Waving Not Drowning

All Anthony wanted was a few bananas and some peanut butter. His kingdom for Nutella but he wasn't hedging his bets. He was slow going, still half in the bag from last night's commiseration session with Isabelle gnashing and wailing about Kev's new girlfriend. Anthony gets it, he does. Lord knows she put up with the Great Heartbreak of 'o8 with him. A solid year of despair and self loathing. Surviving the war. They forgot to get breakfast fixings and it's going on noon. His stomach was beyond rumbling, it was a full blown orchestra with kettle drums pounding. It's a fine line between nausea and hunger. He realizes the sound isn't emanating from his intestines but rattling the windows from College Street below. Christ almighty, the Resurrection parade. Thousands of devout Catholics lined up 5 bodies deep, celebrating the Easter holy days. For six blocks police cordoned off both sides of the street and locked down traffic. He'd never get out his front door...

They enter through the door together. She makes her way into the crowded car. Only then does she look over her shoulder to realize he has planted himself near the first pole. A flash of betrayal obscures her face. He is immovable. Feigning intention she backtracks to him, grasps the hanging strap above her head and roots herself. Compliant only on her terms. He reeks of defiance. In no way will he accommodate her. This is where he stands, immutable, unyielding. As always, it is up to her to bend and sway, fill the spaces between, round off his sharp edges, modify at a moment's notice. She is liquid, he is stone. She flows and surrounds, seeps into every pore and crevice, enveloping his implacable self with her tidal substance. Ebb and flow, seeking balance, equilibrium. The struggle is monumental yet she can not give way. The months turn to years. He is resolute in his choices, convicted. This battle will rage on for days to come, there is no means of extrication short of abandonme...

He wasn't feeling well but it was too late to cancel. At least in Greg's mind it was too late- and not the gentlemanly thing to do. He'd just explain why he couldn't shake her hand and would avoid any sort of intimate contact. Not to assume he'd be getting intimate, he wasn't that presumptuous. He's not a hop in the sack first date kinda guy. Who was he kidding, of course he was, given the right circumstance. Who wasn't, right? God, if any woman Greg met on a first date wanted to sleep with him right there and then he'd be so completely flummoxed he wouldn't know what to do. Greg liked the pseudo anonymity online dating provided. He could sculpt an ideal version of himself over days, weeks, months, while secretly trolling through hundreds of other profiles, stealing the best from other guys' identities. He doesn't do well with people. He lumbers and speaks slowly. His body is average at best assuming average means lacking grace and all sp...

Shaking off the cobwebs. Not literally cause that would freak Angie out. Waking up in a strange place and wondering how the hell she got here. Again. One long road trip, night after night, anonymous hotels, motels, load in, load out. Hello Patchogue! How you doing,  Pawtucket! Weeks turn into months and big things like money and sales don't matter anymore. She misses her cat. She even misses G, her on-again off-again lover who right now more than anything she wishes was on again this tour. Careful what you wish for. It's hard to say no, having drank the kool aid as an impressionable, ambitious young artist. Always take the gig, go where the work is, it's all about the work, it's the only thing that matters. At the expense of everything else. No home, no family, no partner she can call her own. Emotionally, socially stunted. Even her cat prefers her neighbour. She would too really, seeing as he's home and remembers to change the litter every day. She's missed eve...

He knows, oh, he knows. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing. You. Sir. SIR! You with the Donlands transfer, yes YOU sir, don't pretend you can't hear me, I KNOW you hear me. You CAN NOT USE that transfer to get into the station; you HAVE TO GET OFF here- this is the LAST STOP for you, sir. The entire bus resonated with her bullhorn hawkishness. Middle aged, overflowing in her seat, with processed yellow hair and thick black lines drawn across her lids, she commandeered the 56 like she was driving the Secret Service's motorcade. This is what Kit's mom calls a harpy. Mean, crotchety, and righteously indignant. It was obvious to the rest of the riders that this older East Indian man who was apparently subverting the system by riding illegally with the wrong paper transfer was ignorant of his actions. He barely spoke English. She Ra of the Bus Co. ceaselessly berated and threatened this man in full voice at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon while driving through East York. An ...

Can you stop playing with the mirror? It's going to kill you. I'm gonna wake up one morning to an eviscerated red tabby and it won't be pretty. I have no idea why you keep trying to swing off that thing. It's not like it's even in motion. Then again, with a brain the size of a chestnut, what can I hope for? Oh, I'm sorry, are you napping now, is that the plan? Tearing up and down the carpeted hall then literally climbing the walls for the last 40 minutes tuckered you out? Hey, I know- why don't you rest for a while then round about 3, 3:30 am come and bound over my head while climbing onto the shelf above my bed. Don't forget to yowl non-sensically too. That would be awesome. Just so you know, I don't get more than a 3 hour stretch of sleep at any given time. REM? Pffft, who needs it. Deep, restorative, healing sleep? Overrated. Then- and this is great, it really is- when I have to get up an hour later, punch drunk with exhaustion and puffy eyed from...

It's the back of her hands. That's where she sees it the most. The papery, delicate, sunpocked skin, wrinkled even  in repose. They look so old. Amanda never thought of her aunt as old, not even when she was a little girl. It was always Aunt Claire, the cool aunt, the fun aunt, the one with the long straight hair and groovy headbands, the huge record collection, jars of solid perfume and real wooden clogs from Holland. They spent endless hours hiking back roads, climbing trees, making up songs while skipping flat stones across the hidden pond on MacKenzie's Bluff. Claire taught Amanda about boys, let her experiment for hours with her makeup. The Lancome gift bags that came with purchase always ended up in her knapsack after a weekend visit. If it wasn't for Claire, Amanda never would've come to appreciate the importance of moisturizing year round or have mad money stashed with a spare key, hair elastic, and condom in the secret pocket of her wallet. The twenty dolla...