asked him twice (fiction)

When I came downstairs the next morning, the door to the master suite was ajar and there wasn't a noise to be heard. I called out Michael's name, but there was no answer. In the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee. I checked the fridge for creamer. Milk would do. Where was Michael?

I opened the door to the garage. Michael's car sat beside my own. I closed the door. The wonderful smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted me. Is there anything sweeter? I poured a cup, added milk, and gazed at the door to Michael's room. If he was awake, why didn't he answer?

Were you guys lovers still?

No. Well, yes, but not like before. I had my own room on the third floor. We agreed we could each date other guys. But we still fooled around occasionally.

But not that night?

No.

Go on.

So I walked over to his door and pushed it open. (pause) The first thing I saw was blood splatter on the wall above the headboard. Only I thought it was paint, and I wondered why Michael would do that. I decided to wake him up. I could see he was in the bed. There was a pillow on his head. I lifted it up and tried to make sense of what I was seeing. It was totally unrecognizable as a face. It was destroyed.

Is that when you left the house?

(Nodding) I panicked. I knew I needed to call the police. But we had weed and quaaludes and acid. I gathered it all up, jumped in my car and drove out to the lake and hid it under some rocks. Then I came back to the house and called the police.

Why did they arrest you?

The neighbors saw me leave and come back. The police were convinced I'd thrown away the murder weapon. I had to show them where I'd stashed the drugs before they believed me.

Paul, we've known each other a long time. I know you loved him. Are you sure you didn't snap and do this terrible thing?

(Long pause, then quietly) If I did do it, it wouldn't be good for you to know I did it, Jackie.

desert dessert

After the drought, and that mourning quiet,
you come to me in sweet expectation.

I drink in the breath of sighs and smiles,
and feel my desiccated soul grow plump with love.

I'll never feel normal again.
I'm on the other side of loss.

But your kisses remind me I'm still alive.
And your touch keeps me nourished.

Each time we wind ourselves around each other,
I'm a little farther from my pain.

chained (and a note to john mccain)

It's raining in Phoenix again. This morning when I took the dogs out, I studied the gray clouds and thought it might rain, but it didn't look like a thunderstorm sky. But we've had lightning and thunder so loud that both dogs are glued to my side.

I can't help but think of my friends who have evacuated the Florida, Georgia and South Carolina coasts ahead of Hurricane Matthew. They're tired, depressed, and worried about what they'll find when they return. Sitting here, enjoying the sounds of the rain on my patio, I almost feel like I'm being disloyal.

My thoughts also wander to the people of Haiti. The devastation and misery is overwhelming. The people must feel chained to their circumstances, with no choice but to fight for survival. A lot of really smart people have tried and failed to "fix" Haiti. I see so many "pray for Haiti" memes on Facebook. The cynic in me thinks a check to disaster relief would be a wiser choice.

This is also the morning that American voters are reeling from the newly released audio/video of Donald Trump bragging about getting away with sexual assault because he's a "star." He obviously thinks that sexually assaulting women is funny and he looks forward to doing it with great anticipation. It's not shocking to me because I've believed Trump to be a dangerous, disgusting pig for many years. But I am still amazed that so many people still support and defend him. I believe they're chained to him, unable to admit they were wrong all along. And rather than free themselves from his dead weight, they'll drown with him, their last words being, "He's not THAT heavy," before their chains drag them into the abyss.

John McCain, I'm talking to YOU. Jeff Flake is obviously an idiot who will never let go of the Trump chain, but there's still hope for you, John. Prior to unleashing the moronic Sarah Palin, your legacy was solid. I disagreed with you on almost everything, but I admired and respected you. You had honor and integrity and you courageously spoke out if your party made a drastic wrong turn. Even after Sarah nearly destroyed your reputation, you quietly soldiered on. The day you stood on the Senate floor and denounced the attacks on Huma Abedin, I thought, "He's back. The decent, strong, courageous Maverick is back." But your silence on Trump will prove to bury your good name permanently. Yes, you've said a few things here and there. But where is the Maverick? It might cost you this election, but here's what you need to say RIGHT NOW:

"I made an error in judgement endorsing Donald Trump. The man is unqualified to serve as President of the United States. He has said horrible things and I have mostly stayed silent, for which I will forever feel ashamed. But I'm speaking up now. I can no longer endorse Donald Trump. I will NOT vote for him. I strongly urge you to vote for anyone BUT him. He is NOT QUALIFIED to serve as President of the United States."

Yeah, I know. John McCain will never read those words, much less say them. But he should throw off that heavy, fetid chain and try to rescue what little is left of his legacy.

So here I sit in my temporary paradise, listening to the dripping of water off the eaves of my house. The sun is shining again. Rain never lasts for long in the desert. I savor it when it comes. I just wish it could be a source of joy for everyone today.

zut alors

Dappled shade decorates the retaining wall at the back of the yard. Tall oleanders rise in front and above the wall. And somewhere beyond the wall, voices are rising in arguing tones. And even though I can't make out every word, it sounds like the practiced fuss of a couple who has disagreed about something on many occasions. I know that sound.

Today brings contemplation of my own love and life. What felt forever may, by my choice, become quite ephemeral in the grand scheme of things. Looking back in time, forty years seems a very long time to be in relationship. But if I live forty more years, it could seem like a blip on the radar. The thing is, I think I might like myself better in a life without him in it. What a strange precipice I find myself on.

"Zut alors!" I heard that clearly enough! And now I understand why I couldn't make out what they were fighting about. They're speaking French. In Phoenix? I guess people come here from everywhere. And as I'm learning, even if two people do speak the same language, they may still find each other incomprehensible. Common language never guarantees common understanding.

And so it goes. In these quiet days, I gather the strength I'll need to make this change. I'll throw out canceled plans, too much texting, and his inability to focus on my needs. But with them will go hilarious laughter, passion, and history. What a mixed bag. But self-respect really does trump romance.

Mohsin Hamid said it best:

“If you have ever, sir, been through a breakup of a romantic relationship that involved great love, you will perhaps understand what I experienced. There is in such situations usually a moment of passion during which the unthinkable is said; this is followed by a sense of euphoria at finally being liberated; the world seems fresh as if seen for the first time then comes the inevitable period of doubt, the desperate and doomed backpedaling of regret; and only later, once emotions have receded, is one able to view with equanimity the journey through which one has passed.”

Something to look forward to, no? My goal is a simple one. I want to feel authentic. I've done a bit too much bending, reshaping, and stifling. I'm in a stuffy little room of my own making. I simply must get out of here! So, hand on doorknob, I pause. Zut alors, indeed. Just a sec - almost ready.

mosaic

A sweet Arizona morning.
Rare, magical rain creates a mosaic,
dancing circles on the surface of the pool.
My coffee is cold,
my heart is sore,
and my dogs just peed on the floor.
But isn't that cool breeze lovely?

The oleanders sway,
scattering red, pink, and white blossoms,
a carpet on which to dance.
My mother is dead,
I miss her peal of laughter,
when a shared memory moved us.
But those colors are beautiful, aren't they?

Mosaic of life,
each moment a potential mix,
of precious joy and life-changing sorrow.
My philodendron is fading,
I really should vacuum this dog hair,
and I ought to fix some lunch.
But doesn't that rain sound amazing?

on different hollow

For decades, I knew the shape of my life,
and could predict a general future course.
Familiarity of purpose and outcomes,
and you a constant compatriot.

Now on different hollow, I listen
for the sound of whatever my future may be
without you, or the rumble of your voice,
without the comfort of habitual love.

green stuffing

Old dog bed,
worn and tattered,
(beloved by a canine,
who looks so relaxed,
laying sideways,
with her head over the edge,)
green stuffing emerging,
decorating the tile floor,
like tufts of cotton candy.
Festive chaos.

through the bubble

In the depths of the oasis,
exists a way point.
You run out of breath,
just as you reach it.

You suck in the air
that bubbles from the fissure,
and you're faced with the dilemma,
multiple souls have confronted.

Do you rest for a moment,
and breathe in that sweet air,
then swim back to surface
and its relative safety?

Or do you suck in as much air
as your human lungs can cradle,
then swim even deeper
in search of lost treasure?

Through the bubble?
Or back up to surrender?
The current buffets you,
testing your resolve.

Azure fish skitter
this way and that,
drawn to the bubble,
and your curious presence.

None can advise you.
Only you can decide,
if your fate is behind you,
or a blind road ahead.

fish out of water

Tribe. Pack. Crew. Squad. Team. Belonging feels good. Warm acceptance and feelings of allegiance boost self-esteem and confidence. But I'm a perennial outsider, springing to life as an outlier no matter where I go.

It starts in Japan. I'm a Caucasian child with curly, white-blonde hair. For homogeny-valuing Japanese, my appearance is a wonder. I stand out against the background of my dark-haired siblings and parents. Random people exclaim over my looks, touching my hair while staring with wide eyes. I grow accustomed to the petting. At the school for expats, I start kindergarten with 5 year-old boys and girls from dozens of countries. My best buddy is David Wang, a chubby Chinese boy the other kids make fun of.

Later, I'm starting the first grade in Massachusetts. Nobody cares what I look like. But I'm on the outside looking in again because I don't speak English well. "Speak some Japan!" the other kids demand. I learn to lie and say "I can't remember any." I'm tired of their laughter and crude mimicry of what is, for me at that moment, my native language. I find a friend, Joanne, a Catholic girl who lives in my neighborhood. With flaming red hair and a mass of freckles, she's been the victim of teasing as well. We understand each other.

My parents divorce when I'm eight. Now, even to my extended family, I'm an outsider. They're well-bred Southern Christians and they don't "do" divorce. My parents are the first in the family to divorce -ever. I'm not Southern and there is pity towards us as the children of divorce. In their eyes, we are now crippled. Any achievement will be seen as an amazing feat of courage.

Fifth grade finally finds me in the South. But moving to Georgia from Massachusetts means I'm a "damn Yankee", a fate worse than death. I am shunned. Only one girl befriends me, the class oddball, Lisa. And I hesitantly follow Lisa down a dangerous path to all sorts of exploits. I'm terrified at first, but she's my only friend. By 7th grade, we're smoking pot, hanging out with grown people - amateur pot dealers, musicians, and opportunistic 19 and 20 year-old men who recognize vulnerable girls when they see them.

Tenth grade and we've moved to rural North Carolina. Given some of the crazy shit I've done, it's a small miracle that I'm still alive. But now I'm a quadruple threat outsider. First, I'm not from there, a grievous sin. Second, I'm a "hippy", or so I'm told. Third, my vocabulary is WAY too big. I'm constantly being asked "what does xxxxx mean?" I'm too stubborn to change by this point.

The fourth and final threat I bring to this new environment is that I'm not a blatant racist. My parents were members of the SCLC and have raised us to see people as people. My high school is highly segregated socially. I neither understand nor conform to that way of seeing the world. I'm soon labeled a "nigger-lover." After that, I'm bombarded with taunts and threats almost every day. A few people are kind to me - not nearly enough. By this point, I've perfected my tough exterior. Nobody knows how much I'm hurting. My circle of friends are all older people. I feel safe with them. I play guitar and sing in a band. I go to school. I graduate - barely. (Forty years later, a high school reunion photo on Facebook features a sea of white faces. Some things, it seems, never change.)

College is a huge breath of fresh air. There's a live and let live feeling that allows me to relax. And there's plenty of other weirdos with whom to bond. It's okay to be an oddball. In fact, we celebrate each other's wacky free spirits.

I've never stopped being an oddball. I no longer expect to fit in. I anticipate wariness from others. Other unique people recognize and embrace me. And I've become adept at spotting those who will be most likely to reject me. They're the conformers and the insecure. The conformers have strict rules in their head about what people SHOULD and should NOT think, say, do, or be. The insecure are those who are so fearful of rejection that they choose small, safe spaces to occupy. A few people are both.

I'm very blessed to have found good friends over the years. Not surprisingly, they're all very unique people. They're bold and colorful. They take up space. Generosity of spirit is a common trait. They're all really smart. And they are fearless.

I'm forever grateful that I never developed that skill of making myself smaller in order to fit in. I'm a kaleidoscope. And I really love all of my colors.

cheeto

Scene at a public pool in Phoenix:

"What is that?"
"What?"
"That."
"Where?"
"Right by the drain."
"See where the ducky is? Right under there."
"What is that?"
"That's what I'm asking you"
"Well swim down there and see."
"I don't want to get my hair wet."
"I think it's a Cheeto."
"It can't be."
"Why?"
"Cheetos float."
"Oh. Well, what is it then?"
"I don't know any more than I did two minutes ago."

reflection

She mourns.
Her second marriage is over,
and she's no Spring chicken.
But he wasn't in it,
so how could she be?

Soldiering on,
putting on a happy face,
caring for others,
as is her way.

But hope is an elusive thing,
and she struggles to accept
that this may be, after all,
as good as it gets.

to the ground

In your post-career wanderings,
you model a variety of costumes,
seeking a mélange of new moments,
and surprises in human experiences.

You're a wannabe sociologist,
wishing Studs Terkel could mentor you.
You collect. You question. You listen. You remember.
You marvel at your thirst and hunger.

"You're not old enough to retire!"
"How will you pay your bills?"
Snatch up the naysayers,
drag them to the ground.

Don't look back.

hot pink sunglasses

Driving into the sunset like this,
with the visor no help,
and I'm squinting my eyes
to try to see my way.

Exit to the Flying J in Tucumcari,
I need gas anyway
and a coffee if I'm going to
drive into the night.

Some postcards since I'm in here,
and some hot pink sunglasses,
because I'm 57, and I want them.
Now what are you looking at?

I'm a walking Bell curve,
with respectability at my apex,
and wild abandon on either end.
Even my stats are confusing.

I'm finally that different drummer
that I used to be,
before normal sucked me in,
for a brief, boring ride.

Now if you'll excuse me,
I've got a sunset to ride into.
And through my hot pink sunglasses,
I see infinite joy and courageous splendor.

julio (fiction)

Yo como una manzana.

Eres un hombre.

Encantado de conocerte.

"Will you stop??? Nobody expects you to speak Spanish. You're an American, for God's sake."

Su hijo está enojado.

Nos vamos?

"I give up. I'm scrambling eggs. Do you want any?"

Esto es delicioso.

"Ahhhhh!"

Ha perdido la cabeza...

...pero él tiene un culo lindo.

new moon (fiction)

When dusk was settled and the sky first hinted of stars, a new moon hung over the oleander, reflecting just enough of the sun's light to illuminate our happy faces. We three, just joined at the recent Wisterius Festival, lay naked in the basking pool. Like spokes to a wheel, only our feet touched as we stared up at the night sky.

"I could eat entire fields of berries," Paul sighed. Jax and I laughed. I scooted over to sit between them.

"Should we order something?" I suggested. Jax turned to me and touched my hair, sliding his fingers through my curls. He smiled languidly, relaxed from our lovemaking.

Paul turned towards us. "Let's ask for our Honey Basket."

I pressed the call button and two minders appeared. "Bring us a Honey Basket, please," I asked, "and some champagne." The minders disappeared.

My life was so different now than just two weeks ago. In the weeks leading up to Wisterius, none of us knew whether we would be chosen for joining. This was my third and I hadn't been chosen before. I thought I might remain a minder for life, as some do. But my name had been called. Then Jax and Paul had been assigned to me. Amazing. So far, they had been wonderful, each allowing me to set the pace and tone of our intimacy. Truly, they had been well-trained.

The minders returned with our victuals, lighting lamps as they prepared the table. Paul stood and stepped out of the pool. He helped me out of the water and dried my body before his own. Jax helped me into a sheer robe.

In our Honey Basket, we found berries, of course, along with melons, sweet breads, protein pockets, cheeses, nuts, and golden raisins. A minder poured champagne. I lifted my glass. "To a successful joining," I said. "May we be blessed with productive years."

"May your choice include us both," Jax and Paul responded in unison.

residue

I'm run over.
Tire tracks across my history.
Hard, angry, or weak souls,
damaged by life or lack of life,
in turn attempted to harm me.

The result should be
a bitter, hopeless woman.
But I choose my response.
I display residue of my choosing.
What you see is the me I choose to be.

I'm not a dart board.
I'm not the dart.
I'm the air the dart flies through.
I choose which way to bend,
after the dart is long gone.

stack of (fiction)

We were riding the rainbow flash
of post-splendor smiles and sighs,
breathing hard and giggling,
marveling in our shared power to please.

The tables shook and the sky opened,
she stared down at us, our mouths agape.
"I'm pleased," she said, "and you do me great honor."
I clutched Mary's hand and stayed perfectly still.

Time? What is time? We slept,
awakening to find a normal room.
Mary sat up, her breasts bearing lines
from the folds in the sheets.

"Did Aphrodite speak to us?" I asked,
"or was that just the garlic from dinner,
causing a curious dream?"
Such is the way of goddesses, here and gone.

Over grapefruit and poached eggs,
we made our plans for the day:
house blueprints, stack of mail,
dry cleaning, market, blueberry picking.

I'm pleased.

sweven

Like looking at one clear, cut crystal,
I turn my head this way and that.

The angle of my gaze determines what I see.
Tilted this way, I see only an opaque facet.

But move my head ever-so-slightly,
and I see brilliant light and prisms of color.

You are my sweven, my sweetness, my light.

splatter

On the long drive
up I-44 from Tulsa
to St. Louis,
trees breathed on me,
and the sweet air
kissed my cheek.

"I could live here,"
I thought,
"in these rolling hills."
And I made
a mental note
to explore
later in life.

And when I stopped,
to get gas
and clean bug splatter
off my windshield,
I picked up a real estate book
and some rental cabin brochures,
just in case.

But I never did go back.
Yet.

between you and me

It wouldn't have been the first time I'd had to fend off a horny bloke. I set myself up for this by agreeing to let him stay on the sofa. But he kept coming in. Finally, I went out and took his place on the sofa, hoping he'd fall asleep waiting for me.

But nope. Here he came, walking naked towards me with his average pecker waving about in front of him. I honestly thought, "Let's just get this over with so I can get some sleep." Disgusted and defeated, I led him back into the bedroom. I did what was needed to get through it as quickly as possible. Then, mercifully, he was asleep.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee. I left the lump in my bed and walked to the kitchen. My friend and I made eye contact, her face a curious question. I rolled my eyes. She laughed. Her boyfriend was making Eggs Benedict. The three of us sat, talking and eating, discussing our plans for the day. Eventually the lump joined us, looking overly pleased with himself.  He leaned in for a kiss. I held up my hand. "No," I said, not looking at him.

My friend's boyfriend got up to leave. "You need a ride?" he asked the lump. The lump looked at me. I answered, "Yes, you need a ride."

At the door, he said, "That was aMAZing."

"No," I said, "it really wasn't."

After they left, my girlfriend started laughing. "What the hell?"

Between you and me, I wanted to slap her. Part of me was so angry. But she wasn't the cause. It was anger at being coerced. I also felt like crying. I had been very nice each time I said no to him. Maybe I should have screamed at him. Would he have given up? Or would he have become violent? He was much bigger than me.

In the end, I forgave myself. It was just sex, I thought. I'll eventually forget this. But it's been 35 years. And I still remember. And it still makes me mad.

Between you and me.