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(no subject)

I'm a two-hearted river.

One mouth to the ocean.

The ocean cowers to the moon

and nothing else

Curling restless shapes

for sympathy

I'm just as tortured as you

a show for the dwellers

of the shore and sky

Sea spray settles on their lips and the tiny hairs on their cheekbones

and the thirst for saltwater rouses

them to the water

I'm dominant and I will inhale you.

I'm a two-hearted river

once mouth to the lake

The lake lets the bass float easy,

lapping against the silt

only when the wind upsets its lull

a heron lands and sits for an hour

or more.

the gracious calm coaxes gratitude,

long visits and the knowing of a thousand years.
I scream to the sky unspeakable things
And quench my throat with saltwater.

The Wedding

The theme is Marie Antoinette meets Courtney Love.

Yeah, seriously.

The centerpieces will be dressed with
florals, pears, pearls and Parliaments

FestoOOoooned.
And maybe airplane liquor bottles, we'll see how many I have left.

It’s like I don’t want the same shade of _____ for every detail.

Please no pale anything except my underwear

Should I choose to wear any

And for god’s sake, no navy blue

no navy blue

I need bright, borderline-obnoxious color

Vermillion

Poppy

Turquoise

Fuschia

Lemon

Bile

Let anyone know, who is not aware,

That I am unique and I don’t fuck around.

I fell in love with a frat boy

He has the cutest gap in his front teeth and he perpetually smells amazing. He saved a woman’s life with his bone marrow.

I’d make a baby

with

them

bones.

He has so many friends (drinking buddies), it outnumbers my Italian family

Kara says strictly,

“No shots.”

That might not go over well.

My grandpa told me his mother had

!!!3 sets of twins!!!
That's a lot of drinking buddies...

We’re not sure what happened to all of them
My twin sister is the Maid of Honor
She's been in a different city every month this year.
I hope she remembered to write a speech.

We’ll cut rugs,

but no cakes.

And please

leave all garters

securely fastened

to the leg they came with.
Oh, and no gods.

We will play “Thong Song” at least once.

My dad’s sisters hate that my mom is wearing a suit.

And she loves that.

My dad is not wearing a tux

They hate that, too.

They’re going to ask about the cake.

There isn’t one.

Like the love,

no convention.

We met on Tinder,

condoms and glitter.

And I am going to throw it everywhere.

(no subject)

I wish I had known you

But you died last week
It sends an ache that shakes the root

We might have been at the same party in Santa Fe

Adobe-covered coops and wide tiled spaces

That housed wild-hearted waifs

And the ones who stayed

They all create art

From insincere to staggering

And they have all touched each other

Somewhere

Dust-coated beneficiaries and spangers who never had trust

Turquoise fingers pointing

To the forest fire

That lilts upon

The landscape

Behind The Cross of the Martyrs

Weed and sage smoke dance with the dead trees

But you seemed to distinguish yourself

Recreating your brain

And the places it took you

And made them real, touchable, walkable

You spared us the terrifying parts

You handed us beauty and we would have held pain, too

Voices, faces, bad thoughts, whatever you kept to yourself

Your mind’s colors decantered in double rainbows
And the dark places painted over

Pet Sounds, visions, dreams awake

You were hurting.

Many times broken

And lined with metal
Precious.

Gilded until you were made of gold

And said farewell.

The Lot

I woke up to the sound of the demolition.
It was the house at the end of the street.

One house separates us, where the chihuahua lady lived; she had ten of them.

Someone painted the house black.

My wrists could feel the scraping of the backhoe against the dirt,

cracking glass and century-worn planks

and how we walked them.

My aunt lived in there in the 90s.

You should have seen the dining room, so chic.

My grandfather and grandmother moved in when she married the inventor.

Who died of cancer, slowly, as did everyone on the project.

Trips to the evangelists did little to help him, but I think my aunt got some numbers.

My grandma got better and got worse,

then my grandpa lived alone.

Until my dad moved in when my mom found out about his girlfriend.

I think I've heard these sounds somewhere before.

It makes me feel like I'm in a war-torn place.

Well, I am.

This place is not the same.

I'm afraid to look.

It might break me to see

the walls that hid my father from my mother, scraps of stairs we slid down as kids, the walls of the kitchen

where my grandpa made dinner after school for me and my friends.

If anyone called at dinner, he'd pick up the phone, shout "we're eatin'!" and hang up.

My dad built the bathroom downstairs.

I remember him placing the drywall carefully....and now it's like this.

One bored summer day, my cousins and I were throwing balled up Silly String at cars off the front stoop.

Someone slammed on their brakes and got out.

We ran in the house like a riot.

"You fuckers!" my grandpa screamed at us.

I know now that we triggered his war memories, and I miss him again.

I was afraid of him then.

A family moved in after my dad and grandpa got their own places.

I know the children's names because the mother yelled them all the time.

The house broke down around them, they didn't take care.

It's just going to be an empty lot.

Someone said there were rats everywhere.

All I can do is watch.

The contents being pulled up and in, and dropped in a box like trash, and I wonder if my house is next.

(no subject)

How sick am I?

Obsessions, yes

Depression, sure

They nuzzle, stratified

Cenozoic remains

Decades familiar and well-worn

Like desert dirt in the wanderer's denim

Red stains where the hands ran down the thigh

To soothe the mind while the legs rested

I descended

in the psycharcheological dig

of my experience

And was left with not a puddle, but a lake...

a body of pain maybe ocean-broad,

I can't be certain yet.

I thought my parents nailed it

But my therapist confirmed

This was false.

But most parents failed.

they did the best they could with what they had.

In fact, it's nearly impossible for any of us to survive childhood

Without at least a minor trauma

and a major complex

Undiscovered needs passed over,

High expectations, unresolved pain, unspoken emotion, raised voices.

Even in utero

A mother's indecision or anxiety

Could be fetus-felt.

And I realize I've much work to do

Meet my shadow and craft a dance to wake the demons and invite them dinner, maybe more after.

And I'm healing from all the work I got done.

Cut into my back along the vagus nerve.

Is this a butterfly or angel wing?

A halo for a thought prostitute.

I grieve my perfect childhood

and my parents trauma

because they didn't have an easy time.

they did the best they could with what they had.

We have to speak and feel and express.

Instead of silence, distraction and pushing down.

They say "pain travels through families until someone is brave enough to feel it."

I guess I'm brave.

And, as always, I operate

Like a vitamin veil,

One shade under subtle.

Witness the honey

The Craic Was Ninety

“Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting Christian at a party.”

Jade’s eyes and mouth opened wide, “What?!” She pulled her hands up to cradle her cheeks and looked at me adoringly, “I’m so excited for you.” Her mouth curled up to one side and her brows furled, “is that what you’re wearing?”

“Guess…not?”

As she looked through her closet of sparkly, bright and shiny, I traced a felt tip liner wishfully from the outer corner of my eye and exhaled. Picturing his smile, I groaned, “he’s so cute!”

“Ugh, I know. Here try this, ditsy florals look so cute on you. And this necklace. And combat boots!”

I looked pretty good, all Jaded and jacked. “Ok, wish me luck.” Jade kissed my cheek and slapped my ass and sent me on my way.

“I’ll make sure the straightener is off!” she yelled as I walked out of the door. I stuck out my bottom lip and shook my head in approval.

I never liked trying to find a new house. What if I walk into the wrong place and get abducted by a family who never gets visitors and has been waiting for a young naive girl to torture? They probably have giant stew pots and chains. Anyway, I got there a few minutes late hoping Christian would already be there. As I reached the front door, I heard loud music and laughing. Either this was the place or the abduction family is having a banger. I walked in and gingerly shut the door behind me. People were crowded in the kitchen drinking out of plastic coupe glasses and bottles of local beer. I smiled in my midwestern way and scanned the next room. Couches, a few balloons and a record player. No cute boy. A tall blonde noticed my struggle and approached me.

“Hey, I’m Mamie, welcome. This is my place.”

“Oh hi, I’m Marti, I know Christian.”

“Awesome, I think he’s in the dining room. You want a drink sweetie?” She said, leading me back through the kitchen.

“Sure.”

“Mamie filled a coupe with sparkling wine, “you like Prosecco?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, taking the glass and finally spotting Christian at the dining room table. My heart began beating faster and I downed the wine. It wasn’t cold and made my nostrils burn. Mamie topped me off.

“Have fun sweetie.” She blew air kisses at me and sauntered away. Very intriguing.

I headed towards the dining room table with my shaky, full cup of wine. I took a deep breath and he turned his head as I exhaled. A weird sound came out like a laugh and when someone punches you in the gut.

“Hey! You OK?” Christian said, rising to his feet and heading over. He looked beautiful. His hair was all clean and perfect. He had on a Nirvana shirt, like a real old one, not one from Hot Topic. And his jeans were kind of tight. That’s all I gathered until I had to speak.

“Yes, wow, what was that sound? I think I’m just glad to see you.”

He laughed and his eyes scanned my face, “you look so pretty.”

I could feel my guts melting and shimmering, “thank you.”

“I see you’ve found Mamie and her warm champagne. You want something else? Lemme make you something good.”

“Yes! Thank you.”

I caught a whiff of his delicious, clean scent and inhaled as much as I could and he brushed past me. I watched him quarter a lime and squeeze the juice into a highball glass. Some juice ran down his hand and he caught it with his tongue. I gulped more sparkling wine and tried to remain calm. Next he poured a shot of tequila and grapefruit soda in the glass and a huge round ice cube. I could tell he was proud as he set the garnish carefully and wiped his hands with a towel.

“This is a Paloma. I hope you like it.”

I took the drink and licked my lips. It tasted so good as I looked into his eyes, “it’s fucking great.”

He sighed and grinned.

“Would you like to hang out on the back porch?”

“Sure!”

We shoved through the dining room, down the hall to the back door. He opened the door for me and grabbed a beer from the cooler next to the door.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, opening the beer.

We leaned against the railing and the slightest spring rain began to fall.

“It’s kinda romantic out here.” I said in my awkward cartoon voice.

He snickered and put down his beer, “it is.”

I took a nervous sip of my drink and set it down. His eyes were blue and misty and dreamy. I felt heat in my chest and my breathing was slow and fast at the same time. I felt like he was leaning into me and I leaned into him.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes please.”

I smelled soap and rain and beer and then felt his lips against mine. I pulled the shirt at his waist towards me and felt his warm body against mine. His hand wrapped around my waist and crumpled my dress up so I could feel a rush of air against my thighs. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours, but when our lips parted, I was younger than I had been all week. I exhaled and forgot everything that existed. We just stood there, simmering in the sensation and still wrapped up in each other.

“You smell so good.”

He laughed and thanked me by kissing my hand gently.

This moment will be immortalized in our marriage scrapbook.

Levels of Craic (irishcentral.com):

Good craic: A fairly ok night out, fun but nothing too amazing.

Mighty craic: Better than good craic, not quite at the highest level, someone did some crazy stuff maybe.

Savage craic: Almost there, great night all together, everyone on top firm, Guinness flowing, great jokes.

Deadly craic: A step above savage but not quit the Everest moment.

The craic was ninety: The nirvana of craic, everything was amazing, incredible, everyone hooked up, the pints were great. No one quite sure how the word ninety came into it--a famous Christy Moore song “The craic was ninety in the Isle of Man”

My Heart's Opossum

“Rotten device, I'll say it twice. I'm too much, I'm too much comforted here” - Pavement "Father to a Sister of Thought"

I left you three times and always came back. It might be the pizza, or the fact that all the important people in my life live here, enmeshed as we all are. But so comforting.
Youngstown, Ohio is a once-vibrant steel town where my ancestors settled. My father grew up in the industrial Brier Hill neighborhood, bustling with large Italian-American families, and famous for an eponymous pizza style made with red “Sunday” sauce, “sprinkle cheese” and bell peppers. The sauce was sweet and the crust was crunchy. This recipe carried many through the Depression with the help of homegrown produce and backyard pizza ovens. The house my father grew up in was right across from the mills. Soot would cover the back porch and my grandmother took great care to sweep it down often. The house was torn down in the late nineties, but I still like driving past the lot. I remember going there to visit Carmel and Anthony, my grandparents, whose parents came from Italy, one from Bari and the other Sicily. The furniture and heavy traffic areas were always covered in plastic and portraits of Jesus and JFK adorned the walls. I loved my grandmother's teeny tiny fruit magnets. I remember catching pollywogs in the pond behind Mrs. Natale’s house. She pronounced watermelone as if it was the last one to exist and served us big thick slices. She would watch you take a first bite with her mouth agape, watching intently, and she would close her mouth when you ended the bite and smile with wide eyes, “it’s good?”

I wish I could have tasted my great grandmother’s cooking. Fresh dough for pasta and bread, meatballs and sauce and homegrown grapes and figs. A highball glass of red wine made in Uncle Frank’s basement would knock you on your ass. The rich history is handed down in so many stories, some beautiful, some terrifying and some that were never spoken. I was saddened when I read that Brier Hill is listed as the most dangerous neighborhood in the city. 1,049 violent crimes per 100 thousand people.

My mother grew up in the next town over. She describes Main Street as house after house of huge families where everyone knew each other. She had three sisters and two brothers and was the second youngest. Her brother Billy died in a car accident in Yellowstone when he was 19. She was five years younger and I can still feel the sadness she carries for that loss when she talks about him. She says I look like him, we both have green eyes. I loved reading the letters she wrote to her brother when he moved away. She wrote many of his friends as well, “I don’t know why I did that, " she says.

They all lived together in a small three bedroom house with her parents and grandmother. Her mother and father got one downstairs bedroom, her grandmother claimed the other, and I imagine the upstairs just had beds strewn everywhere. My mother tells stories about when the Christmas tree fell on her younger sister, when she would buy penny candy and read Beatles magazines at the corner store. Tales of riding on each other’s backs playing Don Quixote, organizing homemade carnivals and charging for admittance. Writing threatening notes to the evil mother across the street who brutally abused her children. She always was the one who stood up for those who needed it. Her brother still lives in the house. It’s so small I have trouble imagining how everyone and their personalities fit inside, with one bathroom! We had a huge birthday party there when I turned four and watching the home video still brings tears to my eyes. The school my mother attended at the end of the street no longer stands. Recently, she accidentally drove to that house on her way home from work despite not having lived there for almost forty years.

When my twin sister and I were born, my parents moved us to the safest part of Youngstown at the time, the west side. Hundreds of blue collar single family homes with some apartments sprinkled in. They moved from an apartment on the North Side where their landlord had just been shot. We were welcomed by wonderful elderly neighbors like Betty, who would make us special treat bags for Halloween. We named our second cat after her. DeeDee used binoculars to watch over her neighbors and lavished everyone with unsolicited advice and constructive criticism. There were some kids in the neighborhood, but nothing like what my parents described while the baby boom was happening. We did find adventures of our own. We met all kinds of interesting people at the playground at the end of the street, which is now a school. We caught our first stray cat, Blue Skies and nursed him to health. We formed a kids club whose name is secret and we met in the woods behind our house. There was a rival club who we tangled with, once we retaliated by throwing fudgesicles in their pool, which looking back was a regrettable waste of resources.

We would walk around selling magazines and chocolate bars. Mrs. Pasquale let us in and showed us her extensive salt and pepper shaker collection and told us stories of her life, well the same four stories over and over. My mom was worried sick. We were going to move out of the city before high school to get a better education. Every open house we went to, I was terrified that it would be my new home. My mom and dad ended up splitting up and my mom got the house. I never wanted to leave anyway. High school was pretty rough. I saw lots of fights, got my first detention then suspension and learned a lot about subjects that weren’t on my schedule. I kinda wouldn't trade it though.

The first time I really left Youngstown was to go to grad school. New York. It sucked, an intellectual pissing contest that cost me $10,000 for one semester where I drove home at least two weekends a month. I left again about four years later to visit my sister in Santa Fe. I packed my bags for two weeks and ended up staying over a year. I remember smoking cigarettes, smelling the sweet pinon trees and wishing I could run down the highway back home. I drove from New Mexico to Ohio in a rusty Nissan relying on printed out Mapquest directions. The third time I left, it was for Chicago. The night I arrived I had a sick feeling that didn’t go away for two years.

I am staying at my mother’s house where I grew up until I move in with my fiance; he bought his parents’ house. It’s not in Youngstown. I am not sure why it is so hard to leave. Just weeks ago there was a drive-by one street over. I heard eight shots lying in my bed. I’d hoped they were fireworks, like everyone does. Last night, there were reports of gunfire in the parking lot of my high school that I walked to every day for four years. Down the street, a trap house has loud fights and weekly visits from the police. Over the years, my car has been broken into a total of four times. My purse was stolen while I was laying down upstairs. They just waltzed right in. Someone found my license in a bush a couple years later. I told them, “just throw it away.” A couple that lives in Betty’s house just had a baby so they don’t break windows and yell anymore. And years ago, the US Marshall’s raided DeeDee’s old house. All I know is, there are cars in and out of there all day.

My mom says she will sell the house one day and move in with her boyfriend out in the country. I partly believe her. It’ll be so safe. And so quiet.

His Name is Christian

“You look hot,” Jade took my hand and twirled me around, “love this dress.”

“I do?”

“Yes, we are gonna find you a new man tonight,” she challenged as she applied her purple lipstick and pressed her lips together, letting out a big smack and then smiling.

Jade is the first friend I’ve made in the city. I moved here, for a boy, (eye roll) about a year ago and I haven’t seen him in six months. She said something like, “oh fuck him and come live with me,” and I’ve been here eversince. Tonight, we are off to explore a new place in Boystown that I am sure is super-way-too-cool. I just hope she doesn’t run off again and leave me by myself.

“Remember not to abandon me,” I say with questioning eyes.

“Oh my god, I would never!” she says as she walked up behind me, putting her arms around my waist. I hate this level of closeness, but I let my anxiety rise and fall as she releases me. “Ok, put on this jacket and let’s get to the Red Line, we only have a few minutes to the next train.”

I slid on the jacket, wondering what leftover bodily fluids await me in the armholes and pockets and pulled it straight against me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and nodded in approval.

“Love it, I knew that would be perfect on you.” Jade winked and took my hand, “c’mon!”

I didn’t get to check that everything was turned off before we rushed out of the apartment, but it was easier knowing if anything happened, it’s technically her fault.

We arrived at the Red Line about three minutes before the train was set to arrive. I was pulling nervously on the studded zippers on the jacket and wondering if I had locked the door correctly. I looked up and my heart jumped before I realized who was standing about ten feet away from me. IT. WAS. BARISTA. I took a deep breath in and Jade noticed my excitement.

“What? What?!” She looked around not knowing if she should prepare for screaming or squealing.

“It’s him; Barista.” I whispered through my teeth.

“Ooh! Where?”

“Like, ten o’clock.”

Jade’s nose and eyes perused the crowd and her eyes widened, “let’s go over there.” She took my hand again and led me towards him. He looked so cute. He had this worn navy tee shirt on and jeans that were a Goldilocks fit, not too tight and not too loose. His hair was falling slightly over his glasses and he pushed it away so beautifully.

“Do you work at Sadie’s?” she asked, startling him.

He pulled out an Airpod and looked at both of us, his mouth agape with surprise and then he smiled.

“Hey you,” he gestured at me and turned toward Jade, “yes I do,” he nodded. “How are you?” he said to me.

“I am well, thank you. It’s…it’s nice to see you without your apron.” Wow, really? That sounded NOT creepy at all.

“Haha, yeah,” he replied looking down, “so where are you guys headed?”

“A new bar on Halsted,” Jade replied, “you should come!”

“I gotta run to my friend’s house for a few, but I might be free later.”

The whoosh of the train and its familiar clunking began to envelope his words and a rush came over me. As the train screeched and the doors opened, he signaled for me to enter. Please sit next to me, please sit next to me.

“Is it ok if I sit here?” he motioned to the seat next to me.

“Yes, I’ll stand,'' Jade said rolling her eyes as the seats filled up.

“That would be awesome if you stopped by.” I said as the train began to move ahead, trying to sound excited but not like my happiness depended on him going, even if it kinda did.

“I don’t know if I can tonight. My buddy is having a going away party. He’s moving to LA.”

“That’s OK, I know it’s short notice.” my heart was sinking and I was reading all the muscles in his face wondering if he liked me. His mouth was like those in a Caravaggio painting. So curvy and plump.

“Do I have something on my lip?” He ran his thumb across his lower lip and I had to take a breath.

“No.” I shook my head and licked my lips.

“Oh good.” He smiled and it made my stomach feel tight and fluttery. His eyes are so blue, like that cerulean crayon I loved so much as a kid. Every sky was cerulean.

“I really like your jacket.”

“Thank you, it’s hers,” I tipped my head toward Jade, who was fully distracted by her phone. “I usually look like a bum when I’m heading to work.”

“You never look like a bum. You always look pretty.” He leaned back in his seat and lifted his hand to his face again, sort of hiding behind it.

“Aw, thank you.” I felt my face getting hot and tried not to fan myself.

“This is my stop.”

“Oh no,” I said aloud and began to feel the panic set in. I have to say something good. I wanted to be certain that I took advantage of this moment. But should I touch his knee? Ask for his number? Be mysterious? He’s getting his bag, hurry!

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Christian, what’s yours?”

“Marti.”

“Cool, I like that. See you soon?”

“Yes, yes please.” I had the same questioning eyes I’d given Jade earlier.

He grabbed the bar in front of the seat and swung over to the sliding doors. He looked back and exhaled with a smile. Our babies are going to be fucking gorgeous.

Still Faces

In the 1970s, psychologist Dr. Edward Tronick began research on a baby’s emotional connection to their mother. At the start of the experiment, a one year old baby was placed in front of her mother and they interacted normally. When the baby cooed, the mother cooed back and smiled, “are you my good girl?” Gently grabbing hold of her tiny feet and hands, laughing with big eyes and an open mouth. When the baby pointed to something behind her mother, her mother turned to discover what had attracted the baby, “what do you see?” The mother was very attuned and a great deal of safety was afforded to the baby.

The next phase of the experiment instructed the mother to turn her face away from the baby and return with a “still face.” This meant that no matter what behavior the baby displayed, the mother must not respond for two full minutes. Initially, the baby recognizes the need to reach out and get her mother’s attention back. The baby attempts to craft a convincing, albeit desperate smile, observing the threatening lack of interest and engagement. The baby extends her tiny arm to plead with her mother to look, spreading her fingers wide and making a small whining sound. Then both hands reach out to the mother’s flat expression, attempting to pull any love and life toward herself. The fear settles in; the baby’s face becomes distressed, she extends a groan and her back arches in discomfort. A pained face covered with a feigned smile. The baby, running out of tricks, begins clapping to the mother and screeches as if to say, “wake up, please.” The emotional pain becomes physical pain. The stress is too much, the baby turns away.

Tronick described the baby “using all of her abilities” and finally “losing her posture,” resorting to tears and screams. The nervous system is flooded with negative emotions, fear and disappointment. The surrender is like a gazelle in the mouth of a lion. The two minutes conclude and the mother tends to the baby with a soft voice, touches her hand and smiles. The baby shows relief and returns to bond with her caregiver. What luck.

Still Faces

I have sat across from many still faces,

Maybe my mother.

I hunted happy faces

in catalogs and magazines

And found so many.

JCPenney’s was two inches thick with smiles, courting me.

Characters in stories of love and companionship

Kept me company until my adolescence.

Then I began to pursue in the faces of cute boys,

Reaching out with both arms, I wanted to draw them in, I used

Lipstick and tight shirts and nail polish,

Laughing at any joke, playful brushes on the arm.

The first one was dating another girl the entire time.

I had to try harder.

Let them have your face, your voice, your throat, your stomach.

Arch your back until it hurts.

I lost my posture, but

My pursuit was not over.

I met the one who tried so desperately to attune,

But his mother had tried too hard, she pushed him into danger to protect herself,

And he did not recover,

so we had to part ways.

I looked for years for an active face, an open heart, a wild thought.

Every time I thought I found it, it went still.

And found my theatrics useful until I was lied to, cheated and forgotten,

And I collapsed in surrender of the search.

When I got back up,

Illusion left.

I figured there was no one left to find,

so I tried to find myself.

Lonely Mouth

I had to be at the shop by 10:00 a.m, so I definitely had time to stop. Collecting my keys and phone is the first step. Then I have to check to see if my straightener is off. Then again. And once more. I am nervous already today, so I have to take a picture of the outlet, just to prove it has nothing in it. It’s still a little uncertain but I need to see him. I check the coffee maker again. But I have to do this so the building won’t burn down, I can’t have that on my conscience.

Out on the pavement, evidence of rain, and the smell is nostalgic and organic. I like when the humidity is high because it makes my curls wild. And that’s what I am, a wild woman, with hair that matches my brain.

So there’s this cafe on Spring Street. It’s new, very trendy, and has really good expensive coffee and hit-or-miss vegan desserts. It’s on the way to the shop and I always like to have a second coffee. And by that I mean there’s a very handsome barista that works there and I need to see him because I have an overactive imaginary world in which he is a starring character and I get a delicious ego boost when we exchange words. I think we would make a divine couple and he should have my babies.

I love my winged eyeliner today and my hair is puffy and interesting and this makes for a good entrance and mystique. I enter and there are two patrons in line. And, he is HERE! I wait for my heart rate to drop and adjust my coat, he might notice my Twin Peaks Double R Diner pin and say something. We’ll see. I watch him interact with the first in line and notice them talking about tattoos and his smile is so beautiful. I wonder if he is a good kisser. I wonder if he is nice to his mother, and I also wonder what his ab situation is. I could see us walking down the street together, with a small dog and ice cream cones. I drop mine and Ziggy starts licking the fallen scoop and we laugh and share the rest of the remaining cone.

“Thank you, enjoy.” Barista says to the person in front of me.

I think I have time to order a pastry and sit for a few minutes so I decide to order a coffee and vegan fruit thingy so I can sit down and maybe he will stop by while I’m sitting. I’m never hungry in the morning.

“Hey, how are you today?” Barista smiled and the outer corners of his eyes wrinkled in this really magical way.

“I’m ok, kinda rainy out there though.” Wow, such an interesting repartee I have begun.

“What can I get ya?”

“Black coffee for here and a rainbow fruit tart. Thank you.”

“You got it. I am surprised you didn’t get the cherry pie.” He signaled to my coat lapel.

He’s making a Twin Peaks reference. ALERT. ALERT!

“Ha ha, wow, you like that show?”

“It’s one of my favorites, and you kinda look like Shelly. She was so pretty.” His face looked scared, like he knew he just complimented me,
Oh my god, he just said I am pretty. “Aw yeah, she’s like my favorite character. She and Bobby were so hot together.” Oh no, that was weird. I went from boring to creepy in record time.

“Haha totally,” he said, “it’s $8.50.”

I swallowed nervously and finished the transaction trying to look unfazed by the compliment. I chose a small high top by the window to assess the conversation. Was that weird? Forward? Sexy? Lame? Am I sure the coffee maker was off?

I looked out the window and lifted my coffee to my mouth. I let the steam rise and float over the tip of my nose and inhaled. My mind wandered to mornings in my childhood. I never liked the feeling of the air, the way the birds sang made me sad. I made up stories about the birds. They all had names and places to go and lives of their own. All the trees around my house have special names because the birds lived in them. When I was about 6 years old, I was talking about this to myself when I was alone in the front yard and I remember being surprised when my aunt startled me, mid-imagining. Who knows what I was doing exactly.

“What are you doing?” she asked with a tone that judged.

I don’t remember what I said, but I remember what I felt. It was searing embarrassment and shame. Normal people didn’t narrate the birds flying around their house. They didn’t let their imagination rule their life. They found comfort in connections with other people, not in coming up with stories that helped them escape. I wonder what I was escaping.

“Do you like the tart?”

I inhaled deeply and sat up straight. Barista was standing beside me.

“I…I…I liked it.”

“Oh good, you only took one bite, I thought maybe I would get you something else if you didn’t like it.”

“Oh thank you, that’s nice. But I am good.”

“So where do you work?” Barista said, wiping down the table next to me.

“The frame shop down the street. I build custom frames.”

“That’s cool. I’m an artist, maybe I should bring in one of my pieces.”

“You should! What kind of art do you make?”

“They’re abstract collages, mostly. I use lots of recycled materials and…” I lost his gaze to an angry patron who had been waiting at the counter. “I am so sorry, I have to go.”

I watched Barista shuffle to the counter and apologize as I finished my coffee, but I left the tart. His smile disarmed the person at the counter and I imagined him knocking at my door after we had a fight, wearing the same smile and holding a bouquet of roses. I bet he smells good when you get really close. Maybe a little like paint or recycled materials. I wonder what he likes to talk about. I wonder if he would accept my weirdness. He might think it’s endearing, fascinating. I picture him just gazing into my eyes how they do in movies, darting across the landscape of my face. The espresso machine buzz shakes my attention. It’s 10:03 a.m. Shit.