Circle in the Sand

Anywhere you go
We are bound together
I begin where you end
Some things are forever
     --Belinda Carlisle, Circle in the Sand

The stars hung above the churning surf. Motionless. Not like the sheets of foam that fanned across sand, then pulled back out to sea.

Her hair fluttered in the longshore breeze. Shells jabbed at the soles of her feet. Her eyes followed the strand curving in the distance.

A track of footprints traced the shoreline.

Her mind wove through all of the reasons she should follow them.

And all the reasons she should not.

Safe and Sound

I remember tears streaming down your face
When I said, I'll never let you go
When all those shadows almost killed your light
I remember you said don't leave me alone
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight
Just close your eyes
The sun is going down
You'll be alright
No one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I will be safe and sound
     --Taylor Swift, Safe and Sound

The old house stands.

Early spring drips with only the whisper of a sound.

Inside, light filters through windows. It falls with dust on the furniture and empty chairs.

No footfalls creak on the stairs. No rasping pages of a book turn in hands. No voice spits anger or confesses a heart laid bare.

The clock ticks, sleepy yet not asleep, and light filters because none of the trees have unfurled the shade of leaves.

Knives lay in the drawers. Washed.

Knives will clatter if you open the drawers.

The Promise

I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be
but if I had to walk the world I'd make you fall for me
I promise you, I promise you, I will
     --When in Rome, The Promise

The high school chemistry teacher droned.

The class fidgeted. Some even talked quietly in the back. The teacher wasn't aware. He lectured in a strange little bubble with his eyes half-closed. Like meditation.

A guy in the second row glanced at the girl next to him and rolled his eyes.

She smiled.

The guy didn't have to listen. He already knew the material. Once, he thumbed through the book just to make sure he would get to learn something new before the end.

"I'm going to kill myself," someone whispered nearby.

"If you do, please take him with you," another said.

The guy turned again, and the girl looked down at her desk.

His normally ordered brain spun. Not enough traction. And his throat felt tight.

"Hey, I could--" he whispered, but stopped.

She looked up.

"I could, um, help you with this stuff. If you want. This dude is the worst."

"No, I've got it," she said. "He's just putting me to sleep."

His brain still spun, but now his throat was tighter.

He told himself to keep his mouth shut. That was the smartest thing.

She smiled at him again.

He smiled back.

Paradise

In the night, the stormy night, away [he'd] fly.
     --Coldplay, Paradise

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls.

Black shapes, grimacing faces, and the evil eye. Like open windows with no curtains, no shutters. No one even bothered to put glass in the panes.

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls. He didn't look up, because he could feel them scurrying then stopping to stare. It was so much better when they ignored him.

He concentrated on the work in his hands and the cut papers scattered on the floor. His fingers worked. It was the best he could hope to do. To fashion what he never otherwise would have.

The holes in the wall were too small for the things to step through. But much too small to hide him (or for him to step out). Once in a while they laughed or spat, but he never stopped or looked up. They moved all hours of the day and night. And that is just how it was.

Shock the Monkey

Something knocked me out' the trees
Now I'm on my knees
     --Peter Gabriel, Shock the Monkey

The city darted around him.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

People crisscrossed, faces repeating. A few eyes caught his. Most did not.

The city darted.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

Motion and motion and motion.

Someone bumped his shoulder. He had tried to get out of the way. The other did not.

A horn blared. It hurt his ears.

A bus cut into traffic.

The light at a gridlocked intersection changed to green.

His phone rang. He checked the number. He ran his hand hard through his hair.

The phone still rang.

He threw it, spinning upwards and shattering on the concrete of a parking garage.

A few eyes caught his.

Most did not.

Taxis raced and legs scissored. He struggled to breathe. People passed with repeating faces.

Motion and motion and motion.

And he would only add to it if he ran.

You and I

It's been a long time since you came around
Been a long time but I'm back in town
This time, I'm not leaving without you
     --Lady Gaga, You and I

He grabbed the coffee from the counter and wove back through the half-sleeping, half-inpatient line.

Not many people actually sat in the coffee shop that time of day. So close to nine. The chatterers came much earlier and already filtered out. That's probably why he was drawn to glance up from his IPhone as he approached the table where a woman was sitting. Or maybe there was some weird kind of vibe that caught his attention. Or maybe it was the sense of something familiar in his peripheral vision. But, he did look up. And it shocked him.

"Holy crap," he said.

Probably not the best thing to say to a former lover, in retrospect.

But she didn't flinch. Or act insulted. Small things like that didn't move her. They never did. She just sat as if the two of them hadn't gone their separate ways three years earlier. As if she didn't live more than half a country away these days and had no business at all being back in the city.

"Hello to you too," she said.

He scrambled. Blinked. Tried to string together some words. They just fell apart before they reached his mouth.

"What am I doing here?" she said for him.

He nodded, more relieved than annoyed that she still read him effortlessly.

"I'm visiting."

"Oh. Visiting." He nodded more. "I see."

The coffee was burning his hand.

"Are you surprised?" she said.

"Um, yes. 'Surprised.' That would cover it pretty exactly. Very well, in fact."

"Not what you were expecting this particular morning," she said.

"No. That's right. Definitely right. You are super, totally right."

"Aren't you going to ask me who I'm visiting?"

"Whom, you mean?"

"Always the comedian. I miss that. Yes, aren't you going to ask me whom I'm visiting?"

"Yes. Tell me. Whom are you--"

"You."

He choked. On nothing in particular.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure. Mmm hmmm." He choked more. "Excuse me," he croaked.

"Take your time."

He put the coffee down on her table. Now his eyes were tearing. Great.

"Maybe you want to drink a sip of your coffee. That might help," she said.

He shook his head. "Too hot," he managed to get out.

After clearing his throat, wiping his eyes, and coughing the rest of the tickles out, he tried to get his voice back on track, "but…isn't it…kind of…usual…."

She was ever patient.

"…to make some arrangements, before, I mean, with the person you're visiting?"

"Arrangements?"

"Like to make sure they are there, and available, and all that?"

"No. Not this time," she said.

"I see."

She looked around the shop. "You still come here for coffee," she said.

"Apparently. Do you want some?"

"No thanks."

She stared at him.

He wasn't good at staring back.

"We're having dinner tonight," she said, finally.

"We are?"

"Yes, I've made reservations."

"Wow. Dinner? Reservations? Okay."

"You'll get over the shock of all this by then. We can have a bottle of wine. That will help."

He inched toward the door. Backwards. Kind of a clumsy, low-speed escape.

"Wow, it's almost nine?" he said. "I'm going to be late for work."

"Probably. I'll pick you up in front of your building at 6:00 p.m."

He reached the threshold. "That's perfect. For dinner, I mean. 6:00 p.m. Great. Got it."

He turned to the door, but stopped.

He stopped, and thought, and breathed once or twice. He moved aside so the other customers could go in and out.

"Are you okay?" she said.

A new emotion has managed to piece itself together in from his initial, scattered wits. "You know," he said, "it's actually pretty incredible to see you. I mean, I just…." But he didn't finish.

For the first time, she didn't look so controlled or confident. Her voice wavered.

"Me too," she said softly. "Me too."

What the Water Gave Me

Lay me down
Let the only sound
Be the overflow
     --Florence and the Machine, What the Water Gave Me

"So. What do we have?"

"You're not going to believe it."

"I'm so tired, I think I'd believe you if you said Darth Vader was dancing with Pee Wee Herman in that house. I hate these calls in the middle of the night."

"Sorry Captain."

"Anyway, don't mind me. What's the situation?"

"The officer was responding to a 911, suspected burglar. The neighbor saw someone prowling in the yard."

"Right."

"But the neighbor described something pretty damn weird."

"Don't they all?"

"The officer didn't find any obvious signs of entry. Windows closed. No doors forced."

"Yep. [Yawn.]"

"So he rang the doorbell."

"Uh huh."

"Nobody came to the door."

"Can we jump ahead to the part where we called in nine patrol cars and half of the entire county here in the middle of the night?"

"The officer was going to go, call an all clear, but he smelled something."

"Shit. Are you telling me we've got one of those three-year-old decayed bodies in there? Or four hundred starving cats eating each other? I don't want to end up on the internet."

"No. But you're close."

"Close how?"

"Shit. He smelled shit."

"Oh. Now I feel better."

"The officer took his light and checked through the windows. Nothing out of the ordinary until he saw something dark and hunched over scurry into a doorway. The door to the basement. The thing moved pretty strange. Kind of on all fours."

"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm about to wish that I was back in bed?"

"So he forced the door. That's when he heard a ruckus in the basement. Some stuff falling. Something breaking. He called for backup before going down."

"So what do we have?"

"It's unbelievable. It's wrecked down there. Stuff is torn up and piled all over. In the back, there's sort of a makeshift cave."

"What?"

"I know. And there's more. It's like someone's been living down there like an animal. There was one pile of rotting food, and in the other corner, a pile of excrement. That was the smell."

"Who's down there?"

"The guy won't come out, but they can see his eyes back in the hole. They've tried to talk to him, but the only thing they get is this really bizarre hissing."

"You're fucking kidding me."

"No. So we checked on the owner. It's a guy. He's even a professional. There are a bunch of messages on the answering machine that must be from his job. They sound worried about him. Like he was stressed out. Then, he must have disappeared. They were looking for him. And when we were playing the messages, he must have heard it from the basement. He threw something big against the door."

"[Scowling.]"

"We also found scratch marks in the mud around the yard. He seems to have been coming out at night. It's garbage pickup tomorrow. He may have been going for that."

"Jesus."

"We were thinking of calling in an extraction team from the state penitentiary. They deal with this kind of shit."

"The guy totally snapped?"

"Yeah, looks that way. And you should hear him growling and hissing. It kind of makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck. It doesn't sound human. Do you want to stand at the top of the stairs? You can hear it for yourself."

"No. No, I don't."

"The weirdest part is, when I heard it, it kind of sounded familiar. I think if things got bad enough, I could sound like that."

500 Miles

If you miss the train I'm on
You will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow 100 miles
     --Peter, Paul & Mary, 500 Miles

The daughter set the rest of the box of photos down.

"Mom? Who's this a picture of?"

The grayed woman reached with angular, hardened hands. "Let's see."

"It's just a guy by himself. Under a tree. Here."

The photo met fingertips.

No expression flickered on the woman's face. Her eyes didn't blink. Everything in the room suddenly felt heavy to the daughter. Nailed into place.

"Who is he?"

"Someone I used to know," the woman said.

"There's something different about him. I can't quite see his eyes in the shadows. Where was this taken?"

"I don't really remember. By a house, I think."

"What was his name?"

The woman stared at the photo.

"Do you remember it?"

"Yes."

"He was a boyfriend, wasn't he!"

"Not exactly."

"Oh my God, this is juicy. Before you met dad? Did he know?"

The woman turned the photo down in her lap. "No, there's no story to tell."

"Mom!"

"Hey, are those pictures of you and your sister back in Minnesota?"

"You're not changing the subject!"

The woman's eyes dropped down to the folded hands in her lap.

Finally, her expression did change. Reflected light sparkled under her eyelashes.

The daughter's excitement evaporated. "Hey, you've got to see these." She grabbed back the box with a little too much eagerness. "Look, do you remember this one? I insisted on wearing my ballerina costume into the pool. You were ready to kill me that day."

The daughter managed to slip the other photo out of her mother's hands.

"I remember," the woman said, sounding far away.

Come Undone

Who do you need?
Who do you love?
When you come undone?
     --Duran Duran, Come Undone

“Hey, are you alright?”

“…”

“Earth to Selene. Come in please.”

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Sure. I guess. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You really haven’t been yourself tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m a little distracted, I guess.”

“A little…?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“If you don’t want to tell your best friend about it, that’s okey. But we girls have to have each other’s backs, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I sorry. I don’t mean to be a drag. I don’t know what’s with me.”

“You need more sleep. That’s one thing.”

“True.”

“And that’s why I’m sending you home to bed right now. I’m serious.”

“I know you’re right.”

“Well chop-chop. March, young lady. We’re done here, obviously.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two traded money to pay the check and walked out of the restaurant. With high heels on the curb, Selene hailed a cab.

“You’re okay from here?”

“Definitely,” Selene said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I expect to see you rested.”

“Doctor’s orders….”

Selene slammed the door, and the cabbie pulled out. She waved back to the sidewalk where her friend had started walking, but the gesture was clipped and brief.

After she gave her address, she stared out at the passing city streets.

She knew her face had fallen. The meager façade was gone.

The cellphone turned in her fingers.

Six blocks later, she called him.

Good Life

Day turns to night
Night turns to whatever we want
We're young enough to say
This has gotta be the good life
This has gotta be the good life
This could really be a good life
     --One Republic, Good Life

He made coffee that filled the apartment with the smell of burn and sweet.

He sat. Blue sky glowed above the city outside his windows. Morning light washed the streets far below.

Work in forty-five minutes.

No use rushing. But no use sticking around in his small, annoying apartment either. He sipped and concentrated on enjoying the taste.

He thought about breakfast, but didn’t stand up from his chair in the end. All the sunshine penetrated only halfway. Night still lingered somewhere under his clothes. He would go back to bed, probably, if given the choice. Nothing would really propel him into the outside world.

A knock at the door startled him.

Strange. No one bothered him.

He tip-toed over to peep through and see if he should pretend not to be home.

It was the girl he had been thinking about more lately. The one who he started small talk with weeks ago and now had almost regular conversations with him.

He opened the door.

“Hi,” she said. She looked even more nervous than he felt.

“Hey,” he managed.

“I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”

“Are you, I mean, is everything okay?” he said.

“Oh yes. Everything is fine. Totally fine.”

“I just, I mean, I wasn’t--”

“I can go, if you’re busy.”

“No!” he said. “Please.”

As she stepped inside, he wanted to ask her why on Earth she came. Did he forget something? Drop his wallet or do something else equally stupid?

She seemed to sense the question. “I was kind of having breakfast,” she said, “and a thought suddenly hit me really strong. I just got up, caught a cab, and well, knocked on your door.”

He must have looked even more confused.

Her face changed. “I realized that I would much rather have breakfast with you,” she said.

Just Can't Get Enough

Boy I think about it every night and day
I'm addicted, want to jump inside your love
I wouldn't want to have it any other way
I'm addicted, and I just get enough
     --Black Eyed Peas, Just Can't Get Enough

The clutch.

Her body against him.

Arms grasping.

Squeezing.

The sensation carved down to the deepest layers in his brain.

As he laid there mixed in the sheets, the memory oppressed him. He got so close. Always so close. But just when it was going to be his forever, it slipped away. She drew back. Releasing. Panting.

He watched her now in the other room. Her nakedness moving. Glowing.

Already, it was rising in him again. He wanted to kneel, beg, possess, bewitch, devour.

She approached, eyes boring into him. The same tension hummed in her muscles as she climbed over.

Hair tickled down like pattering rain before a downpour.

Lightning flashed between them. Then the storm raged again.

Alive

She walks slowly across the young man's room
She said I'm ready for you
Why can't I remember anything to this very day?
Except the look, the look
You know where
Now I can't see, I just stare
     --Pearl Jam, Alive

He went back in time.

Surprising, really.

If he had befriended a genie, played with some wishes, or if he took better notes during Star Trek, it might make at least a bit of sense. But no. Truth is, he didn’t know how he got there. Or exactly when. Maybe he was napping. Dreaming. But that tight blue carpet under his feet sure didn’t feel like a dream.

And there he was. His young self. Sitting on the bed across the room.

Was he reading? Pondering? Sulking?

Clearly, the boy didn’t feel eyes on him from across the room. That lamp didn’t carve away very many shadows.

But there the fuck he was.

Jesus.

Here was the proverbial moment. The thing people wished for. Here on a polished platter. That moment when he could take himself aside and speak the GREAT WISDOM. The LESSONS OF LIFE. He could tell himself what not to do, what mistakes to avoid, and what people he'd be better off not knowing. He could FIX THINGS.

But he didn’t move towards the boy. His heart just pounded. Fast.

Because there was no wisdom. There was nothing to say. What the fuck had he really learned anyway?

Boy, it's actually worse than you realize. Sorry. Have a nice day.

Face it. He couldn’t be a father to himself. Or a mentor. Or a friend.

He would just go back. Leave the kid to his own thoughts. Let him muck it up. But that damned genie wasn’t showing up. Or that Star Trek episode.

If he did have a wish or two, maybe he could conjure up his elderly self (assuming he lived that long). Maybe THAT dude would finally have something inspiring to say.

Then again, that was a crock. That boy was stuck there.

He should just tell him to get those skills sharpened up faster. Get cracking.

There was a lot of work to do, and he could use the help.

Songbird

For you, there’ll be no more crying
For you, the sun will be shining
Because I feel that when I’m with you
It’s alright, I know it’s right
And the songbirds keep singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before

     --Haley Westenra, Songbird, (orig. Fleetwood Mac)

When he walked, people didn’t see the shadows.

They didn’t see the years, the volumes of thought, the observations, or the conundrums. They didn’t see the burns or disappointments or four tidy walls. Who knows what they saw.

But he powered his legs with the years, volumes, observations, conundrums, burns, disappointments, and four tidy walls.

* * *

She liked when he was around and liked it less when he wasn’t. Of course, she also liked to keep her emotions nicely at heel.

Once, she caught herself not listening when he was talking to her. She was imagining…something. And she quickly tucked that scary something back inside the cabinetry inside her head.

* * *

She liked the way he walked, regardless of what the others saw.

He was schooled in the construction of cabinetry.

That night, maybe they both sensed the barriers would be detonated.

Here Comes the Rain Again

I want to walk in the open wind
I want to talk like lovers do
Want to dive into your ocean
Is it raining with you?
     --Eurythmics, Here Comes the Rain Again

He walked the skeletal forest and dodged mud puddles on the trail.

The ground laid soft, punished by the long winter. Twilight blue inked the sky, but light still blushed along the horizon.

Robins flashed nervous wings in the trees. The rest of the flock hurried through the wet leaves.

He broke into open fields and checked his watch. Too late now. Even if he turned back, he wouldn’t beat the drippy spring darkness.

Along the edge of the old cemetery, he stopped. These stones were forgotten, far from the road. He stood, not bothering to count the seconds. The day was slipping away.

He didn’t hear, because the ground was soft.

He didn't hear until her words pushed aside the silence.

“So. You still come here too?” she said.

He closed his eyes a moment before turning around.

White Rabbit

Remember what the Dormouse said
Feed your head
Feed your head
      --Jefferson Airplane, White Rabbitt

She was flesh and incense.

He was a lava lamp with the lights turned low.

She laughed at her wine.

He danced with the bottle. Slowly.

The hours clicked like knitting needles, and the music kept playing with what sounded like the same song.

He floated on incense and drowned in flesh.

She molded and caressed lava with her hands.

Blue Spanish Sky

It was a sad, slow Spanish song
I knew the words, but I sang them wrong
The one I love has left and gone without me
     --Chris Isaak, Blue Spanish Sky

Even as he kissed her neck, he knew it would be one of the last.

The midday hotel simmered in silence, waiting for the heat of the afternoon. In the room, the air was spiced, and the air curtained to exotic red.

So strange how in this moment, all of her dark elixirs were poured for him, but in a few minutes, and twelve steps out into the Mediterranean street, she would already be thousands of miles away.

The midday hotel simmered the first of the afternoon heat.

And he did not pull the red curtain aside to watch her go.

Rid of Me

You're not rid of me
No, you're not rid me
I'll make you lick my injuries
     --P.J. Harvey, Rid of Me

He drank alone at the bar.

The crowd bumped him. Oozed and churned. An elbow pushed into ear, then apologized.

Words scrolled across the television screen above the bottles of alcohol. It was an on-going transcript for a baseball game. Reading the commentary was even more ludicrous than listening to it.

He trailed his fingers on the sweat of his dwindling drink.

His mind wandered to the memory of her ankle. And the smoothness of her inner thigh. And even deeper where her breath trembled with a mix of fire and overload.

An elbow pushed into his ear.

And didn’t apologize.

When It's Love

You look at every face in a crowd
Some shine and some keep you guessing
Waiting for someone to come into focus
Teach you your final love lesson
     --Van Halen, When It's Love

(Generation X in the 80’s)

He drove by her house.

A quiet, residential street. A non-descript collection of white siding and windows. Rose bushes. A closed front door.

As the car went on, he turned to look over his shoulder in order to catch every angle, every permutation of the pass.

Summer vacation had started last week, and he wouldn’t see her for three months. If he only talked to her, he wouldn’t be on this street, in this neighborhood, and craning his neck like a fool as the sun deepened to orange.

But he didn’t talk to her. Like a loser.

Despite the way she looked at him.

Once.

Okay, it was clearly twice. Other times too, but not so clearly.

So he turned at the stoplight and vowed he wouldn’t circle around for another go.

But September was very far away.

And she might not look at him like that ever again.

Night

It’s getting late
It’s getting dark
In the end of the night
I can feel your warmth
Come up close
Close to me
'Cause in the end of the night
I can feel you breathe
     --Zola Jesus, Night

His hands peeled the foil from the wine bottle and brushed dust from the old label.

His wrists turned and turned.

Digging metal into cork.

His fingers trembled just a touch when they set the corkscrew back on the counter.

He stopped, leaning the counter, eyes closed for a moment. He drew a breath. Just a hint of perfume threaded into the kitchen from the other room.

He wiped his hands on his pants. Then remembered the towel. Two special glasses came down from their high place in the cabinet.

The rich wine swirled. Such a deep aroma. It made him think of what it was like to look into her eyes. How can you be so uneasy around a person and drawn to them at the same time?

The wine, and he, moved for the door.

His feet were the stronger part. Not indulging even a stride of nerves or hesitation.


COMMENTS LINK

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky,
But they can't, and that is why
They know not if it's dark outside or light
     --Elton John, Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

He sat in the law library. A young law clerk. Alone.

Lights fought the night pouring in the skyscraper windows, but they did not back turn the tide.

Books stacked four deep were piled at his hands. One case referenced another, which referenced another, which referenced another. The layers sank too deeply for his tired brain to handle.

He stomach squeezed to think about going back to the senior partner again. One berating in front of the smirking client was enough. Contrary to popular belief, you could NOT find a case for any proposition. Let him dig through the horrid cases.

Sometimes shit just doesn't exist. Sometimes you can't get there from here.

Or maybe he shouldn't be in law school after all.

He stood by the window high over the unfamiliar streets. Skipped dinner gnawed at him. The empty hotel room would be waiting, and more impossible tasks after four hours of sleep. He was probably too tired to cry, even if he were so disposed. But another glance at the pile of books pushed him close.

Marveling at the thousands of lights, he switched the room to dark.

So beautiful to be standing on the 65th floor. Almost worth it.

Almost.

When his head crinkled into the hotel pillow, the sparkles stayed with him for what was left of the night.