she just wanted a hand to hold

she just wanted a hand to hold. she was consumed by that wanting. she would stuff things into her mitts, anything she could find, to fill the hole of the non-holding. her hands would wrap around the neck of a beer, the sleeve of an ice cream sandwich, the skin of a dingdong's dick she didn't want to touch. she would put anything she could find in her hands and hold tight, hoping to feel the feeling she hadn't felt for what was starting to feel like far too long. she squeezed pillows and rolled joints and spread peanut butter on anything edible, even things that one perhaps should not eat. she would caress the keys of her computer hoping the world wide web would wrap around her a feeling of belonging, ushering in a long awaited end to the longing.

her hands grasped at any manner of thing-- bar stools, remote controls, doughnut holes, cigarettes, adult toys, stranger's pets. but whatever it was, the wanting remained. she just wanted a hand to hold. and then, one night, full and wasted from a day of clinging to hope, she took her right hand in her left and held her own holding. and she felt it, the feeling, desire met with the simple truth of love, never outside, but always infinitely and endlessly within. the hand she was holding belonged to someone who loved her with everything they had, and that was and is always, enough.

make me believe in makebelieve

he picked her up at 8. she had been ready since 1996. longing like lipstick painted on her lips. a fullness that needed to be kissed. he put his hand on the small of her back and led her through the door. she thought about the expanse of the universe and how little Ptolemy had known, and how all this time later, we knew little more. he drove a fast car. she wished they were riding on the backs of turtles taking their time, drawing out the night. he took her to dinner. he ate bloody steak while she picked at a salad, ashamed of her cliché. he showed her a magic trick. she looked for hidden cameras.

again they were in the fast car. he yelled over the rushing wind that love was like santa claus--you believe in it until some adult tells you it's not real. she wanted to yell back, santa clause isn't real? he took her for a drink. she welcomed the ease with which they could speak. dimly lit eyes shining bright. he took her hand and touched her back and said, I know you a little more now. she considered telling him she wanted to have his babies. she refrained.

he drove her home. again with the windows down, night air tickling the hairs on her arm. she touched his imperfect head. he held her vibrating thigh. she didn't want the road to end. she wanted to keep going down it with him, to see where it would take them. they pulled up to her house. he walked her to the door, making it halfway, his hand taking her elbow and spinning her around. mouth finding mouth as wanting mouths always do. yes. that was all she could think. yes. and then he said goodnight. and as he walked down the few steps they had climbed moments before, she knew santa clause was real.

Sliver (revised)

It was only a sliver, but it hurt something fierce. It was a tiny crack that he could look through to gaze at her thigh. He knew it was her thigh, the opal quality of her skin, the lone freckle that shone like the one visible star in a city sky. He knew it was her thigh and his heart started its audible beating and his hands started opening and closing like they always did at the sight of her.

He stood there in his room, held up by his palms against the wall. His right eye shut tight and his left eye wide open, not blinking enough, drying out from not wanting to miss a thing. He watched her hand trace invisible I love you's on her skin. The heat of his breath bouncing off the wall and condensing on the cool of his cheeks. He shivered. But then a hand not hers and not his own entered into view and traced a line from the freckle to something out of frame. She sang a low note. The hand was square and ungraceful. His hands were long and thin and longing - they started making fists, white to red, white to red. And then, he couldn't look any longer.

He covered the sliver of light with the picture he had painted of her through the crack. The painting hung solitary, lit by a small bedside lamp . In it, a glowing sliver of her back cut through the darkness - so much darkness. He had run out of umber in the middle of painting it and had hurried through the streets praying he would make it back before she turned off her light. He stood there looking at it now, running his finger along the wooden frame he had made with the tools his grandfather had given him. As he traced the lines of his imperfect work, one fine splinter of pine stuck into the pad of his index finger. He winced and grabbed his hand at the wrist. He examined his fingertip and marveled at the invisibility of so much pain. He squeezed it against his thumb to intensify the ache. He continued squeezing and thinking of how strange it was when something unseen could hurt so much.

As he slouched down the wall to sit in defeat he thought of his grandfather's hands - the color of earth and the texture of stone - impenetrable to such pain. And now, alone in this city made up of dreams lost in the tangle of steel, he thought of them - floating heads on the fading photograph he had taken with his mind the day he left. Noses had shifted, mouths had changed, curly hair had straightened and heights had been adjusted. But the eyes, the details were complete. The length of lashes and the depth of green, mirror images of his own. All of their eyes shimmering in the farewell sun. He remembered them perfectly. He had wondered if they would forget? He had been confused by their wailing. Why they would cry when they were the ones who told him he should go? Complications he would start to understand as he became a man, first flailing in the sea wishing for land and then landing and longing for sea. The constant need to want for things. They said their goodbyes and let him be their hope for receiving. And now, at a distance too far to measure with anything other than love, he surrendered to being what they couldn't have.

Through the wall, he heard her door open then close and down through the stairway, the sound of a clumsy retreat. Then it was quiet. He crawled in bed and pulled the worn blanket up to his chin. Slowly in the stillness he became aware of the rhythmic sound of her breathing. He closed his eyes. He put together all the fragments he had secretly collected of her. He matched his breath to her's and as her breathing deepened into sleep, his own followed. Together they slept alone.

self. help.

it was a gift she gave him. a kick in the chest. a test. what will you do with this bleeding heart?

he laid there thinking about it. the question it begged. what now?

two ways to go. the choice he had read about in a book his friend had loaned him. "trust me," the friend had said, hand on his shoulder, "this book will change your life."

the book hadn't changed his life, but he had read it anyway. he kept waiting for it. the change. wondering what it would feel like. would you no longer look the same? would the people you greet look at you in confusion, "do I know you?"

"no, you don't, I've changed. it was the book."

but that didn't happen. everyone said, "hey, how's it goin?" he didn't know the answer.

a book had changed his friend's life. what was going to change his? this perhaps.

perhaps.

or perhaps he needed to find the right book.

he went to the bookstore.

he looked at the covers and he flipped through the pages. he shut his eyes and reached out his hand, expecting fate to metalize the book and magnetize his hand. nope. empty handed.

boo hoo. poor me. he sang to no one in particular.

he left the bookstore. still the same.

he went to the donut shop. he ordered a plain glazed and a cup of black coffee. he pulled the change from his pocket. just enough for the bitter sweet.

he sat by the window watching the day change. a dog lifted its leg. a woman adjusted her bra strap. a boy kicked a cone. he chewed and he sipped and he watched. he forgot to feel sad. he was just busy watching the light fade through the day, the leaves acknowledge the breeze. everything seemed fine. and then he wondered, is someone watching me? he liked the thought of being a part of someone else's observation. to them he probably seemed fine. no devastation. no end of the world. just a guy having a cup of coffee. and he was, wasn't he? sure he was the poor pathetic dude who had been dumped a few months back. but wasn't he also the guy sitting in the butter yellow booth, wearing a hunter's cap, holding a styrofoam cup? wasn't he the guy who seemed to be having a perfectly lovely day?

yes. he was.

and there it was. no book necessary.

three times

jessica's mom was doing that thing she did. that thing with the rag in the sink. rinsing and wringing. rinsing and wringing. rinsing and wringing. three times. everything, three times. grandma did the same thing. but not jessica, she only did everything twice and if everything went according to plan, her children would turn out normal - they'd only count everything once.

jessica watched her mother folding the towels. one fold, two fold, three. and then they were neatly put away on the shelf, nine towels in three stacks of three. jessica's brother came upstairs for an afternoon snack of easy cheese straight to the mouth. to her, his oblivion was a miracle. his big stupid bowls of cereal and milk. their mother folding his big stupid underwear. three times. even his cheese was easy. he just looked at her and smiled, orange squishing out the corners of his big stupid mouth. he didn't count anything.

jessica's braids were too tight, always pulling her in a direction she didn't want to go. they had ended up here at grandma's, where grandma was always placing judement like sad little trophies around the tidy house, forcing jessica to consider everything before she left the safety of her small room. jessica would stand, neatly dressed with her hand on the doorknob.

eyes closed. remembering her dreams.

they started every day with the struggle of grandma's angry comb and jessica's tender scalp. pulling and braiding. pulling and braiding. pulling and braiding. her thoughts dulled by too much pain, any dust of her nighttime dreaming, thoroughly combed out. she would sit there white knuckling the edge of the hard kitchen chair. she would watch her mother, counting out the eggs. one egg, two eggs, three. she saw her mother wince when she winced - as if her hair was her hair, their scalps one aching plane they shared. but her mother never said a word. and jessica would sit there watching her mother's eyes escape out the kitchen window. and as grandma's hands squeezed the life out of everything, jessica wondered why her mother couldn't have counted everything twice?

sliver

it was only a sliver. but it hurt something fierce. it had only been a tiny crack that he had looked through to gaze at her thigh. he knew it was her thigh, the opal quality of her skin, the lone freckle that shone like the one visible star in a city sky. he knew it was her thigh, and his heart started its audible beating and his hands started opening and closing like they always did at the sight of her.

he stood there in his room, held up by his palms against the wall. his right eye was shut tight and his left eye wide open, not blinking enough, drying out from not wanting to miss a thing. he watched her hand trace invisible I love you's on her skin. he shivered despite the heat of his breath bouncing off the wall and condensing on his face. but then, a hand, not hers and not his own, was tracing a line from the freckle to something out of frame. the hand was square and ungraceful. his hands were long and thin and longing. they started making fists, white to red white to red. and then, he couldn't look any longer.

he covered the sliver of light with the picture he had painted of her through the crack. it was a sliver of her back framed by black. he ran his finger along the wooden frame he had made with the tools his grandfather had left him. and as he ran his finger along his imperfect work, one fine sliver of pine stuck into the pad of his index finger. he winced and grabbed his hand at the wrist. he examined his fingertip and marveled at the invisibility of so much pain. he squeezed it against his thumb to intensify the ache. he continued squeezing and thinking of how strange it was when something so small and unseen could hurt so much.

pizza pie

He was eating a pizza. She was holding a pie.

“I made you a pie,” she said.

“I hate pie,” he said.

“But I made it for you.”

“But I hate pie.”

Silence spread over the late morning kitchen slow like cold syrup.

“But I made it for you,” she continued.

He looked up at her, the stiff cold pizza folding in his hands.

“And what shall I do with this pie that you have made me? Eat it despite the fact that I don’t enjoy it?”

“But I wanted to make you something. This is the only thing I know how to make. I really wanted to make you something.”

“But I’ve never liked pie.”

“But it’s the only thing I know how to make.”

“Have you ever considered learning how to make other things? You’re bright. I bet you could learn to make anything. You could learn to make me a pizza. I love pizza. I mean, you made pie, that’s not easy. If you can make pie, you could definitely make pizza.”

“Pizza?”

“Yeah, pizza. You know, dough, sauce, cheese, toppings – I like sausage, and olives and mushrooms and, I mean, I like all kinds of toppings, all toppings really – and then you know, you bake it in an oven and then you slice it and then, well then I would eat it, I’d even slice it myself if you didn’t want to do that part.”

“Why don’t you like pie?”

He looked at the smiling crust he was holding in his hands. His breathing became visible in his chest. He turned the crust upside down.

“Don’t you even want to know what kind it is?” She said ignoring his frowning crust.

“Is it still a pie?”

“It’s a lemon meringue pie. Aunt Anita’s recipe, perfected over the years. It’s not easy to make meringue, most people I know don’t know the first thing about making meringue. But look at my meringue, I can make it look just like the picture in this book. I bet you've never seen meringue like this before.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“So eat it.”

“I don't like pie.”

"But I made it for you!"

"So you would want me to eat something I didn't enjoy simply because you made it for me? I mean hearing that said out loud, as a statement, does it make sense to you? You would have me eat something knowing I didn't like it, because you made it for me? I mean, what if I made you a hat, one of those floppy hats, the kind that hang like a sadness on silly peoples heads, what if I made you one of those floppy hats, out of, out of, denim! No denim print, not actual denim but that fabric that has the look of denim to it, but not the quality. And what if I made this floppy faux denim hat and I, I puffy painted your name in rainbow colors along the side, only I misspelled your name and I made the hat a little too small for your head so it squeezed just enough to give you a headache about 30 minutes into wearing it? What if I made you a hat like that? And then, said I want you to wear this stupid looking hat that makes you look stupid when you wear it, and that is uncomfortable and mean, I want you to wear this hat because I made it for you - would you wear it?!"

A long pause hung quiet like the faint morning moon.

"Yes. Yes I would." She replied.

He didn't know what to say, and more than that, he didn't want to try and find something to say.

She looked at him, searching. And then after too much space, she said,

“I want you to like pie so much. Can’t you just like pie, for me? I made it for you.”

As he looked directly in her eyes, he shoved the last piece of pizza in his mouth, saucing his face, filling his cheeks. He got up, picked up the greasy box and left holding the empty cardboard.

She sat down with her fluffy white pie and ate.

georgia

topless trees bent over in the bright light too dry to sweat in the heat. it was 103 degrees. georgia was cursing the air conditioner, long since dead and indifferent to her complaints. charlie looked at her and smiled, a drip of sweat pooling in the dent of his thin top lip. she was not impressed.

georgia was a peach just as long as it was nice out, but anything over 84 or under 63 degrees and she was not easy to be around. she'd make boiling statements like, "you're lucky I haven't left." or "it must be nice being too dumb to realize that the world is shit." and after too much inclement weather, the people around her would prepare their bags for leaving. they couldn't stay in the home that had once been their own, everything smelled of her carolina rose perfume. so they'd lay awake on the stiff couch blinking at the static that played in the dark, restlessly folding their brains around the idea of no more georgia.

but then in the morning, when the sun was all happy and the sky was all blue and the breeze kept everything at a gorgeous 73 degrees, georgia would stroll into the kitchen wearing the thin blue t-shirt that brushed against her thin tan thighs. she'd start making her famous peanut butter apology pancakes. and she'd squeeze the tangerines from her tree and make fresh juice oh so tart but just sweet enough for the drinking. delicious. so they'd stay, unfolding the newspaper in the smooth morning light to see that the week ahead would be a series of 70 degree days. they'd chew on the sticky situation of peanut butter batter and decide they could wait until the next heat wave. until then, georgia was just too comfortable to leave.

sweet sherry

the dude abides. she rolled her eyes. of all the t-shirts in all the world in all the stores, he had to buy this one and then of all the days in all the weeks he had to pick this day to pick this one off of the floor with all the other t-shirts stretching out their shortened arms. he picked this one. on this day. why oh why had he picked this one? "what the fuck?!" she said. "what?" he said. "nothing," she said.

was this a set up, she wondered? of all the men in all the world and all the profiles on all the dating sites she had waded through like the hot molasses of desire, against better judgement, against her own wishes, her hand taking over, holding the mouse, searching in the dark. she had picked this one? this dude wearing the dumb shirt? what is it with these guys? she used to like these guys. but that was before. now she drank sherry. had he ever tried sherry? she wondered looking at his hand holding the neck of a beer. too tightly. no. impossible. he had definitely never held the sweet complication of sherry in his mouth. one does not return from the experience of drinking sherry without aging a bit, like the moscatel grapes themselves.

she remembered the first time she had tried it, at a party for the new firm. those were the days when she would have rolled her eyes at sherry. but this was her attempt at another life. a new life. one that involved boring parties. the atmosphere was stale and unnerving and she had needed the calm of a glass in her hand. she had been handed a glass of sweet sherry. at first she was sure there had been a mistake. the pruney assault on her tongue, the liquified raisins rotting in her mouth. was this a set up? she had wondered. but she kept sipping anyway because it was a welcome task keeping her mouth entertained while the rest of her went numb.

this was but the first of many such compromises she would make.

punching cupcakes

it was the only thing tessa could do to keep from getting in her chevy luv pickup truck and driving through the night. he had gone to boston. she had never been to boston but she knew she didn't like it. she had met too many guys in bars from boston to think otherwise. he had met one guy in a bar from boston and with that, he left, leaving behind more confusion than she knew how to deal with. so here she was in her kitchen, punching cupcakes.

it had been wendy's suggestion. wendy was good at coming up with absurd yet effective means for dealing with "the heavy," as she liked to call it. when wendy had run over her neighbor's teacup pomeranian by accident and subsequently wound up in the midst of a dead doggy lawsuit, she dealt with the stress and the legal fees by learning how to knit. then she started up an online doggy sweater store and eventually quit her job at "the trap," as she liked to call it. despite all the drama, she never seemed to lose her perspective. this, among other reasons, was why tess had wendy as #1 on her speed dial.

so the night he left her while she was baking his birthday cupcakes, she pushed the "1" with her frosted finger and said "he left." wendy was over by tessa's 5th cupcake. she felt sick. wendy took tess by the messy hand and said "look, I always knew he was a giant douchepopsicle. I must confess I'm not surprised. the only thing you can do now is head out into the world laughing at one more joke life has told you." and with that she picked up a pink sprinkled cake and threw it up in the air, and as it began its arching decent, she punched it, hard.

anyone, no matter how low, would be lifted by the sight of an exploding cupcake. tess laughed and grabbed one herself and did the same. it was amazing - with each cupcake she smashed she felt better, lighter, more hopeful. that night they punched all 48 (minus the 5 she had already eaten). they cleaned the kitchen until it was morning and then they laughed together cupping mugs of coffee. wendy went home to sleep and tess started making more cupcakes. wendy was right and tess was fine despite her disaster. tess knew she would eventually forget all about boston and the man she once thought she knew.