I walked into the room and there she was
as I walked
into the room and I saw her lying naked and I thought that she looked to me
as if I was dead now staring at her hand over
the side of the bed open to the ceiling like she was waiting
for it to come down and slash her wrists in the flailing moment when I walked
into the room and expected her to be breathing there she was before looking
at her her hand turned upside to the ceiling, not breathing
I held my breath in case she wanted to move from one side to the other
eyes upturned, unfluttered I wanted her to blink at least before mine dried
out in watching her still.
Her robe was tangled
around her torso but it didn’t hide the scar I made on her
I made a scar on her before I had walked into the room
where she had been lying for such a time that the tears dried out from her eyes
now watching now waiting for the ceiling to come crashing in on her
wrists on her hands and knees begging me to do something about it
and I kept telling her that it wasn’t an issue I put that there and away
what came with it only to get taken away from me it took something out of us
maybe this is why I can walk in to a room and find her here like this
like I could always have imagined it
that I can walk into this room without breathing
and know that she was just by looking and not bend over double like a scar
across my stomach which she would do sometimes because the hurt was there
to make her make a double of herself in pain but now watching her fingers uncurled
stone half grasped with her wrist all out in the open her mouth slightly parted like she
was going to say something about how the ceiling was coming apart
how we were coming apart after she had been taken apart.
Sitting at the edge of the bed
and looking through the windows wondering where her life went
if her eyes
wouldn’t close the window closed I could still feel that it was cold
outside I can see it all clearly even though I’ve turned my back on her
and the ceiling
and the floor and everything that forced her in that direction with this weight behind me
how she would look at me if she had been able to breathe this much
further who knows how much earlier would I need to have been to see her look
one last time without telling it to me like this spilled out on the floor to spit it
out into the open without spilling over without cascading down this
slide smooth glass filled to the hilt with choking and bitter-sweet aftertaste stock stared
at staring I can see it now facing one damn cold window morning where she was
before I knew it my senses sprawling out along the floor that I walked in on to find her
scar facing me away from her eyes that I had brought the ceiling down on
wrists ripped wide open
to what she left me rattling against.

1. He put his hand on my breast telling me that I am going to like it.
Jeremy whispered he can tell by the feel of it in the palm of his hand and I did and didn’t want him to stay or leave, so caught up in himself, in my blouse, I wanted him to but I didn’t want to go any further, and I found it hard to say much of anything because his hands crawled up and down my face and chest and I wondered if he knew I had any legs, cottage cheese thighs that make me hate myself after a shower, with his hardness against them then, I wondered if he knew how hard my hands would get at grabbing each side of my thighs, the raw pink turning white, but wanting to keep him here, wanting him to remember the rest of my body, whispering to the rest of my body instead of my ears with his hands through my hair like daddy’s little girl, instead he rubbed and pushed himself against me, against the car door and it had been months since I saw him, it had been months since I saw him like this, at the airport, luggage strewn in the trunk when he grabbed me, spun me around before I opened the door, I didn’t think twice about it, I didn’t think twice, his hands all over me from the waist up or how perfect my tits were, gouging them as if he was looking for them, and I think I heard a plane landing or taking off, I couldn’t hear much of anything but I knew something happened because I suddenly felt his hand snake between the fabric and the skin and before I knew it we were against the headboard of the bed straight from the back seat of the car parked in the back lot of the motel only minutes away, minutes away from his coming, and he wouldn’t even look at me below the waist, his face buried between my shoulder and the beaten pillow while I stared at the joint between the ceiling and the wall remembering the girl who gave us the key to the room without blinking, without looking, and the glossy page she turned, the magazine she was holding, and I thought then all of things how boring and terrible she must think my thighs must be, since she wouldn’t even look at me and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

2. She insists it’s those skirts that I wear, while eating a taco.
Really, Jenna said between mouthfuls, how does she fit so much food in that little mouth of hers, I don’t know why you put yourself through that torture. I have the opposite problem, nothing seems to hug my hips, no one either. You know that man’s a predator, you know that don’t you? You don’t think he really loves you, do you? I’ve seem him look at me, she said, bringing her head across the table over the opened wax paper and fallen bits of lettuce, tomato, beef and sour cream, last year he even bumped into me at the Christmas party by the copy machine with his groin out to there and he and I both knew it was on purpose. She leaned back and crushed the rest of the corn shell between small impossibly white shiny teeth. Not that I would mind, mind you, but finders keepers and I have to admit, she added, I don’t like sloppy seconds, she looked me dead in the eye with eyes all lit up, nor do I cut throats, and my eyes never left her face, I didn’t even question it, going around it in circles after circle, from inside to out, eyes to nose to eyebrows to forehead to lips to hairline to ears to earring to pointed chin. Around and around her words spiraled off her tongue as she licked her finger one final time before we left, making our way through a huddle of swarming teenagers, boys pushing into girls and I wondered if they were rubbing their crotches against each other on purpose or if it was because the lines were simply too long and the cashiers too slow.

3. He’s a lovely man, my mother says, while ironing my father’s shirt.
God rest his soul if he could see the beautiful woman you’ve become. I lingered over the shelves of figurines against the furthest wall from her, the heat and the steam, the board and my dead father’s shirt. She stood there ironing although it’s been years and she still jumps at the slightest footfall from the porch, pitches up in the middle of the night she tells me and calls me, he almost came home tonight dear, she’d say, he almost did, he’ll come around, I’m sure he will when he realizes that we still love him, that he belongs here at home, and I rest my head against the uppermost shelf and turned to watch her forearms extend and contract, watched her hand smooth out the wrinkles of the cloth and press the iron across and when she lifted it up it gasps for air and the shirt smokes, I feel the pressing urge to smoke although I haven’t for some time, but I felt a little rebellious and I hated my mother and I wanted to break curfew tonight even though I no longer lived here, I stretched my neck and stared back at the empty smiling faces of the figurines that I used to play with because she wouldn’t buy me any toys, but I never touched the one of the little boy and girl kissing, I sat in front of it instead, stupid child that I was hoping that they would soon come up for air, and the iron gasped again and my mother set it on the edge with one hand while daintily picking up the shirt with her other and I noticed the brown spots blemishing across her arm suddenly and I found that I couldn’t breathe so I started to leave as she reminded me on my way out, don’t forget to call your father, you never call him he says.

4. I know why he won’t change the channel.
He said I didn’t know what I was talking about, that he didn’t know what I was talking but he wasn’t even talking to me, his eyes fixed on the screen while he drew me tighter, while he drew his hand around the other side of my waist and I told him I don’t want to watch this anymore and he frowned still staring, why not, you picked this movie out, and he started to unfasten my bra and the television set was moaning as two women in Bound start to moan and he fumbled around with my nipple in the same concentric circles one actress moved her hands over the other, I felt the weight of my thighs separated by his leg, the gasp of the iron, the crunching sound of stale corn shells on Jeremy’s breath, and I know what he did to me, what he was doing to me, and I felt raw and fleshy and I take up too much room in my bed, I heard myself telling him, you can stay but that movie has to go, nervous giggling and he stuck out his bottom lip looking at me for the first time ever so briefly before he snuggled his chin between my breasts and turned me around, away from the tv set, one eye still on it, and his tongue was suddenly in my mouth before something coarse and wet tumbled out of it, and I tried push him off because I felt so damn cold around the surface of my skin, and his leg was like an iron pressing up the hem of my skirt and I gasped as the women in the movie were gasping and I lost myself in that sound just beyond the bed springs, just around the corner where a car suddenly hit the curb just that side of the open gutter and the hubcap rattled across the pavement.

5. My father says Sundays are for children.
I looked at Jeremy as he stuttered and made a big show of it, or for me and for it, as he stared out the window during brunch, and fiddled with his utensils, paying careful attention to not let his eyes wander as our waitress bent over the table to serve our meal and I knew that it was over before it even began, before he even began, before we even came here, and he doesn’t really touch his food in the beginning, hands folded into each other, elbows bent sternly straight up the edge of the table, firm mouth pressed against the fold, holding his eyes closed, made little shakes with his head as if this was terribly new to him, that he had never expected it to be like this, to end like this, for us to have ended up like this, and I tilted my head as if I was listening to him but I only heard my mother and father laughing back when I was a child and I told him that Sunday’s were cats for some ridiculous reason I could not remember while Jeremy minced though his words actually began to chew them or were they home fires, and my father tickled me and my mother started to tickle us both and he said through his thick mustache as he kissed my mother’s head, no, you got it wrong, Sundays are for children as Jeremy got up hesitantly, abruptly, I think he might have asked me a question but he wasn’t really looking for me, I think he was looking for our waitress or the check and I know that there’s a difference between the two, but I watched instead a young couple walk in that weren’t as pretty or as perfect as they’re made out to be on the covers of magazines, and the boy didn’t know where to put his hands and she didn’t know when to look at him when he’s looking at her, and they were both so painfully awkward that it was gentle, he pulled her chair out for her, almost pulling it out from under her and I smiled so hard that my teeth show and Jeremy asked again, what’s so funny, what’s so damn funny?

“So, has it hurt at all?”

“No. not really. It’s hard to tell.” He played with wood that was splintering away from the bench. It was sunny and breezy, the grass thick and cut low.

She had pebbles in her hand that she tossed into the field across the path from them. They used to lie in the sun on the field, when the city was too hot. “You don’t miss it then? No pangs?”

He shook his head. “No.” He looked up and followed where her pebbles went. “Did you expect it to?”

“I guess. It doesn’t make much sense to, does it?”

“Well, neither one of us really had an idea about how it would go.”

She stood and threw a pebble as far as she could. She imagined it landing on a spot where they had at one time held hands, not so long ago, maybe a year or more.

He saw the pebble fall at the edge of the playground, a hundred feet or so from the bench. “You’re getting better.”

“Hmm. Some of the feeling is coming back to my arm. The doctors have been surprised.”

“It’s all guess work really, but the doctors won’t admit it.”

She kept her back towards him. They used to come here often, to jog around the reservoir further north in the park, when they lived together. It had all been rather rushed and fresh, barely could keep their hands off each other in the beginning. When she thought about it, they had barely known each other. “Do you remember how it was before at least?”

He squinted looking up into the sun, shook his head. “I see it, but it’s like a movie with no sound. All out of sequence. I can’t make any sense of it.”

She slowly sat back down and tossed another pebble. He watched where they fell. On the path, a number of bikers whizzed by. A novice on roller blades tumbled along. A family pointed out the trees from their horse carriage as it went by. Looking at her, he asked, “Have I changed much?”

“You look the same. Lost some weight actually.” She used to poke his belly and he’d swear that she was jealous of it. She had two pebbles left.

“Hmm.” He absentmindedly picked at the bench again.

She tossed a pebble. “Have you been eating?”

He nodded. “Occasionally. Two or three times a day. When the time comes.”

“Would you ever have it put back?”

He kept picking at the splinters of wood. A jogger sweated by. She fingered her last pebble.

He shook his head. “No. I might not clearly understand why I did it, but there must have been cause.” He looked across the park. “No way of second guessing myself now.”

She looked across the park also. He had called her a week before it was done. She thought he was joking, he hung up on her. She didn’t call back. “How do you see things now? When you look at everything around you?”

“I see the same as before.”

She sighed. “You know what I mean. How different is it?”

“The same. They’re there, just the way they are. Nothing more than that.”

She looked back down at her hands. When they’d spend time in the park, he’d make stories out of everything, out of the people that walked by, out of the children that played around them. He’d insist that everyone came to the park only to ogle at them, that they were the latest trend-setters, and that she had to start learning how to accept her newfound status. All because of him, of course. Staring into the palms of her hands, she whispered, “Just grass then..”

“No. There’re trees, children, and dogs. Is that strange to see things for what they are?”

“You know,” she turned but couldn’t face him, grasping the pebble in a fist, “I can’t help imagining that it’s all just black and white for you now. Don’t you feel that you’re missing out on something?”

“I don’t think I would have had them remove it if I didn’t know what I was doing, if it wasn’t what I wanted.” He watched children skip rope further up the path. He then said, looking away from her, “I was in the hospital for a long time.”

She shifted in her seat, looked first up the opposite direction of the path, then at her hands. Things had turned out badly, he broke a window when she was packing, but never laid a hand on her, barely spoke to her at all. He’d just roam about the apartment, and when she was in another room picking up a thing of hers, she’d hear something else smash against the wall or floor. When she walked back through the living room to leave, there were porcelain shards all over. “I know.”

“You never visited.” He turned to her, his face blank and curious.

“I didn’t exactly approve of what you were doing.” She tossed her last pebble.

“I still think, despite that, it would have been the right thing to do.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” She wouldn’t face him, staring into the field where the last pebble went and disappeared in the grass. She had said good bye then but he wouldn’t turn away from the window sill.

Another jogger trotted past them.

He said, “There was still some of it after the surgery. It hurt then. The nurses told me I was banging my head against the wall. Literally. I remember parts of that, but not why.”

“Having that little piece still inside you with nothing else probably drove you crazy.”

“I guess. The doctors gave me some drugs that wiped it out for good. I remember everything from that point on.” He leaned back and stretched his legs. Two women with baby strollers walked wearily by. “When will you go back to work?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if I’ll be going back again actually. I know now the arm was just an excuse, you know how it was. Never really liked it there.”

He nodded. “That makes sense.”

She looked at him. He was watching the children in the field. In his hands was a splinter and he held his finger right up against the point. He turned to her and smiled. It looked awkward. He used to smile so often that she told him people must have thought he was an idiot, or at least high.

He said, “Good thing you had insurance. Just the x-rays were, what? 300 dollars, right?”

She didn’t say anything. He held the smile. He reminded her of a newscaster. Her eyes were squinting, a breeze blowing her hair back. She whispered, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do it?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “I would be repeating myself.”

“Things weren’t that bad between us. We were still friends.” Even though they hardly ever spoke after she had moved out, she still rang him every couple of months or so for drinks, and during the holidays, they’d exchange presents.

“We were lovers first.”

She turned away. “Things didn’t work out. That’s all.”

“I’m merely pointing out a fact. I’m not blaming you for anything.”

The girls down the path had broken out laughing. Another biker whizzed by. A father walked by explaining something to his daughter as she skipped along.

“I still don’t understand. You were so full of life. Always laughing, at everything and everyone. You were such a maniac sometimes. When we went shopping you’d dance the hokey pokey in the middle of these long lines in the supermarket.” She sighed. “There were times that I just couldn’t stand it.”

He looked at her. “Well, there is nothing to put up with now.”

She looked at him. He was still smiling. She turned away, looking down at her hands. When things were good, he’d start laughing and crying at the same time. For no reason, he’d hold her face as if he was looking for something, the pressure of his hand just this close to uncomfortable then ask her, ‘How do you put up with me?’

A trio of joggers, one behind the other, single file, were warming down, walking past them. One stopped in front of them, bending at the waist, his hands on his knees, taking a breather. He stood straight after a couple of breaths, let out a long sigh, and then caught up with the rest.

“There were many people in that wing, where the procedure was done.” He stuck a hand in one of his pockets, pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. “The doctor had done two others before me that day.” He looked at the pack. It was still almost full. “He said that the operation was wildly popular in a way that was worrying him, keeping him awake at night.” He tossed the pack into the trash can next to the bench. “Nightmares.”

She glanced at him. He also used to have nightmares, shaking, horribly wet from sweat, teeth bared. She’d hold him so tightly to keep him still, sobbing, saying his name over and over until he awoke sobbing in her arms. He wouldn’t go for help, he’d say that he didn’t believe in it.

A biker peddled by with her hands off the handles. An elderly man walked by, arms pumping, timed breaths. The crack of a bat somewhere behind them in a softball field.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, looking over the field. “Why didn’t they get all of it? The first time, during the operation?”

“They weren’t going to from the beginning. They said that some parts are too close to regions that govern biological functions, like breathing. Once they had most of it, they’d inject us with a drug specially designed for those hard to get at corners.”

She looked at him. “Why not that from the beginning? Why surgery in the first place?”

“The patient has to be conscious when they administer it. And for some, it’s too big, the drug would work slower. They’d see it happening, actually feel it being taken apart.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. He could have been prescribed something, she had told him. She thought now that he needn’t have done this. “Can you imagine?”

“No.” He tossed the splinter.

She looked at him. “You remember the pain? Why? Why do you remember the pain, you’re not supposed to, right?”

“I remember because it was a sensation. It’s not an emotion any more than getting a nail in your foot is.”

“Why this then?” She blurted. “Why are we here right now? To punish me? If you don’t feel anything for me why did you call?”

He sighed. “I called to end it.” He looked over the field. “I called to tell you not to ever call me again. I barely remember what little memories I have of you.” He picked at the bench. “I don’t want you to look at me as someone you had shared a part of your life with. I wouldn’t know why you looked at me in a particular way and that be something we might have shared before. I don’t want to put you into that position.” He turned to her.

Her eyes were wet. “How considerate…”

Another horse carriage lazily went by.

“This is… this is comfortable for me, do you understand? Not that you don’t mean anything. It’s not the same. You are significant because you are here right now. Not because we might have loved one another in the past.” He looked down the path. “It means nothing to me. It’s a series of half images that flicker with no weight. They don’t rest anywhere.” He glanced across the field. “I think that would be a problem. With you. I wanted to spare you. To show you what I am now and leave it at that.”
She bit her lip and stared across the field also. A couple wearing shorts and tank tops rollerbladed by.

“You bastard.” She had started to cry, shaking her head. Then she took a deep breath and stopped. “You want to know why you did it? You don’t remember?” She turned to him. “I know why. It’s all you talked about. You’d stay up all night, you wouldn’t come to bed, standing by the window staring at the street. I’d ask what’s wrong and you’d cry. I’d come to hold you and you were so stiff, like you wanted to push me off. You kept saying, ‘make it stop, make this all stop’…sometimes you’d crawl into corners..” She sniffled and half-laughed, shaking her head, “..shit. But I never understood, did I? You made sure. Just long nights with you by the window looking like a hurt puppy and me the dumb bitch that kept calling you to bed…”

A bird hopped at the edge of the grass.

“That’s why I left you. I couldn’t take it. Just like you. I couldn’t take your highs and lows and you, you insistent that I could.”

He looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She turned away and wiped her face. “…you can’t apologize. I don’t think you know what it means.”

Cheers from the softball field. The novice on roller blades from earlier came around again, this time a little more confident. The bird at the edge of the grass was hopping onto the path, tilted its head, then flew off.

“After, when we’d talk, whenever I wondered just what the hell was going on with you since you’d never call, you’d say how you wished there was a way to remove your heart.” She reached for her bag underneath the bench and stood. She looked down at him. He was looking at her with clear eyes. “Well congratulations then. You did it.”

She turned away and walked off on the path, towards the girls jumping rope.

He watched her leave. After a few steps, her face was in her hands, then further down the path, she lifted her head and picked up her pace. Then she was out of sight, disappearing down a bend. He sat there staring for a few moments, then returned his attention to the bench. Slowly, he picked off another splinter.

without
having to say,
“this is how”
,you said
splinters
against
the lid of my eye
,so I can say,
“this is how
dreams die.”
when you said,
“never”
,I felt remorse
for the eye
I had
given you
to see
the world
when I had kept the other
for me to see
you with.
I twist
my neck
past the bone
to watch you
leave
as my mouth swallows
your last kiss
as, “the final kiss.”
my cigarette burns
the empty socket
of where you had taken
my eye
so as to not see
you again.
even if you stood
still
how absurd for you
,in my dreams,
to be crying.

you leave
and I rake over each pore
you had (touched).
so much of you(r face)
in me
and yet your body is only a thing
that enabled you(r lips)
to lie.
I miss the feel
of you(r sweat) against my throat
but my lips remind me
the taste of all that you (n)ever were.
to dig my fingers
into the hollow of you(r jaw)
to kiss you
and rip your teeth out
,to have your smile with me always,
would hurt me more
to have
what only you had.
I want to tear
with my teeth
your breath (away)
that is still
in my eyes.
this is the pain
,the tension,
of you no longer
being “you..”
if I could take apart
every thing of you
separate them
one by one
to regard each piece
,hand to mouth,
it would be easier
to sleep
without you(r laughter).

“If you stand still long enough, it starts to get warm.” He then pointed to the cliffs, the grass soaked edges of the riverbed hanging over the bone colored rocks. “When the river reaches the bank, in the spring, it’s almost like a sauna.” He then squatted, folding up like a lawn chair, bare knuckle colored skin at all angles. Slowly his hands sunk beneath the clear surface and he cupped them together. “I love it here,” he whispered, “you can see the little fish hiding between seasons.” My cousin laughed like a child, curly dark haired Adonis squatting in the current. The next time I saw him he was only angles and sweat, dark sleepless circles, shivering in the heat of summer. He asked me if I remember that day in the river past the hollowed out corn stalks, while I cooled the tracks in his arms with an old moistened t-shirt.
“I love the feel of wet sand,” she said and flipped the blanket that covered us. The lightening lit up the sea like an electrified filament and she danced on the beach between heavy drops of rain. When I called her back to me, full of fear and thunder, she ran towards the wooden grey lifeguard stand, kicking up clumps. Catching her at its base, she breathed heavily and couldn’t take her eyes off the ocean. She kissed me like violence and grabbed hold of my arms, withered as they were. “My father died out there on a night like this.” She said, listening for lightening. “The day I was born was a storm and he died just minutes after.” Later, we made our way back towards the car and pushed our bodies into each other, into the steering wheel, into the seats, into all the things that make cars all wrong for fucking. The only time I ever saw her face again it wasn’t her face anymore in the hospital. It was wrapped and meaty and swollen and bruised. She was doing eighty five, racing against some boy I imagined she thought he looked just like her father, just like me. The police tried to pull her over, losing the boy and she had lost the wheel, slamming the rail until the car slid off onto the shoulder and without stopping hit the first trees of the beach.
From the minute I stepped off the board I knew it was going wrong. My body flattened out instead of turning and the pool seemed suspended below and awfully angry. I could see each mouth open in wonder at the edges, I could hear silence. I landed flat on my stomach from fifty feet up and it’s a wonder that I could move at all afterwards. I stayed underwater and swam from shame until I reached the shorter end, I think some people were actually applauding. My friends met me at the other end, and my best friend’s sister, who I dreamt about off and on, did not reach for me. She laughed and pointed even though I couldn’t breathe and her brother threatened her. She was older and thinner and had dark hair that streaked her head and back, slick. After a while he started laughing and I did too, choking on the water left in my lungs and our other friends couldn’t hold their stomach’s. Later that night, touching the redness of my chest and stomach, I reached between my legs, felt the beginning points of pubic hair, thinking of her laughter.
The boat jumped across the water and the sun was too high, we were out too late. My uncle had madness about him, such anger and rage that I didn’t want to tell him what the tuna sandwich and beer and boat were doing to my stomach. I was too young and as he cursed each wave I held onto the side railings while my cousin-in-law looked for the bottle opener, my head was just above the propeller blades, drowning on board. My uncle yelled “Goddamn it! Goddamn that woman!” and veered the boat at too steep of an angle. I could hear the motor roar and the clattering of beer bottles against my legs and the loud thunk like hitting a buck on the highway of the buoy across the bow and I remember thinking not ever again, no not ever. The boat flipped and the sky was this clear blue and the sun this impossible pinpoint and the meat of my uncle’s jaw and the boat going and I wasn’t moving at all, just skipping above the water and somewhere I could see someone’s arm holding a brown bottle like it was the first thing in the world to hold on to.

We move and stop. We regard our surroundings: an olive branch, a piece of chalk, a bone, a watch, and a pot. We shit in the pot, examine the watch by bringing it to our ears, toss it aside, and stare at the chalk. How odd, how odd for such a thing still. We gnaw the bone, wipe our asses with the olive branch. We look at the watch again. We leave.
We breathe and nothing comes of it, or came, so we go. Arriving and leaving with each step, every step; coming briefly, to go to another rest. We stop for short intervals the same way our feet do, but also piss and swallow, which they do not do. We cannot do all three, or even two of the three, at once. Impossible, or too trivial to do so, or stop. A perpetual state of always and never. We are in between, like breaths, in the middle of something that moves, in and out, never being what we were when we first came upon anything or after we left it.
We are tired but it all seems reassuring, or redundant. What ‘it’ is, we do not know, but it is more than just an expression. “it” is something, a number perhaps or a set of numbers or lengths or feet, but not our feet, for our feet are all the same and move. Numbers do not move, they simply note our movement: figures and planes are our permanent abstractions; without them we would have nothing to judge or have with, not even our movement. Yes, comforting to note how far we have travelled without comfort. We are not dragging ourselves in place at least; arching our legs and angling our ankles for nothing. Figures and planes and some measure of distance: receding, enlarging, level, shifting of perspectives. We are forever leaving somewhere and arriving anywhere but never here for too long.
It starts to rain, raining. We stop. There are objects around us, but we shut our eyes. It does not take much. It is raining and the drops beat on our backs. We do not move for the time it takes for the storm to pass: we are in our minds and somewhere other than here, as always, but in our minds and somewhere else, more than here can offer. At one time it might have been imagination, but that no longer has any meaning. It has stopped raining. The air wraps around and slithers when wet. When it rains and we do not seek shelter. Rain is shelter; it is of our shape on us, our thirst, it cleanses. Rain is water left. We move to only have it rain on us.
When we walk, we walk almost touching our toes: our shoulders are level and slightly forward of the ribs, with the bones of our spine jutting like stubby fins from the centerline of our curved backs. Very reptilian. But we have stopped and we straighten our backs to be as boards: very erect, smooth and flat. It is not easy. It is not raining. It pleases us oddly, and we do not know why ‘oddly’, to hear our joints popping; miniature air explosions from beneath and within the bone. This way we know we still have backs unbroken; little else is.
We regard our surroundings: a few feathers, a leather bound book, a number of nail, or toenail, it is not certain, clippings, and a painting. This is of interest: we look at the painting to judge its appropriateness. In various, and undoubtedly, specific areas of the canvas surface, there is color, but all appears grey and meaningless. We are colorblind and can only comprehend shades and shapes. For instance: the book. It has a cover made of dead skin, its interior consists of thinly sliced torsos, and for the purpose of exposition of things not immediately apparent upon the surface, but that is lodged in our minds, melted hair binds the whole thing to itself. Other than that, nothing. Again we approach the painting. For lack of sight we run our fingers over the surface to discern other than what we, or the artist for that matter, intended to see, or saw. We chew on finger or toenails, as we do this, and run the scraps of feathers through our scalps. Recreation, or critique, if we had degrees, but even the temperature escapes us. So we stare, to recap, at a painting, one hand running back and forth on it, our jaws working like cows, hard to swallow without spit-we abandoned that, much too much baggage-with bits of feathers in the wire of our scalps, silent except for the wet sounds of what sinews and muscles remain.
For everything is barren; not dead, barren. Even the painting: all the strokes are of something not mixed well, gritty, a quick attempt, and merely, at that. We drop our fingertips and they rest at our thighs, breathing deep for a scant few seconds. Then we arch ourselves, almost doubled over, but not in pain, and move on. Nothing has been of use to us here.
We move and while we move, on average a very rare event overall, we rut, to keep us, as us, for we are alone enough, however also the numbers dwindle, and we cannot continue if we do not fuck at some points. This is done with much precision; the act dry and without lust, complete by the time of contact. Make no assumption: it is not enjoyable, but it must be done. Necessary. We fuck as we shit: a consumption of time to be done and over with, for sustenance, or survival. Sometimes it is successful, we become bloated and drip and break water. That is of interest: water breaking, heralding arrival, after much constipation.
We arrive, have arrived, and grow, have grown and grow old, die, and leave. This is how it was and is. We do not will, we observe, everything is foreign and yet, all-too-familiar, our senses dulled by the extremities, including our limbs. Silent but for our grunts and what little is left around us. Peculiar only to believe otherwise: that we are neither product nor waste, that we leave footprints along with prodigies and scraps uneaten, that everything had been other than where we are now, in the present state. Impossible. We can no longer express, nothing to do with the chords, but with the orchestra in general, without even marked sheets, the specifics are too dull for words. In essence, at the heart of it, the only constant, after all, only this, and the end, remaining: we move and stop ..we regard our surroundings ..there is nothing of use to us here.

Everything else is props. Sunlight is only good for walks through parks and smiles or for sunrises filtering through bedroom windows and for sunsets on warm sand beaches with murmuring waves. Moonlight is necessary for love scenes and sweat and skinny dipping. Storms are the most dramatic of props, with the juxtaposition of silence and flashes of light and explosion of sound. Countries, seasons, the color of walls, the position of cups, the show on T.V., at a certain moment, all of it, are props: The grain of a piece of wood, the lines of a fingerprint, the material of clothing on a body, the color of the hair on the face of the story. The use of props makes the story more real, more true, by rearranging them, placing them at an appropriate time, an exact place, by staging meaningless things to add meaning. All in all, they’re just props that cannot be hung if there is no nail, no story, on the wall for us to see.
Everything else is props.
He sits and we see him.
We see a stage and it is empty, except for the chair he is sitting on and the chair right alongside him, so close that his arm is touching her arm.
We don’t know who she is, and at this point, don’t care but even that isn’t important. What’s important is that their skin barely touches, just as their lives barely touch, just at the edges, the limbs.
She gets up, walks behind the chairs and he follows her with his eyes. She stops, looks at the wall, then touches the nail “What’s this?”
Leaning over the back of the chair, he replies, “The Story.”
“What’s the story about?”
“I don’t know,” he frowns, turns and faces us. “I think it’s supposed to be about us.”
She goes behind the chairs and leans her elbows on him. “Are we lovers?”
He smiles, “No, not yet anyway, maybe.”
“Maybe?” she stands, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure, I think we want to be, but the story isn’t about that.”
“Is this real?” she sits again next to him.
“Depends,” He replies, crossing his arms across his chest.
“On?”
“Do you mean if this is Real, the story or real, like, if this is really happening?”
She thinks about this, almost pouting.
“Both,” she says.
“Yes,” he says.
“Both…,” she ponders this and looks at him, looking at us and still we don’t know what they look like.
“What do you see?”, she asks, looking past the stage.
He leans back, stretching his legs. “Well… it changes.”
“I see what you mean,” she says, squinting through us, at us, leaning a bit forward.
“You do?”, he’s surprised, not because she does see, but because he is asking her instead of her asking him.
“Yeah…”, she turns to him, curling her legs beneath her. “At first, there was the narrator, but behind that, you can almost see the author, when the story was being written, but they’re not the same person.”
“Wo, wait a minute.”
“-ssh, you should know this,” she turns his face towards her with her hands, “but after the story was written, all you can see is the author, who now is rereading this-”
“Oh…” he says, sitting up, looking at us again, “you can even see the reader, when the reader is reading this and…”, he waits, staring a moment, then adds, “are we just words on paper?”
She shrugs, “does it matter?”
He looks at her again, “no, I don’t think so.”
They look at one another and we wonder why they know more about the story than we do. Are we reading this at some desk underneath the neon lamps of a classroom or are we in an audience, watching a play with the barest of props or is this what the story is about, the wondering.
“When I asked what do you see,” she looks downward, “this is going to sound stupid… I didn’t mean out there,” pointing past the stage, “I meant me.”
“What you look like?”
She nods her head.
“Well, there’s this yellow-green boil on your nose and it’s blood red at the edges-”
“Shit!”, she covers her nose and tries to turn away.
He stops her, facing her, getting off his chair and kneeling in front of her. “Relax, I’m kidding… ?trying to brush her hands away from her face.
“No you’re not”, resisting him.
“I am”, he pulls her hands away gently, then studies her. “There’s nothing wrong with your nose and it isn’t too long or piggish and you don’t have big nostrils.” He pauses, studying her a bit more, finding the words, “you have big brown eyes-”
“Do I look like a bug?”
“No!” he laughs.
“I won’t need eye make-up?”, she asks, “honestly.”
“No, but I think you’ll wear eyeliner just to piss me off.”
“I’ll be wearing it because I don’t want to look like a bug.”
“You don’t need any make up…”, he looks around “…I wish there was a mirror here…” then gives up, takes her face into his hands, “look, you have this really long silky hair and this smooth white skin…”
“I’m pale aren’t I? Casper the friendly ghost-”
“Will you listen?” He smiles, “and you have these beautiful,” he touches very softly, “lips, full and…
“Thank God”, she sighs, “I hate chicken lips-”
“If the Titanic had your lips, they wouldn’t have worried about life boats.”
She laughs and messes his hair “jerk…” she says affectionately then she asks, “am I tall or short?”
“Daddy Longlegs”, he replies.
“I’m an Amazon.”
“You’re beautiful”, he says and she frowns. “What?” he asked.
She looks away, “it’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Does it make less real?”
“When you’ve heard it too often it means nothing.”
“Okay, I’ll say it only when a reader reads that line in the story.”
“That might be often.” she pointed out.
“But only I’ll be saying it, me”, he takes her hands, “will it still mean nothing?”
“If you’re not who you seem to be.”
“Then, well,” he pauses, looks downward, rising, still holding her hands “who am I?”
“I don’t know”, she stands also and they are facing one another and she squints, “you’re a bit of the author, you like to write.” She backs away, letting go of his hands, crosses her arms when she reaches stage left and squints some more, tilting her head. “Your father was an alcoholic and he used to beat you and your mother.”
He takes steps towards her, angrily, “is he still doing that?”
“No,” she shakes her head, “the bastard— he left when you were four.”
“Relax,” he holds her at a distance, “it’s behind me, happened years ago, right? How old am I?”
“You’re going to be twenty one.”
“See happened seventeen years ago, don’t be upset..-”
“It’s shaped you,” she says dropping her arms. “You drink, but you’re afraid you’ll drink too much and you hide it behind being obnoxious. You’re scared of your own temper and you want so desperately to be a good father-”
“Wo, I have a son?” his eyes light up.
“No”, she says and touches his chin, “but you want one, you cry about it, you think you’ll never be loved…”
“Will I?” he asks.
“Will I?” she asks and walks back to the chairs and sits. He joins her and they stare at us. He doesn’t have an answer to her question or he is thinking of something to say. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for an answer from us. Are we part of the story? Are we real?
“Yes and no”, he replies.
“What?”
“The narrator asked if the reader was part of Real, if the reader is real,” he turns to her, “but yes and no to you too.”
“What do you mean?”, she asks.
Then he says, putting it kindly, “you had or have been loved, but it’s not working out, it’s been through the ringer too many times,” he pauses, pushes her hair behind her ear, “I can’t make any promises.”
“Neither can I,” she takes his hand, “we tried this once before, remember?”
He shakes his head, “don’t remind me, I got too carried away…”
“And I…”, she looks down at their interlocking fingers, “I…ran away…”
“Are we ready this time?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe not”, he smiles, plays with her hair, “let’s just let the story happen…”
“But the story is ending here, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, the narrator is going to end it but we can just go on with this”, he says.
“Will this be in writing?”, she asks, touching his neck.
“The end?”
“No the ‘us’?”
“Does it matter?”
She smiles and tilts her head, “Is this real?”
And the lights go out.
Do we want to read the story? What would it look like, sound like, where would the props be, how? Who would they be ? He, she or you? Then we realize, filing out, questioning into the open air, that we never wondered why a curtain never fell.

A: What are you doing?
B: Writing a story.
A: What’s it about?
B: Writing myself out of a story.
A: How do you do that?
B: That’s what I want to find out.
A: Are you in a story now?
B: I don’t know. Sometimes.
A: How can you be in the story when you are writing it?
B: What if I was writing about myself?
A: Okay, then you would writing about yourself and not the story.
B: Couldn’t the story then be about me writing about myself as a story?
A: What do you mean?
B: I mean that the story would have to be about me writing about myself writing my way out of a story.
A: Meaning that the story that you were trying to write yourself out of would be the writing of yourself as writing?
B: Or of me writing a story about myself writing a way out of the story, which is about myself writing about myself.
A: But at no point could you be writing the story then, unless you weren’t you. That would be a story.
B: Yes. That’s right. You’re absolutely right.
A: Then who are you?
B: A story trying to write itself.