magicless. You used to try and bake cupcakes, but you never read the directions, so they were always very dry, and burnt. We would sit with a can of icing and a bottle of wine, eating the cupcakes.…
It should not be so difficult to fall madly in love
My parents met on the day of their wedding, my mother with hands covered in henna and dressed in a red sari, and my father in a white sherwani and a small, nervous smile. I came soon after, during a time where the house was still quiet and foreign, during a time where “we” didn’t exist and it was just “me and mom” and “me and dad.” I could watch my parents learn to love each other. I could observe careless hands turn gentle, harsh voices turn soft, quick glances turn long.
My brother was born five years after me. In some ways, he’s luckier than I am. He was raised by hearts swollen with love, laughter caressing his skin like kisses.…
I open my eyes very slowly, as if emerging from a storm cellar after the tornado. A cluster of people peers down at me. A young woman carefully tucks her purse beneath my head. I see her lips are moving and am reminded of the adult voices in a Peanuts cartoon. I try to laugh but this alarms the crowd gathered around me. The young woman shakes her head and gently pushes my chest to keep me supine. With closed eyes, the deprivation of sight enhances my hearing. Children laughing, rhythmic chanting from the Hari Krishnas, the chug of a small train. Central Park.
I remember now, standing in line to buy a lemonade. A handsome young man talking. Flattered. It’s been so long since a man talked to me.…
2. Scores of flying scissors cutting the air above the rooftops and cathedral
3. She is so much younger
4. They leave (hidden behind the column her friend had been only an audio and purse). We stay and take their place (watching, sipping our beers, crunching our snacks)
5. The burning fish is dying a slow death behind the cathedral. A last gasp of orange and black has taken the scissors and the fish. Only the cathedral remains, drinking imperfectly (perfectly) from the absent moon
Asian massage spas: Four reasons to check them out
Anonymity. You will leave who you were on the pavement once inside the spa. You will be greeted by someone you never knew and will never know. “Hello Lady,” a woman will say. She will point to the menu. “What you want?” she will ask. An implicit agreement exists, namelessness and disregard. Some masseuses are taller than others, some are fatter, some are shorter, some are thinner, but they are all the same to clients, just like we are to them. My generic, pasty white body is indistinct from every other body that walks through the door.
Amy > Yelp review > Asian Massage Spa
Ugh! It was a new girl, and I tried to ask for the old girl, and they just pushed me into the room.…
The door snaps open and a woman steps into the café. Cold air rushes in as she stands in the doorway. She looks about thirty. She is attractive, freckled, fresh. She wears a mid-length calfskin coat, with a black flannel scarf around her neck. She pauses for a moment. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her eyes bright. She looks vigorous, nervy, alive.
She is my wife.
As she closes the door behind her, she tilts her head forward, her hair rolling over her shoulders. She catches it in her hands, then straightens. A barrette is in her mouth. She pulls her hair back and slips on the barrette to make a ponytail. She smiles to herself, then moves with confidence to an empty table.…
