For where there is one of me, always there will be another. Either at the next stanchion or post, or following soon after, while I lay dropped and drooling over my existence, in the dark grip of a dizzying blue gas, or cold-cocked by the weak-jawed clear-browed hero of sensitivity.
For while not always strong, we are the silent type. Born we are for epaulets and chin straps and monochrome jumpers, for frayed tunics and rusty chain mail, for bulky suits bulging with implication and lead-pumping danger, for the ability to rush headlong into an order, carrying it out with feckless determination, knowing well the disposability of our movements, our trigger fingers (ever itchy), the very things we see.
For what we see is always first, and never fully known.…
...continue reading
The pigeons arrive in the spring. She watches him try to shoo them away—first with the clapping of hands, with the stomping of feet on the wooden deck, then finally with a garden hose. “Stop,” she tells him finally. “Leave them alone.”
She’s grown to like their incessant cooing, their low murmur a lullaby.
The birds roost on the wooden beam just under the roof, side by side, staring into the Spanish fir across the street, like two people sitting side by side at a bar in front of a baseball game.
*
Flying rats, he calls them. Or, rats with wings.
How does a bird get a reputation like that? she wonders. As a pest—when pigeons are really quite beautiful, with the blues and purples feathering their necks, their curious faces, their bobbing heads.…
...continue reading
It is bedtime. The dishes are in the sink, the alarms are set, the doors are locked. Water drips from my hair onto one of his concert t-shirts. His skin is fresh from the shower. The leftover scents of our conditioners and soaps blend, tropical coconut, ocean breeze, brown sugar, lavender mist. He smooths the hair on top of my head and kisses me there before lying fully back. Pastel blankets and white sheets cover us. My right thigh is secure in his left hand where my leg is draped above his hips. I close my eyes. The streetlight outside the window turns grey as it filters through the blinds. This is our city. The highways we take to our parent’s houses, the streets we walk to work, the markets that sell us produce, the buildings that watch benevolently over us, the trails we run and bike, the restaurants and cafes we frequent.…
...continue reading
Some told fortunes in teacups, but not Elaine. She saw futures in champagne, in the bubbles’ dancing. The pop of the effervescence whispered secrets to her intoxicated ears.
She first noticed this ability while toasting her sister’s married happiness. Although underage, Elaine tipped a glass of bubbly to cherry-stained lips and enjoyed her body’s heady response until there, in the golden glints of her flute, she saw the groom’s infidelity, saw the face of the other women. She discreetly threw up the wedding feast in the toilet, dismissed the vision, and sat out the rest of the evening’s dances.
When her sister sobbed into her lap a year later, Elaine stroked her hair and remembered. “I don’t know why he’s so different. He never has time for me any more,” her sister hiccuped.…
...continue reading
Gerald looked up at the sky, wiping his hands on his overalls. The rain is coming again. It will be arduous, and the crops will probably fail. However, after that comes the season of plenty. The crops will grow.
They’d better.
Marcus, his son, walked along carrying two milk buckets. They exchanged glances.
“Come here,” Gerald said, taking off his tattered Stetson and dropping it on the porch beside him. “We have to talk”
“I’ve got to get the milk over to the…”
“Don’t worry about that,” Gerald took a seat in one of the cork chairs on the porch. “Sit.”
Marcus put the milk down and sat down in the chair beside his father. For a few moments, they peered at the fading sun in the sky.…
...continue reading
I used to be diligent in my defense against the growing forces of dog hair, using a lint roller or my hands to fend off their growing numbers. My decision to wear black clothing became a signal of my inability to adapt. I loved my dog more than anything in the world and I didn’t care if people knew I had a dog by glancing at my clothes. The evidence was there for the world to see, and eventually I gave up and waved the white flag of defeat.
What started as a minor inconvenience, had soon turned into my worst nightmare. The dog hair, unsatisfied with me surrendering my clothing, became greedy and continued its relentless conquest. My frustration accumulated as I began waking up with dog hair in my mouth.…
...continue reading
At 11 p.m., Ling called her mother’s WeChat video. It took a while before her mother answered it. Ling said, “Mom, it’s late. Stop watching TV series. You should take a good rest. You have to get up at seven o’clock tomorrow to work.”
Ling’s mother said, “I’m not sleepy. The more I watch, the more refreshed I am.” After that, she hung up the video.
Ling could imagine her mother curling up on the sofa, binge-watching the romantic drama. Her mother would be so immersed in the love-hate relationship between the hero and heroine while her father was snoring on the bed in the bedroom.
Ling’s mother became obsessed with romantic dramas two years ago. She told Ling, “If I had known the TV series was so good, I wouldn’t have married your father.”…
...continue reading