Month: April 2010

She said it would not take too long, all the make-up and the clothes and the hair, but it took too long.  Forty five minutes too long.  The barbecue would not miss us, but I would miss the first chance at the bacon-wrapped hot dogs.  Those don’t last very long at one of these barbecue events and they certainly wait for no man who waits for his girlfriend.  All I can do is idle in despair from the kitchen to the living room, occasionally glancing at the clock on the mantle to see if it matches the clock on my wrist.  Patience is not one of my virtues.

Nor, evidently, is memory.

Sylvia finally walks out and I’m reminded of why I never mind that she takes so long to get ready.  Her unusually shimmery brown hair (byproduct of a costly kitchen skylight) is tied back and away from her shoulders in a simple ponytail, which allows the purple sweater-blouse thing to show off what she knows she has in ample supply.  The black denim wrapped around her legs stretches and creases to the point of vulgarity.  As she nonchalantly approaches I note that her demure eyes and steady, low-heeled step show no sign of remorse.  Barbecue, even bacon-wrapped barbecue, means less to her than the presence and air of a beautifully tardy woman.

And yet, no matter the depth of my observations, I have to ask.

“What took so long?”

She smirks and picks up her oversized wallet.  “I could not find the address that you lost, and then I had to get directions online.”

I’m certain the humility on my face is missed as I turn away in a faint toward the door.  “It’s what I get for writing things on matchbooks.”

“Spending time at the bar, are you?”  More curiosity than accusation in her tone, but too much experience with the latter puts me on the defensive.

“Just passing time with the boss.  It got us invited to his house for this didn’t it?”

“Yes,” she says.  “It did.”  I hold the door for her and pretend not to notice the glare as she steps out into the sun.  The afternoon wanes and almost beckons us to the car for more moments of awkward bliss.

Car silence is unlike any other kind.  The space only allows for so much lack of sound to exist before it is echoed back, worsened by the proximity of sounds outside the car.  The honk of a horn is all too loud and the reverberation of every engine creates a very small space in which to sit silently and avoid speaking.  To prevent agitation at what should be a pleasant gathering I decide to burst the bubble.

“Do you suppose President Bush could have defeated the Batman during his presidency?”

She turns to look at me and I can feel the retort building, but being in our ripe old twenties we have learned to avoid the argumentative pitfalls that young couples fall into.  She gets my meaning and turns back to the windshield.

“Only if Bush conscripts Batman and fiendishly masterminds a plot in which Batman believes he is fighting a foreign enemy and unknowingly defeats himself.”

I tell her that I don’t believe Bush could have done that on his own.

“What did he ever?”  I see her smiling in the windshield.  My day is suddenly dramatically improved.  The sun’s rays are therapeutic, the honking horns are music, and the barbecue, bacon-wrapped or otherwise, will be that much sweeter.

My hand rests on her thigh as we sit in traffic and watch the backs of other cars.  She looks to the side, where fields of rooftops appear beyond the concrete banks.  Her eyes dart from one to the next, searching for one that could be like the one that will someday be ours.  Sylvia’s eyes behind darkly shimmering glass.  I squeeze the coarse black denim beneath my hand.  Her muscle flexes responsively.

The sun stares at us in the million-mile stretch.  More waiting.

“Give me your hand for a second.”

She turns to look at me, hesitates.  “Why?” she asks.  I still surprise her.

I tell her I’m curious.

Sylvia’s hand rises and hangs in the air, limp fingers pointing to the silent CD player.  Her hand is small, light.  Nails are manicured, crafted by a Korean artisan of local renown.  Tiny lines and wrinkles where the joints meet.  As I run my hand along the surface the fine hairs act as conduits, bring a series of moments into view.  Memories of a dip in the water before she dives in.  Holding a purse.  Gently nestling a glass between the fingers and cradling it on her palm.  A smile through orbed glass.  A fine hand, with many memories to its credit.

“Your hand is the start,” I say, moving further along her arm.  Slightly thicker hairs line her forearm.  Soft wrinkles on the inside of her elbow.  “It’s the start of the path.”  Up along her bare arm, toward the purple fabric that begins at her shoulder.  Her eyes follow my hand until she moves.

“No, no,” says Sylvia.  “We’re on hands.”  She takes me and moves me back down to the start.  Holds me still.  “We’re at the starting line.”

“Why?” I ask.  She purses her lips, and thinks.

I wait.

“To get a sense of where we are,” she finally says.

“To torture me,” I tell her.  I hold her and feel her palm with my thumb, gently kneading.  “Your hand is too enticing.  It pulls me into you, into your heart.”

She chuckles at me then. It only hurts a little, and I don’t allow it to show.  “You are too preoccupied with the heart,” she says.  “Right now, right here, just focus on my hand.”  She brings my hand back down to her thigh, placed over hers.

I tell her I’ll try.

Holding her hand I look at it, swaying forward as the car stops again.  It is then that I catch a glimpse of my hand over hers.  It is a worn hand.  Marks along the surface.  Veins.  Hair and tendons moving at the slightest twitch of a finger.  My unevenly colored hide in stark contrast to her smoothly pale skin.

“Look at my hand.”

“What about it?” she asks.

“Look at it.  There are wrinkles.  Hair.  Ridges and dents and scars.  It’s the ugliest hand I’ve ever seen.  How could you possibly allow me to touch you?”

She looks down at my hand and pulls away, repositioning her own hand over mine.  Most hands are warm.  Hers is searing.

“Because it is your hand,” she says.  “I don’t allow you to touch me.”  She turns and her lips brush against mine as she kisses the side of my face.

“I want you to touch me,” she whispers.

Reassurance.

She returns to her side and looks at me.  Several feet of asphalt pass underneath as we sit in pleasant silence, quite unlike the beginning of our drive.  A 65 MPH sign moves from the front to the side to slightly behind.

She holds me in her silence until she finally speaks.  “Your hand is yours. I’ve watched you use your hand.  I’ve felt you.  It is rough, and wrinkly, and hairy.  Your hand is yours, and after all this time it’s also mine.”  She brings my hand up to her chest.

“I could do whatever I want with my hand,” she says.

I nod.

She raises our hand to her mouth.  A gentle press of lips on hairy, dented skin.

Black ruffled dress, dark hat and ribbons flowing, one fishnet sleeve on the left arm, the right as bare as all sin, and hands as liquid love.  She steps into the fading rays of an overcast day looking out over the baked denizens of aural delight who appear for one show and witness another in the towering Goddess and her shorter white escort.  The pig-tailed delight grows tall, tall to heaven, and fills the room when there are no walls.  Smiles as she mingles in the crowd of onlookers and pauses when one of them wants a memento.  They all watch her walk along the path between the bodies, elegantly, and so easily that it makes them wish they could be as tall as the Goddess and hopefully half as beautiful in a tattered Victorian rag.  They never will, not like her, and she is blessed in this fact.

The trick to the grand show is in the crinkle.  No one notices, but that is where it is.  She looks down at a child as she looks down at a man and the crinkle at the corner of her mouth catches them all by surprise.  The Goddess smiles down upon them and they thank her silently.  It makes her like them and above them, above them all.

A little girl waves and the Goddess slows time as she waves back, left and right and right and left, fingers flowing as threads in space, and she is lost.  Visions of blinding sunlight and starshine filling her eyes.  A kingdom, far from here, far from now, and she knows that she is meant to be there.  She can almost reach it, high as she is.  It is there, and she can smell the burning embers of the warm fire that she must deserve for being here, and being beautiful and tall and elegant.  She does not just parade herself; she dwells among them.  She brings such joy into their hearts.  They love her so much and no one else understands that the Goddess presents the possibilities of endless beauty and in her steady lumbering stride she brings them all into her bubble, into her world.  She is good to them and they do not demand anything of her because they love her, even if they do not speak it aloud.

A mere thundering boom cracks the bubble, and a little girl’s attention is called to the stage back on the world’s surface.

Performers – men with guitars and women on tambourines – on stage to begin their show where the crowd begins to form upon them.  The grandest woman, the goddess, walks beside them, unnoticed and a distant memory.  A photograph, a smile, a caress of a hand – her remains among the people who dwelled in her space (for a time) and lifted her to great heights.  Her divinity crushed by so much interference and mic checks.

She dawdles along, out of view, and her companion closely in tow until they come upon a barren dirt-topped layover behind the food service tents.

“Hey,” says the Goddess.  “How’s your leg?”

The shorter white lovely reaches down, undoing straps one and the other, then lowers herself further until she is mere human.  She smiles up at the Goddess and touches upon her thigh.

“It’s not too bad, just needed time off the poles.”

“Yea, well don’t push it.”

She mustn’t, or risk not returning to her place in heaven.

“Yea I know.  I’ll keep off it this week, I promise.”  The woman, a deceptively small blonde beneath a curtain of powder, gathers her legs and walks toward the parking lot as she waves goodbye.

“You want to come?” she adds.  “I’m meeting Steph for dinner.”

“No,” says the Goddess.  “No, I’m okay.  I need to go to the store and pick up a few things.”

“Okay.  Call me tomorrow?”

The black-ruffled Goddess nods and says goodbye.

The sun rolls along the glass dome as the thunder above gets louder, and the cheers fill the air all around.  The Goddess’ strands fall free and slide across her face when the wind hugs her and urges her to stay where it can be with her.  She glances out across the top of the tents and sees a girl perched atop a young man’s shoulders, arms high in the air.  Beyond is a woman in a long coat coaxing a high-pitched screech from smoke-choked lungs.

The Goddess tells the wind “no” before loosening the straps and lowering herself.  The noises below envelop her further, all that she is.

Smiles and screams for the siren usurper.

Dirt gathers along the fringes of her dress; the woman in the black dress yawns.  What a glorious dream… what a glorious day.  Her feet ache and the red sheen upon her face reminds her of what she forgot.  She enters an empty tent and lifts her black bag from a pile.  The black dress, and the hat, and single fishnet sleeve come off.  Torn jeans and a t-shirt that reads TIDE then adorn her and make her more human than she cares to consider.  The ribbons in her hair fall to the ground as she shakes her curls loose and sighs through her nose.  Beer in a cooler keeps her company until she must leave.  Bitter and calming, like a sweet embrace from a hated friend.

When the day ends the workers dismantle the stage and ravel the cords, criss-crossing across the grounds where hoppers and dancers and arm flailers bounced to the music and lived for the moment.  As life resumes and the future beckons the revelers depart and leave behind the sense of wonder and freedom inside the beer cans, cigarette butts, and rumpled paper bags on the grass.

The woman in torn jeans and a t-shirt exits the tent and she is Mel.  No longer the Goddess… no longer above.  Long aluminum poles in hand, she exits the tent and waves to familiars on her way to the parking lot.  Her brown Honda Accord with the faded hood and red tape for a taillight does not beckon nor carry her on wings of golden feathered silk to the birthplace of light and the eternal loving embrace.  She drives among people, and cars, and dirty little animals, until she stops at a store near her home.

“That’ll be three-fifty,” says the clerk.

A bottle of sunblock in a bag on the front seat as she drives to her apartment over the hill on La Brea, near Hollywood where dreams go to die.  Near Hollywood where her boyfriend Kevin finds her tired and not in the mood.

“C’mon, Mel.  Look at you.  I don’t get why you keep doing this.  You come back tired and depressed every time.  If this stilts shit is so much fun why’re you always like this when you get back?”

“I know you don’t get it. There are lots of things you don’t get, Kev.”

“Look, I don’t want to get into a fight about this again.  You do it until you realize there’s no point.  I’ll support you…” her hair in his hand, “as long as you like.”  He kisses her neck and she turns away towards the television; there is a commercial for laundry soap.

“There’s always a point.  Good or bad, there’s always a point.”

“Don’t get poetic on me now, Mel, or I’ll really be lost.”  He sits beside her and holds her hand.  “You know I care about you, babe.  I just want you happy.  Is it too much to ask to see you happy?”

She crinkles the corner of her mouth and allows him to kiss her, softly then with increasing pressure.  He gets high along her thigh before she pulls away.  Kevin pleads and he charms; she relents.  Mel stares past his glistening ear and dark hair and she notices that a stain on the ceiling is shaped like a dog paddling along a lake, probably looking for a stick that was never there.

God, look at that sun shine. The sun is beautiful. Hell, everything is beautiful. The rows of multicolored columns in my bookshelf are beautiful. That black spider currying up the wall in the corner is beautiful. The smell of last night’s General Cho’s Chicken served over white rice is beautiful. Everything under the sky in heaven and above the fires in hell is absolutely, unbelievably beautiful. But these are just small observations whose beauty is amplified by the presence of the true beauty that lies beside me, with her arm resting across my stomach and her head on my chest. Her mix of dark and highlit strands swept behind her head and to the side, near my armpit. A thigh over my leg, a slender foot resting on my shin. The smell of her sweat, smell of her hair. All of it, every bit. Beautiful.

“Will God forgive us for what we’re doing?” A wind chime, singing the melodies of the angels by way of the heavenly voice from between her two thin pink lips. I’m so caught up in the beauty of existence that I don’t listen.

“What?”

“I asked, will God forgive us for what we’re doing?”

She’s joking, I’m sure. It’s just such a strange thing to ask. But, as she pulls away to look at me, I see that she’s not smiling. In fact, she looks pretty damn serious about it. I take a deep breath, making sure my chest rises and settles, and move my arm higher until I can feel her shoulder blade against the hair on my forearm. It’s something I’ve learned over the years; show that you’re listening when you don’t know what to say.

Finally, I realize I may as well voice what’s in my mind

“What do you mean, ‘will God forgive us’?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “I mean, do you think He’ll forgive us? You know, for having sex?”

Forgive us for having sex? Having sex? What is she, fifteen? She wants forgiveness for experiencing the most beautiful, intimate, passionate aspect of human existence? How can she even think of that now, as we lie together in bed, draped over one another as two bodies melded into one. And good lord, look at her eyes…

“Why would he have to forgive us? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe you don’t think we’ve done something wrong, but He says we have.”

This is getting funny.

“He ‘says,’ really? Did he speak to you?”

“Of coure not. Please don’t mock me. My relationship with God means a lot to me.”

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. “I just don’t get the question. Are you saying this feels wrong to you? Am I evil to you? Do you think I’m here to corrupt your soul?”

“Well, you are being really harsh about it.” The rims of her eyelids are glistening. “You know I’m a Christian.”

I do? I must’ve missed that during the preamble last night.

“It means a lot to me, okay? Please, just tell me what you think. Will God forgive us?”

She’s joking. She has to be. “Look, I get it. You’re a religious person. But you’re kidding, right?”

She pulls away from me then, moving her one leg to the floor followed by the other. Hair draped around her face as she peers down for a second to ensure her footing, then uses her arm to push herself upright. I’m lying there on my back, naked, watching as she climbs over me; there is not a thought in my head.

She walks her dainty self to the other end of the room. Pitter, her feet pitter across the floor. Pumf, pumf, pumf. The soft heel-toe that only small and delicate girls can accomplish. Breasts don’t pitter, but just slightly jiggle. Hers aren’t as large as others, so it’s just slightly. Watching her thighs clench, buttocks tighten with every pumf. She pitters across the hardwood floor of my apartment. Past the corner of the bed, near the fridge and bathroom door. She’s going for the bookshelf?

Her fingers touch on the books, from one to the next.

“Where’s your Bible?”

Fuck me, she is not kidding. And how does she know I even have a Bible?

“Why?”

“I want to read you a passage.” Amazing. She’s actually going to go for a sermon.

“Why does it fuckin’ matter?” Really, why does it? “I suppose the rule is no sex before marriage? So, we’re breakin’ religious law. What’re we to do now? Repent? Kneel and beg for his almighty fuckin’ mercy?”

“You don’t have to shout, or curse.”

I’m shouting?

“Yes, you are, and it’s very disrespectful.”

For a couple of moments I relapse, and it’s Sunday school all over again. I see the steeple of the church as I did every Sunday morning for years. The sheen of those colored stained glass windows in the early morning sun staring out over the crowd of people below, waiting for the doors to open for Sunday service. My parents and older brother go to the area with the picnic tables and talk to the adults while my little sister and I are sent to the large building next to the church where they teach about God and the Bible. The lower half of the walls painted brown and the upper half painted beige along with the majority of the building. We shuffle in and memorize poems that teach us lessons while Mrs. Mallory scolds us if we talk during reading time or form the wrong cross with our thumbs and index fingers. But I’m only there for a few of moments before I turn my attention to the sweet little Bible thumper working her way through my miniature library.

“Look, this is ridiculous. Come back to bed. It’s early, it’s sunny,” at least it was, “and you and I can talk this out without resorting to spouting scripture. Will you come back?”

Not a word. Where’s the effusive gal who smiled playfully when I asked her if she knew what the fish in the tank behind the bartender were thinking.

“What are they thinking?” she’d asked.

“They’re thinking, ‘What’re the tall fellow and gorgeous gal sitting at that bar thinking?’”

She’d laughed, even grinned. She didn’t have to, but she did. Where’s the girl who told me about her escapades as a rambunctious college student and accepted the drinks I bought? She wasn’t a prude about discussing the sexual repression of women in the Middle East. Where’d she go? I want her back.

She finds it on her own. The Bible, which I’ve been promising myself to read (eventually), is brand new if slightly dusty. It’s one of those study bibles with footnotes which may as well be titled “The Bible for Dummies.”

“Have you ever even read this?” She’s leafing through the pages now, that same serious expression still twisting the beauty of the smile that shined down on me no more than an hour ago. She settles on a page and looks up, holding the book with one hand and using the index finger from her other hand to keep her place.

“You have heard that the law of Moses says, Do not commit adultery. But I say, anyone who even looks at a woman with lust in his eye has already committed adultery with her in his heart. So if your eye – even if it is your good eye – causes you to lust, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”

She pauses to glance at me. I have no words. I’m not even here.

“And if your hand – even if it is your stronger hand – causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”

She pauses again, holding the opened book against her flattened stomach and ribs. The cover of the book rests just an inch or two below her breasts.

“So I ask you, again: Will God forgive us for what we’re doing?”

She’s fucking naked! She’s giving me a sermon and standing there at the foot of the bed with the Bible in her hand pressed against her stomach, and she’s fuckin’ naked. God, this moment is beautiful. I could cum (again) thinking of this moment. If my mind were a VHS tape… well, you know about the worn out points in VHS tapes.

She shakes her head gently, places the Bible back on the bookshelf, and turns around. Son of a bitch, she’s picking up her clothes.

“Wait, wait! Yes, all right? God’s going to forgive us. We are sharing our love with one another – physically and spiritually. That can’t be wrong.”

She slips on her panties, the lacy black pair that landed on the counter in the middle of the night. I’m losing her.

“We can pray! I mean, that’s how it works, isn’t it? We pray for forgiveness.”

Slinking back into the black dress. She pulls it up to her waist, stomach and chest still bared. One arm beneath a strap.

“I didn’t ask you to pray. I asked you if you thought God would forgive–”

“And I said I think he would.” Sitting on the edge of the bed now, the sheet over my lap. “He will forgive us, because as I said we’ve done nothing wrong. We are two people, and for a night we shared ourselves. Please,” patting the bed, “come back.”

That one strap over her shoulder, looking me in the eyes like someone looks at a faraway sign or really tiny words. I don’t know what to say.

She sighs and quickly pulls up the other strap. “The blood of the wicked can be as sweet as virgin honey.”

What? What kind of response is that?

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You’re a weak man, sweetie. You should work on that.” She smiles. She fucking smiles, then looks away and puts on her flats. The dainty feet don’t pitter as she walks to the door and shuts it, loudly, behind her.

I’m sitting on my bed, wondering what the hell just happened, and all I can think is “fuckin’ God.”

She said it would not take too long, all the make-up and the clothes and the hair, but it took too long.  Forty five minutes too long.  The barbecue would not miss us, but I would miss the first chance at the bacon-wrapped hot dogs.  Those don’t last very long at one of these barbecue events and they certainly wait for no man who waits for his girlfriend.  All I can do is idle in despair from the kitchen to the living room, occasionally glancing at the clock on the mantle to see if it matches the clock on my wrist.  Patience is not one of my virtues.

Nor, evidently, is memory.

Sylvia finally walks out and I’m reminded of why I never mind that she takes so long to get ready.  Her unusually shimmery brown hair (byproduct of a costly kitchen skylight) is tied back and away from her shoulders in a simple ponytail, which allows the purple sweater-blouse thing to show off what she knows she has in ample supply.  The black denim wrapped around her legs stretches and creases to the point of vulgarity.  As she nonchalantly approaches I note that her demure eyes and steady, low-heeled step show no sign of remorse.  Barbecue, even bacon-wrapped barbecue, means less to her than the presence and air of a beautifully tardy woman.

And yet, no matter the depth of my observations, I have to ask.

“What took so long?”

She smirks and picks up her oversized wallet.  “I could not find the address that you lost, and then I had to get directions online.”

I’m certain the humility on my face is missed as I turn away in a faint toward the door.  “It’s what I get for writing things on matchbooks.”

“Spending time at the bar, are you?”  More curiosity than accusation in her tone, but too much experience with the latter puts me on the defensive.

“Just passing time with the boss.  It got us invited to his house for this didn’t it?”

“Yes,” she says.  “It did.”  I hold the door for her and pretend not to notice the glare as she steps out into the sun.  The afternoon wanes and almost beckons us to the car for more moments of awkward bliss.

Car silence is unlike any other kind.  The space only allows for so much lack of sound to exist before it is echoed back, worsened by the proximity of sounds outside the car.  The honk of a horn is all too loud and the reverberation of every engine creates a very small space in which to sit silently and avoid speaking.  To prevent agitation at what should be a pleasant gathering I decide to burst the bubble.

“Do you suppose President Bush could have defeated the Batman during his presidency?”

She turns to look at me and I can feel the retort building, but being in our ripe old twenties we have learned to avoid the argumentative pitfalls that young couples fall into.  She gets my meaning and turns back to the windshield.

“Only if Bush conscripts Batman and fiendishly masterminds a plot in which Batman believes he is fighting a foreign enemy and unknowingly defeats himself.”

I tell her that I don’t believe Bush could have done that on his own.

“What did he ever?”  I see her smiling in the windshield.  My day is suddenly dramatically improved.  The sun’s rays are therapeutic, the honking horns are music, and the barbecue, bacon-wrapped or otherwise, will be that much sweeter.

My hand rests on her thigh as we sit in traffic and watch the backs of other cars.  She looks to the side, where fields of rooftops appear beyond the concrete banks.  Her eyes dart from one to the next, searching for one that could be like the one that will someday be ours.  Sylvia’s eyes behind darkly shimmering glass.  I squeeze the coarse black denim beneath my hand.  Her muscle flexes responsively.

The sun stares at us in the million-mile stretch.  More waiting.

“Give me your hand for a second.”

She turns to look at me, hesitates.  “Why?” she asks.  I still surprise her.

I tell her I’m curious.

Sylvia’s hand rises and hangs in the air, limp fingers pointing to the silent CD player.  Her hand is small, light.  Nails are manicured, crafted by a Korean artisan of local renown.  Tiny lines and wrinkles where the joints meet.  As I run my hand along the surface the fine hairs act as conduits, bring a series of moments into view.  Memories of a dip in the water before she dives in.  Holding a purse.  Gently nestling a glass between the fingers and cradling it on her palm.  A smile through orbed glass.  A fine hand, with many memories to its credit.

“Your hand is the start,” I say, moving further along her arm.  Slightly thicker hairs line her forearm.  Soft wrinkles on the inside of her elbow.  “It’s the start of the path.”  Up along her bare arm, toward the purple fabric that begins at her shoulder.  Her eyes follow my hand until she moves.

“No, no,” says Sylvia.  “We’re on hands.”  She takes me and moves me back down to the start.  Holds me still.  “We’re at the starting line.”

“Why?” I ask.  She purses her lips, and thinks.

I wait.

“To get a sense of where we are,” she finally says.

“To torture me,” I tell her.  I hold her and feel her palm with my thumb, gently kneading.  “Your hand is too enticing.  It pulls me into you, into your heart.”

She chuckles at me then. It only hurts a little, and I don’t allow it to show.  “You are too preoccupied with the heart,” she says.  “Right now, right here, just focus on my hand.”  She brings my hand back down to her thigh, placed over hers.

I tell her I’ll try.

Holding her hand I look at it, swaying forward as the car stops again.  It is then that I catch a glimpse of my hand over hers.  It is a worn hand.  Marks along the surface.  Veins.  Hair and tendons moving at the slightest twitch of a finger.  My unevenly colored hide in stark contrast to her smoothly pale skin.

“Look at my hand.”

“What about it?” she asks.

“Look at it.  There are wrinkles.  Hair.  Ridges and dents and scars.  It’s the ugliest hand I’ve ever seen.  How could you possibly allow me to touch you?”

She looks down at my hand and pulls away, repositioning her own hand over mine.  Most hands are warm.  Hers is searing.

“Because it is your hand,” she says.  “I don’t allow you to touch me.”  She turns and her lips brush against mine as she kisses the side of my face.

“I want you to touch me,” she whispers.

Reassurance.

She returns to her side and looks at me.  Several feet of asphalt pass underneath as we sit in pleasant silence, quite unlike the beginning of our drive.  A 65 MPH sign moves from the front to the side to slightly behind.

She holds me in her silence until she finally speaks.  “Your hand is yours. I’ve watched you use your hand.  I’ve felt you.  It is rough, and wrinkly, and hairy.  Your hand is yours, and after all this time it’s also mine.”  She brings my hand up to her chest.

“I could do whatever I want with my hand,” she says.

I nod.

She raises our hand to her mouth.  A gentle press of lips on hairy, dented skin.

Black ruffled dress, dark hat and ribbons flowing, one fishnet sleeve on the left arm, the right as bare as all sin, and hands as liquid love.  She steps into the fading rays of an overcast day looking out over the baked denizens of aural delight who appear for one show and witness another in the towering Goddess and her shorter white escort.  The pig-tailed delight grows tall, tall to heaven, and fills the room when there are no walls.  Smiles as she mingles in the crowd of onlookers and pauses when one of them wants a memento.  They all watch her walk along the path between the bodies, elegantly, and so easily that it makes them wish they could be as tall as the Goddess and hopefully half as beautiful in a tattered Victorian rag.  They never will, not like her, and she is blessed in this fact.

The trick to the grand show is in the crinkle.  No one notices, but that is where it is.  She looks down at a child as she looks down at a man and the crinkle at the corner of her mouth catches them all by surprise.  The Goddess smiles down upon them and they thank her silently.  It makes her like them and above them, above them all.

A little girl waves and the Goddess slows time as she waves back, left and right and right and left, fingers flowing as threads in space, and she is lost.  Visions of blinding sunlight and starshine filling her eyes.  A kingdom, far from here, far from now, and she knows that she is meant to be there.  She can almost reach it, high as she is.  It is there, and she can smell the burning embers of the warm fire that she must deserve for being here, and being beautiful and tall and elegant.  She does not just parade herself; she dwells among them.  She brings such joy into their hearts.  They love her so much and no one else understands that the Goddess presents the possibilities of endless beauty and in her steady lumbering stride she brings them all into her bubble, into her world.  She is good to them and they do not demand anything of her because they love her, even if they do not speak it aloud.

A mere thundering boom cracks the bubble, and a little girl’s attention is called to the stage back on the world’s surface.

Performers – men with guitars and women on tambourines – on stage to begin their show where the crowd begins to form upon them.  The grandest woman, the goddess, walks beside them, unnoticed and a distant memory.  A photograph, a smile, a caress of a hand – her remains among the people who dwelled in her space (for a time) and lifted her to great heights.  Her divinity crushed by so much interference and mic checks.

She dawdles along, out of view, and her companion closely in tow until they come upon a barren dirt-topped layover behind the food service tents.

“Hey,” says the Goddess.  “How’s your leg?”

The shorter white lovely reaches down, undoing straps one and the other, then lowers herself further until she is mere human.  She smiles up at the Goddess and touches upon her thigh.

“It’s not too bad, just needed time off the poles.”

“Yea, well don’t push it.”

She mustn’t, or risk not returning to her place in heaven.

“Yea I know.  I’ll keep off it this week, I promise.”  The woman, a deceptively small blonde beneath a curtain of powder, gathers her legs and walks toward the parking lot as she waves goodbye.

“You want to come?” she adds.  “I’m meeting Steph for dinner.”

“No,” says the Goddess.  “No, I’m okay.  I need to go to the store and pick up a few things.”

“Okay.  Call me tomorrow?”

The black-ruffled Goddess nods and says goodbye.

The sun rolls along the glass dome as the thunder above gets louder, and the cheers fill the air all around.  The Goddess’ strands fall free and slide across her face when the wind hugs her and urges her to stay where it can be with her.  She glances out across the top of the tents and sees a girl perched atop a young man’s shoulders, arms high in the air.  Beyond is a woman in a long coat coaxing a high-pitched screech from smoke-choked lungs.

The Goddess tells the wind “no” before loosening the straps and lowering herself.  The noises below envelop her further, all that she is.

Smiles and screams for the siren usurper.

Dirt gathers along the fringes of her dress; the woman in the black dress yawns.  What a glorious dream… what a glorious day.  Her feet ache and the red sheen upon her face reminds her of what she forgot.  She enters an empty tent and lifts her black bag from a pile.  The black dress, and the hat, and single fishnet sleeve come off.  Torn jeans and a t-shirt that reads TIDE then adorn her and make her more human than she cares to consider.  The ribbons in her hair fall to the ground as she shakes her curls loose and sighs through her nose.  Beer in a cooler keeps her company until she must leave.  Bitter and calming, like a sweet embrace from a hated friend.

When the day ends the workers dismantle the stage and ravel the cords, criss-crossing across the grounds where hoppers and dancers and arm flailers bounced to the music and lived for the moment.  As life resumes and the future beckons the revelers depart and leave behind the sense of wonder and freedom inside the beer cans, cigarette butts, and rumpled paper bags on the grass.

The woman in torn jeans and a t-shirt exits the tent and she is Mel.  No longer the Goddess… no longer above.  Long aluminum poles in hand, she exits the tent and waves to familiars on her way to the parking lot.  Her brown Honda Accord with the faded hood and red tape for a taillight does not beckon nor carry her on wings of golden feathered silk to the birthplace of light and the eternal loving embrace.  She drives among people, and cars, and dirty little animals, until she stops at a store near her home.

“That’ll be three-fifty,” says the clerk.

A bottle of sunblock in a bag on the front seat as she drives to her apartment over the hill on La Brea, near Hollywood where dreams go to die.  Near Hollywood where her boyfriend Kevin finds her tired and not in the mood.

“C’mon, Mel.  Look at you.  I don’t get why you keep doing this.  You come back tired and depressed every time.  If this stilts shit is so much fun why’re you always like this when you get back?”

“I know you don’t get it. There are lots of things you don’t get, Kev.”

“Look, I don’t want to get into a fight about this again.  You do it until you realize there’s no point.  I’ll support you…” her hair in his hand, “as long as you like.”  He kisses her neck and she turns away towards the television; there is a commercial for laundry soap.

“There’s always a point.  Good or bad, there’s always a point.”

“Don’t get poetic on me now, Mel, or I’ll really be lost.”  He sits beside her and holds her hand.  “You know I care about you, babe.  I just want you happy.  Is it too much to ask to see you happy?”

She crinkles the corner of her mouth and allows him to kiss her, softly then with increasing pressure.  He gets high along her thigh before she pulls away.  Kevin pleads and he charms; she relents.  Mel stares past his glistening ear and dark hair and she notices that a stain on the ceiling is shaped like a dog paddling along a lake, probably looking for a stick that was never there.

God, look at that sun shine. The sun is beautiful. Hell, everything is beautiful. The rows of multicolored columns in my bookshelf are beautiful. That black spider currying up the wall in the corner is beautiful. The smell of last night’s General Cho’s Chicken served over white rice is beautiful. Everything under the sky in heaven and above the fires in hell is absolutely, unbelievably beautiful. But these are just small observations whose beauty is amplified by the presence of the true beauty that lies beside me, with her arm resting across my stomach and her head on my chest. Her mix of dark and highlit strands swept behind her head and to the side, near my armpit. A thigh over my leg, a slender foot resting on my shin. The smell of her sweat, smell of her hair. All of it, every bit. Beautiful.

“Will God forgive us for what we’re doing?” A wind chime, singing the melodies of the angels by way of the heavenly voice from between her two thin pink lips. I’m so caught up in the beauty of existence that I don’t listen.

“What?”

“I asked, will God forgive us for what we’re doing?”

She’s joking, I’m sure. It’s just such a strange thing to ask. But, as she pulls away to look at me, I see that she’s not smiling. In fact, she looks pretty damn serious about it. I take a deep breath, making sure my chest rises and settles, and move my arm higher until I can feel her shoulder blade against the hair on my forearm. It’s something I’ve learned over the years; show that you’re listening when you don’t know what to say.

Finally, I realize I may as well voice what’s in my mind

“What do you mean, ‘will God forgive us’?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “I mean, do you think He’ll forgive us? You know, for having sex?”

Forgive us for having sex? Having sex? What is she, fifteen? She wants forgiveness for experiencing the most beautiful, intimate, passionate aspect of human existence? How can she even think of that now, as we lie together in bed, draped over one another as two bodies melded into one. And good lord, look at her eyes…

“Why would he have to forgive us? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe you don’t think we’ve done something wrong, but He says we have.”

This is getting funny.

“He ‘says,’ really? Did he speak to you?”

“Of coure not. Please don’t mock me. My relationship with God means a lot to me.”

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. “I just don’t get the question. Are you saying this feels wrong to you? Am I evil to you? Do you think I’m here to corrupt your soul?”

“Well, you are being really harsh about it.” The rims of her eyelids are glistening. “You know I’m a Christian.”

I do? I must’ve missed that during the preamble last night.

“It means a lot to me, okay? Please, just tell me what you think. Will God forgive us?”

She’s joking. She has to be. “Look, I get it. You’re a religious person. But you’re kidding, right?”

She pulls away from me then, moving her one leg to the floor followed by the other. Hair draped around her face as she peers down for a second to ensure her footing, then uses her arm to push herself upright. I’m lying there on my back, naked, watching as she climbs over me; there is not a thought in my head.

She walks her dainty self to the other end of the room. Pitter, her feet pitter across the floor. Pumf, pumf, pumf. The soft heel-toe that only small and delicate girls can accomplish. Breasts don’t pitter, but just slightly jiggle. Hers aren’t as large as others, so it’s just slightly. Watching her thighs clench, buttocks tighten with every pumf. She pitters across the hardwood floor of my apartment. Past the corner of the bed, near the fridge and bathroom door. She’s going for the bookshelf?

Her fingers touch on the books, from one to the next.

“Where’s your Bible?”

Fuck me, she is not kidding. And how does she know I even have a Bible?

“Why?”

“I want to read you a passage.” Amazing. She’s actually going to go for a sermon.

“Why does it fuckin’ matter?” Really, why does it? “I suppose the rule is no sex before marriage? So, we’re breakin’ religious law. What’re we to do now? Repent? Kneel and beg for his almighty fuckin’ mercy?”

“You don’t have to shout, or curse.”

I’m shouting?

“Yes, you are, and it’s very disrespectful.”

For a couple of moments I relapse, and it’s Sunday school all over again. I see the steeple of the church as I did every Sunday morning for years. The sheen of those colored stained glass windows in the early morning sun staring out over the crowd of people below, waiting for the doors to open for Sunday service. My parents and older brother go to the area with the picnic tables and talk to the adults while my little sister and I are sent to the large building next to the church where they teach about God and the Bible. The lower half of the walls painted brown and the upper half painted beige along with the majority of the building. We shuffle in and memorize poems that teach us lessons while Mrs. Mallory scolds us if we talk during reading time or form the wrong cross with our thumbs and index fingers. But I’m only there for a few of moments before I turn my attention to the sweet little Bible thumper working her way through my miniature library.

“Look, this is ridiculous. Come back to bed. It’s early, it’s sunny,” at least it was, “and you and I can talk this out without resorting to spouting scripture. Will you come back?”

Not a word. Where’s the effusive gal who smiled playfully when I asked her if she knew what the fish in the tank behind the bartender were thinking.

“What are they thinking?” she’d asked.

“They’re thinking, ‘What’re the tall fellow and gorgeous gal sitting at that bar thinking?’”

She’d laughed, even grinned. She didn’t have to, but she did. Where’s the girl who told me about her escapades as a rambunctious college student and accepted the drinks I bought? She wasn’t a prude about discussing the sexual repression of women in the Middle East. Where’d she go? I want her back.

She finds it on her own. The Bible, which I’ve been promising myself to read (eventually), is brand new if slightly dusty. It’s one of those study bibles with footnotes which may as well be titled “The Bible for Dummies.”

“Have you ever even read this?” She’s leafing through the pages now, that same serious expression still twisting the beauty of the smile that shined down on me no more than an hour ago. She settles on a page and looks up, holding the book with one hand and using the index finger from her other hand to keep her place.

“You have heard that the law of Moses says, Do not commit adultery. But I say, anyone who even looks at a woman with lust in his eye has already committed adultery with her in his heart. So if your eye – even if it is your good eye – causes you to lust, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”

She pauses to glance at me. I have no words. I’m not even here.

“And if your hand – even if it is your stronger hand – causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”

She pauses again, holding the opened book against her flattened stomach and ribs. The cover of the book rests just an inch or two below her breasts.

“So I ask you, again: Will God forgive us for what we’re doing?”

She’s fucking naked! She’s giving me a sermon and standing there at the foot of the bed with the Bible in her hand pressed against her stomach, and she’s fuckin’ naked. God, this moment is beautiful. I could cum (again) thinking of this moment. If my mind were a VHS tape… well, you know about the worn out points in VHS tapes.

She shakes her head gently, places the Bible back on the bookshelf, and turns around. Son of a bitch, she’s picking up her clothes.

“Wait, wait! Yes, all right? God’s going to forgive us. We are sharing our love with one another – physically and spiritually. That can’t be wrong.”

She slips on her panties, the lacy black pair that landed on the counter in the middle of the night. I’m losing her.

“We can pray! I mean, that’s how it works, isn’t it? We pray for forgiveness.”

Slinking back into the black dress. She pulls it up to her waist, stomach and chest still bared. One arm beneath a strap.

“I didn’t ask you to pray. I asked you if you thought God would forgive–”

“And I said I think he would.” Sitting on the edge of the bed now, the sheet over my lap. “He will forgive us, because as I said we’ve done nothing wrong. We are two people, and for a night we shared ourselves. Please,” patting the bed, “come back.”

That one strap over her shoulder, looking me in the eyes like someone looks at a faraway sign or really tiny words. I don’t know what to say.

She sighs and quickly pulls up the other strap. “The blood of the wicked can be as sweet as virgin honey.”

What? What kind of response is that?

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You’re a weak man, sweetie. You should work on that.” She smiles. She fucking smiles, then looks away and puts on her flats. The dainty feet don’t pitter as she walks to the door and shuts it, loudly, behind her.

I’m sitting on my bed, wondering what the hell just happened, and all I can think is “fuckin’ God.”

“You don’t mind if I take this seat, do you?”

“No,” says Paula.

“Oh, good.”  The tall man smiles, and he is blonde, and he is older.  His suit screams of class; her clothes scream indifference.  It’s only a sports bar at ten-thirteen at night.

“A glass of Merlot, please.”  His order screams of class as well.  Paula’s beer is looking mighty dull at this point.  He is alone—no woman.  A business man.

He swirls the wine in the glass, takes a whiff.  “God, it’s so warm out there, isn’t it?”

“A little bit.”

He thanks the bartender for bringing the wine, then glances at the television she stares at.  The game’s over, and only highlights are played.  Night at a bar in the airport.  His face has lines and freckles.  It looks comfortably worn.  Friendly.

“So where are you headed?” she asks.

He turns back to Paula, smiles again.  Perfectly combed hair.  His shoes shine like the brass bar below them.

She hears D.C., and purses her lips as she nods her head.  “Good place, I hear.”

“Yea,” he says.   “It’s great.  Though it’s somewhat difficult to get around.”  Only in a bar, and only at an airport.

“How so?”

“Well, people drive like maniacs.”

“Don’t go to L.A.,” she says.

“Why?”

“Driving,” she says, “is not easy to manage.  Strange that it’s required of every human being within the county limits.”

He delivers an uneasy smile.  Too many beers already on her tab.

“Come now.  Are you perhaps being melodramatic?”

Paula is not being melodramatic.  He waits and then glances across the bar to the rows of bottles.

“Well, I have been there.  It’s not that the driving is bad, it’s just odd.  Likewise, D.C. is very odd.”

“What’s odd in D.C.?” she asks.

“Driving… the people.  Very pressured lifestyle, you know?  I’ll often just find myself walking on streets in the middle of the night to free the mind a bit.  It can be overwhelming.”  One of those.  Opens up easy, like a flower in the morning dewlight.

Paula says, “huh.”

He says he was visiting a sister.  Probably another Nordic beauty, like him.

“How was she?”

“Good.  She just recently moved out there.”

Her eyes are on the television.  The Lakers are not doing well.  A shame.

“So why is driving a pain in D.C.?”

“Ah well, everything is different.  I’m just not used to it, I suppose.  I tell my wife that…”

Wife.  Unimportant.  Something about a Mercedes.

The bartender says, “Your tuna melt and fries,” and she says “Wrap that up to go, please.  And give me a shot of Jack.”

Paula drinks the shot and smiles; she has to go catch her flight.  He smiles back and says it was nice to meet her.  The momentary pause of consideration and wonder is lost in an instant as a loud paper bag is dragged along a bar and placed in a messenger bag, destined for the overhead storage compartment of an Embraer ERJ 145 on its way to Seattle.

She sits in the airport terminal for forty-five minutes and watches the lights slowly roll by the window as the arrivals are taxied into position.

A dimly lit airplane in the middle of the night is a den of philosophers.  Travelers attempt to sleep as they reflect on the past and consider the future in the context of traveling aboard a time capsule.  They enter, they sit, and just as quickly as they take off, they arrive at their destination.  These people had lives and fly quickly back to those lives, but in the airplane in the middle of the night they are frozen.  The forty-four minds are momentarily contained.  The man in the brown waist-coat and spectacles reads the card detailing the airplane’s emergency procedures as if he intends to follow the procedures if the plane were to fall over the Cascades stretching north below them, as if he were not going to panic and groan to the Lord to save him.  The tanned German teenager and her boyfriend in the pink hooded sweatshirt talk softly among themselves, holding secret conversations and expressing what seem like hidden desires but are in actuality thoughts about the parents they left behind in order to take a vacation.  Paula, too, is deep in thought and passes the time by assuming and gleaning secrets about those around her.

Beyond a cough and a whisper there is silence, but silence screams loudest of all when every mind is abuzz with possibility and regret.  Those left behind are remembered and those waiting for them are considered.  The lights outside the window are few and far between, partially obscured by the engine located at the rear of the craft where she has been seated.  Thunderous noise is not so noticeable when it is constant, and the silence remains undisturbed.

They do not serve meals on this flight.

The bus stop in front of an empty airport terminal at night is mostly devoid of life.  Few people come and quickly go as they ride away in a taxi or hotel bus.  There is no bus or taxi for her.  She sits at the end of the curve in the road and watches the windows for approaching headlights from around the bend.

The air is cold here.  Paula wonders if pigeons fly at night.

Buildings are cold and lifeless and they are designed for efficiency, a trait that is as useless to the heart of the mind as wings on an elephant.  She is patient to an extent and impatient enough to sit, then stand, then pace from one end of the walkway to the other.  Time passes in hours at first, then minutes.

As she ponders an action and all possible reactions she rests her hand on a messenger bag and finds strange warmth.  Velcro tears open and inside is the wonderful smell of a tuna melt and fries.  Flashes of hunger spring into her and the plastic box is torn open.  Buttered bread, now soggy, slides into her hands.  The aroma of shredded tuna fish whipped and spread with a tangy mayonnaise across the thick toast fills her nostrils and cause Paula to raise her head to the air for a heavy dose.  A cold breeze blows through an aluminum bus stop’s slatted walls and moments later the tuna melt is in her hands and in her mouth, vanishing one bite at a time and difficult to swallow as she forces the clumps of softened food and wishes she had accepted the water bottle aboard the flight.  The tuna melt is gone in the span of a few minutes and the warm stale fries shortly thereafter.  She sits for a while as her esophagus is cleared and she returns to herself in the cold night at a bus stop at an airport.  Reality is mere fantasy when there is nothing to keep a person grounded.

As the cold surrounds her she reaches into a gray nylon sack and removes from it a white towel, using it to envelop herself in shallow warmth.  The white towel stands out against the surface of the night’s cloak, and she stares at the windows waiting for headlights that will never come.

“They’re always married,” she mumbles.

“You don’t mind if I take this seat, do you?”

“No,” says Paula.

“Oh, good.”  The tall man smiles, and he is blonde, and he is older.  His suit screams of class; her clothes scream indifference.  It’s only a sports bar at ten-thirteen at night.

“A glass of Merlot, please.”  His order screams of class as well.  Paula’s beer is looking mighty dull at this point.  He is alone—no woman.  A business man.

He swirls the wine in the glass, takes a whiff.  “God, it’s so warm out there, isn’t it?”

“A little bit.”

He thanks the bartender for bringing the wine, then glances at the television she stares at.  The game’s over, and only highlights are played.  Night at a bar in the airport.  His face has lines and freckles.  It looks comfortably worn.  Friendly.

“So where are you headed?” she asks.

He turns back to Paula, smiles again.  Perfectly combed hair.  His shoes shine like the brass bar below them.

She hears D.C., and purses her lips as she nods her head.  “Good place, I hear.”

“Yea,” he says.   “It’s great.  Though it’s somewhat difficult to get around.”  Only in a bar, and only at an airport.

“How so?”

“Well, people drive like maniacs.”

“Don’t go to L.A.,” she says.

“Why?”

“Driving,” she says, “is not easy to manage.  Strange that it’s required of every human being within the county limits.”

He delivers an uneasy smile.  Too many beers already on her tab.

“Come now.  Are you perhaps being melodramatic?”

Paula is not being melodramatic.  He waits and then glances across the bar to the rows of bottles.

“Well, I have been there.  It’s not that the driving is bad, it’s just odd.  Likewise, D.C. is very odd.”

“What’s odd in D.C.?” she asks.

“Driving… the people.  Very pressured lifestyle, you know?  I’ll often just find myself walking on streets in the middle of the night to free the mind a bit.  It can be overwhelming.”  One of those.  Opens up easy, like a flower in the morning dewlight.

Paula says, “huh.”

He says he was visiting a sister.  Probably another Nordic beauty, like him.

“How was she?”

“Good.  She just recently moved out there.”

Her eyes are on the television.  The Lakers are not doing well.  A shame.

“So why is driving a pain in D.C.?”

“Ah well, everything is different.  I’m just not used to it, I suppose.  I tell my wife that…”

Wife.  Unimportant.  Something about a Mercedes.

The bartender says, “Your tuna melt and fries,” and she says “Wrap that up to go, please.  And give me a shot of Jack.”

Paula drinks the shot and smiles; she has to go catch her flight.  He smiles back and says it was nice to meet her.  The momentary pause of consideration and wonder is lost in an instant as a loud paper bag is dragged along a bar and placed in a messenger bag, destined for the overhead storage compartment of an Embraer ERJ 145 on its way to Seattle.

She sits in the airport terminal for forty-five minutes and watches the lights slowly roll by the window as the arrivals are taxied into position.

A dimly lit airplane in the middle of the night is a den of philosophers.  Travelers attempt to sleep as they reflect on the past and consider the future in the context of traveling aboard a time capsule.  They enter, they sit, and just as quickly as they take off, they arrive at their destination.  These people had lives and fly quickly back to those lives, but in the airplane in the middle of the night they are frozen.  The forty-four minds are momentarily contained.  The man in the brown waist-coat and spectacles reads the card detailing the airplane’s emergency procedures as if he intends to follow the procedures if the plane were to fall over the Cascades stretching north below them, as if he were not going to panic and groan to the Lord to save him.  The tanned German teenager and her boyfriend in the pink hooded sweatshirt talk softly among themselves, holding secret conversations and expressing what seem like hidden desires but are in actuality thoughts about the parents they left behind in order to take a vacation.  Paula, too, is deep in thought and passes the time by assuming and gleaning secrets about those around her.

Beyond a cough and a whisper there is silence, but silence screams loudest of all when every mind is abuzz with possibility and regret.  Those left behind are remembered and those waiting for them are considered.  The lights outside the window are few and far between, partially obscured by the engine located at the rear of the craft where she has been seated.  Thunderous noise is not so noticeable when it is constant, and the silence remains undisturbed.

They do not serve meals on this flight.

The bus stop in front of an empty airport terminal at night is mostly devoid of life.  Few people come and quickly go as they ride away in a taxi or hotel bus.  There is no bus or taxi for her.  She sits at the end of the curve in the road and watches the windows for approaching headlights from around the bend.

The air is cold here.  Paula wonders if pigeons fly at night.

Buildings are cold and lifeless and they are designed for efficiency, a trait that is as useless to the heart of the mind as wings on an elephant.  She is patient to an extent and impatient enough to sit, then stand, then pace from one end of the walkway to the other.  Time passes in hours at first, then minutes.

As she ponders an action and all possible reactions she rests her hand on a messenger bag and finds strange warmth.  Velcro tears open and inside is the wonderful smell of a tuna melt and fries.  Flashes of hunger spring into her and the plastic box is torn open.  Buttered bread, now soggy, slides into her hands.  The aroma of shredded tuna fish whipped and spread with a tangy mayonnaise across the thick toast fills her nostrils and cause Paula to raise her head to the air for a heavy dose.  A cold breeze blows through an aluminum bus stop’s slatted walls and moments later the tuna melt is in her hands and in her mouth, vanishing one bite at a time and difficult to swallow as she forces the clumps of softened food and wishes she had accepted the water bottle aboard the flight.  The tuna melt is gone in the span of a few minutes and the warm stale fries shortly thereafter.  She sits for a while as her esophagus is cleared and she returns to herself in the cold night at a bus stop at an airport.  Reality is mere fantasy when there is nothing to keep a person grounded.

As the cold surrounds her she reaches into a gray nylon sack and removes from it a white towel, using it to envelop herself in shallow warmth.  The white towel stands out against the surface of the night’s cloak, and she stares at the windows waiting for headlights that will never come.

“They’re always married,” she mumbles.