Comfort

He had arrived at a point when the sky was mottled in orange and it was as still as a funeral parlor.  She was on the porch, a bit of strawberry margarita in her hand.  It was a favorite drink, the perfect color for when she had her back up, her cheeks lit, her mind made.

He took the steps deliberately, one at a time.  She fixed him with her gaze, watching like a hawk spotting prey.  He sidled up to her, sat down at her knee, allowing her to be above him, in the dominant position.  He felt the heat from the floor boards, even seemingly feeling the heat of the nails in the floor boards, and felt the dust brim all around them.  It was a Texas evening, portending a night of dark skies and perfectly circled dots called stars. 

He reached around her legs, jean clad, wonderful calves, tied up in a pair of boots.  She watched him, her cold drink in her hand, glass sweating as all get-out.  She crunched ice, her eyes beaming and amused.  He was probably powerless, but he didn't feel like he should admit it.  But she already knew.

His envelopment of her calves resulted in him kissing the brim of her knee.  An arched eyebrow from her was her response. 

You are aiming way too low.   She said it with a smile, a whiplash statement, drawling out in the syrup of her voice.

He kissed the jean clad knee again.

I have got to earn this he said.

And with that, he laid his head against her legs, watching the sun burn a hole in the West.  He heard her swirling the last icicles of drink in her glass, and he felt her more than heard her put the glass down.  She touched his shoulder, there, against him.  It was a weight, a spot, a finger, a hand that belonged to her and now was against him. 

They watched the sun broil in the sky, immolating itself against an afternoon.  Heat, colors, and the rhythm of an evening collapsing in a chaos of a night.  It was a violent ending, the sun crashing in a horizon and exploding in pinks and blues, colors and hues, all seemingly resistant to the ink-blue rising rapidly to rush at their feet.

I am he started to say.

Comfortable.  She finished the sentence for him.

The Geography of Geometry

Brown is really a tertiary color, mixed with both primary and secondary ones…it is considered a low-chroma color that comes with mixing blue with yellow to make green…and then adding red to the combination until you get the desired results. 

Coming out of the northeast, crossing the Appalachians, the generally low relief of the plains is broken in several places, most notably in the Ozark and Ouachita Mountains, which form the U.S. Interior Highlands, the only major mountainous region between the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachian Mountains.  He remembered the contours of her as he sailed high above the terrain, her gentle slopes, the arches and insteps, the curvatures and geometry.  He had seen her enough times to memorize her angles, her lines, the way she walked, the silhouettes of her against an afternoon.  He knew what dresses looked best, which clothes he could remember and the colors that created her art. 

The greens of the Tennessee valley start to run golden the further west you travel, and although the land is slowly rising towards the plains it is a gentle and gradual one.  The land flattens out as the trees give way to the farms and the furrows, the ground running in tannins, leathers and wood colors.  He remembered the flatness of her belly, the smoothness of her midsection that he had seen once, casually, not intimately.  There were still areas undiscovered, places unknown, places unrevealed.

He remembered a time when he was waiting for her to get out of a car, and as she slid out and entered the bright afternoon he saw her hair and its complex array of colors and cuts.  Like painted sands, they mingled and merged and shifted in an array of golds and brass, blondes and browns. It was an innocent look and it was a deliberate one, hair cut unevenly to fall perfectly, whether windblown or rain-battered.  It created a perfect veil, almost sculpted…it was a perfect petal, tightly wrought. 

 The Great Plains come to an abrupt end at the Rocky Mountains. The Rocky Mountains form a large portion of the Western U.S., entering from Canada and stretching nearly to Mexico. The Rocky Mountain region is the highest region of the United States by average elevation. The Rocky Mountains generally contain fairly mild slopes and wider peaks compared to some of the other great mountain ranges, with a few exceptions (such as the Teton Mountains in Wyoming and the Sawatch Range in Colorado). The highest peaks of the Rockies are found in Colorado, the tallest peak being Mount Elbert at 14,440 ft (4,400 m). The Rocky Mountains contain some of the most spectacular, and well known scenery in the world. In addition, instead of being one generally continuous and solid mountain range, it is broken up into a number of smaller, intermittent mountain ranges, forming a large series of basins and valleys.

At times he felt like he as an asymptote, his line following her curve arbitrarily closely, but never touching.  For infinity.  Forever.  He could see out the window to the low curve of the horizon.  It looked like forever, the light blues turning darker as the sand colors of the earth intersected in a flat line.  It seemed very far off in the distance, and it seemed that she was twice as far as that.  The geometry of the earth keeping her far from him, the simple math that he was here and she was there.  The colors in-between them were earthen in tone, flat in terrain, sun-bleached and sometimes barren.  Left without water they would crack and crevice, and break in your hands.  This far from her he felt brittle. 

He had had exactly one dream about her, a haunting one that had left him stirred, a vision of stark perfection that was unsettling…in it they had been walking together, a dark place like a woods or a forest…he could only see her outline of her face but he knew it was her.  He had tumbled, into a hole he had thought but as he looked up at her he knew it was planned.  She hadn’t pushed him, she had merely led him to this place.  And with both hands, she began to cascade dirt upon him, slowly at first but picking up speed.  Soon, it was at his knees, and he couldn’t move.  Soon it was pinning his arms against him and soon it was near his mouth and he could smell the dark earth, feel the moisture of it against him and soon he could only look up as she pushed more and more upon him…the dirt perfectly matching the color of her eyes.

The black tires skidded and smeared rubber on the white tarmac, announcing the landing in a town far from where he had taken off.  The land here was perfectly flat, and he walked out into a collision of colors and angles, noises and temperatures and yet he found himself looking for something else, looking for something he knew would not be there.  But he wanted it to be, wanted the shape to take place in front of him, wanted the shape to stand stark against his afternoon and be waiting there for him. 

There were a thousand shapes in front of him, and none of them were her.

Awkward Goodbyes

There is a moment in a phone call, prior to it being answered, when there is a part of you that hopes it isn’t answered because you are not prepared for what to say.  Or even worse, you are not prepared to hear something that is said.

He was in New York City, high up in a hotel in a gray scattered morning that littered rain and smeared the streets.  He let the phone ring its obligatory times and then disconnected when he heard her voicemail.  A minute later she called him back.

               Good morning, he started. 

               It’s 6am she said, voice still full of sleep.  He glanced at his watch, and realized he had forgotten the time zone.  Ah shit, I’m sorry.  Go back to sleep.

               He heard her breathing, imagined her in the dark. No, it’s fine.  What did you want?

What did he want?  He wanted a lot of things.  But mostly he had wanted to merely hear her.  Mostly he wanted to know that if he was far from her, miles from her, that he could at least hear her.  

               Well, he said.  I wanted to thank you for taking me to the airport. Goddamn am I lame.  He was walking around the hotel room, a corner suite upgrade that looked out towards Chelsea.  He could see the Hudson River, the low scud of clouds making the city look like it was in the 1950s, black and white.

               You already thanked me when I dropped you off.  You called me to do it again?

               Yeah.  Yeah, I know.  I guess I needed to tell you again. 

 He heard rustling, imagining her turning in bed, the sheets caught around her.  He imagined the pillow and the scent of her against it.  He was still sweating from the run he had finished.

               I went running this morning.  It was dark and the streets were empty.  It was actually a little eerie…kind of like “I am Legend”…you know that movie with Will Smith.

               That’s the movie where he killed his dog, right?

               Yeah.

               I hated that movie.

He watched the rivulets sliding down the glass of the balcony windows…he was reminded that he had just met her recently, in a rain.  And now he was unable to find the right words.  He realized how much easier it was when she was near him.

               So…yeah, I went running.  It’s raining here.  What’s it doing in Texas?

               There was a pause, and he imagined her maybe getting up to look.

               It’s pitch black.  I can’t see shit.  It’s 6 in the morning and I’m still wondering why you called.

When he was running he kept rewinding the tape in his mind.  He kept going back to the part of the departure and he remembered he couldn’t remember all the details.

               Why did you kiss me goodbye he finally summoned.

               He heard her breathing sort of exhale.  It was like an annoyance.  He was starting to get cold as the damp shirt clung to him.  He felt a little bit like he had opened a hallway and there were a thousand shut doors.  And he had randomly chosen this one to suddenly kick in.

               What? She finally countered.

               Why did you kiss me goodbye?  I mean, why did you kiss me…on the cheek?

He didn’t hear anything.  So he asked, you still there?

               Because it’s the fucking social convention.  Because the way you were sitting it was hard for me to kiss you anywhere else.  How about because I don’t really know you and because I felt like it was the right thing to do…otherwise I could’ve shaken your hand.

               He had his forehead pressed against the great plane of glass, he could almost feel the heartbeats of rain against it.  He had merely wanted to talk to her, he had really just wanted to hear her speak.  He would have been fine if she had put the phone down and just let him listen to her, breathing, sleeping…anything.

               When I was running, it was like I couldn’t get tired.  It was like I felt like I could run all the way to where you were.  It was kind of scary, actually.  The faster I ran the faster I wanted to run…and I felt like I couldn’t get to you fast enough. I felt like I was 15…a kid, sprinting down the streets. It’s like that line in that Al Green song…you know, where he says cause you make me feel so brand new.  I just felt like…

He stopped, realizing he was adrift.  He actually tapped the phone against his head.  He wanted to hang up and start over.  The silence grew.  It was like they were speaking via telegrams…spurts of words then time and space between them.

               I kissed you on the cheek because that is how you say goodbye to somebody. 

               How do you kiss somebody hello then?

Again, the pause.  Again, the empty room.

               You kiss them the same way.  He heard the phone click and she was gone.

He showered and the rain didn’t stop coming.  If anything it got worse.  And there is no worse city than New York in the rain…there are no cabs, umbrellas crowd and spill on you and streets fill up and cascade over shoes and generally turn everything into a damp mass of wool and sweat.

His flight didn’t leave for another 4 hours but he already wanted to start getting away.  He already wanted to be moving slightly towards her direction.  He motioned to the valet to signal him a cab and when one finally arrived he got in and told him to head to LaGuardia.

He made his way through security, drudging along with his wet shoes and damp hair. 

He found his way to the departure gate, dutifully waiting for his turn in the line spilling out the doorway towards the plane.  

He had a middle seat.

He was getting ready to turn off his phone as the steward hovered nearby, admonishing the passengers to turn off electronic devices.

He saw the text just as the man came over to gently remind him again to turn it off.

 

That was not our first kiss.  You will know when that happens.

He turned off his phone.

Firsts

                                                               “Strike-anywhere Matches”

In the end, it wasn’t the last things she did that stayed with him; rather, it was the series of firsts that she did that stayed with him, but each a cut deeper than he had initially realized. 

The car actually needed to be towed, from that remote space on the highway, and while she initially told him that she’d be fine she waivered when she saw the tow truck driver get out of the cab. 

               You’re not leaving me with him.  It was a directive, not a suggestion.  The driver, about 60, weighed well over 300 lbs, tugging on a rag kept in his back pocket, belly straining against a stained brown shirt with his name on it.  Ned.

               He didn’t remember a whole lot about Ned’s fussing with the car and hoisting it up off the two front wheels.  He remembered her standing pretty close to him though, not seeking protection, but just close enough to be noticed.  He didn’t want to keep looking at her, so he watched a few hawks circling above the trees.  Sporadic traffic kept them on the dirt by the road, still somewhat muddy from the rain.  But the air smelled clean, and in the slight breeze he could smell the shampoos from her still-wet hair, a  soapy and distinctive hint.  At one point she reached over to his shoulder, putting her hand on him while she raised a leg to let a pebble out of her sandals.  The sudden first touch was a surprise but it was like she had put her hand on a tree.  She didn’t ask, she just did.  And when she finished she merely released and resumed watching her car get cranked up into the air.

When Ned finished he indicated she should ride with him in the cab.  He remembered looking at her as she blanched and when she looked at him he had a wry smile.  You’re coming too she said.

               What about my car?  You want me to just leave it here?  

She answered by narrowing her eyes. 

As Ned climbed in the entire cab teetered that way and they looked up and into the seats.  The cab had a 4-on-the-floor shift and Ned was spilling over half of the bench seat. 

               You first she declared.  He climbed up, feeling Ned’s heavy presence and then she came in.  She squeezed the door shut and they rambled out of the road’s shoulder and into the north towards Elgin. 

The trip was noisy, high up above the blacktop, the tow truck ambling around 50 miles per hour.   He breathed in the sweaty proximity of the driver and the delicate presence of her.  She had her elbow on the window sill, staring out the glass with her chin in her palm.  She watched the sweep of trees and the crisscross of farm to market roads that shot out in directions away from them.  Now and again her left knee would glance off of his, uncontrolled and likely giving into gravity with the decided tilt of the cabin courtesy of Ned.

But at one point her leg, her knee…her calf, her thigh…they sidled up against his and stayed.  He looked at her but she kept her gaze on the right side of the road, unblinking, no change in expression.

It was like a strike-anywhere match had been lit and thrown against his skin.  Her leg was warm, denim-clad and it felt like it had cleaved into him.  He didn’t want to move.  He actually had probably stopped breathing and when he remembered to exhale he felt like his right side was glowing.  So he stayed rigidly still, not wanting to move the slightest that might move her away from him.  He almost felt like moving away slightly to see if she would follow but he realized that he was where he wanted to be.

He felt like he could feel the pulse in her, the heartbeat as the femoral artery churned the life blood through her.  He felt like he could feel how alive she was, even with her just staring out the window.  He felt the heat of her, the friction of her, and the visceral part of her that pulsated beneath her skin.  It was a simple touch of her leg against his but in his mind she had scorched his landscape, left it dry and hot-blown. 

Half of all forest fires are started in high summer by lightning strikes.  Catching the dry and kindled wheat and straw like gasoline that explodes and breathes hot breath across hundreds of acres of trees.

Here, in the cab, high above the Texas blacktop, he watched the road stream by, his mind careening in colors of orange and white, and the thoughts of a thousand one-hundred foot oaks ablaze.

Eskota II: Changing Tires in a Rain

He remembered seeing her for the very first time, and how it felt like when you have fallen in love with a song and it suddenly plays on the radio without any warning at all.

He hadn’t really seen her clearly, just a fast buzz-blur of hair from beneath the open hood of a car. He was on 95…not the big one, the little one east of Austin that cuts through Bastrop State Park with its stands of Loblolly pines, a pretty little spread of color against the tannins of the land. It was April in the Hill Country, the wettest month of the year and it was spitting rain already.  Nothing major, but ahead he could see the traditional bruising in the sky that signaled some storm was about to be unleashed.

The flashers on her Jeep Wagoneer were on, and in this particular version, the 1974 version, the spare tire was on the front.  He slowed so he could see the trouble and that’s when he saw her. 

Trouble that is.  Lean and coming out from beneath the hood like a bird flushed.  Her eyes widened as he pull alongside her car and he rolled down the window.

It’s going to rain he said. 

She cocked her head around the hood, looked up.  Perfect she said.

She had a very angular face set off by two lengths of blondish hair that hung straight above her shoulders.  I’m almost done, she said, bracing her hands against the spare and starting to unloosen the bolts.

You haven’t even jacked up the car.  Do you mind if I pulled over and helped?

She moved towards his window and looked in, a sprig of her bangs falling over one dark eye. 

I’m not dangerous he said. 

She crooked on corner of her mouth.  I wasn’t worried. 

It will be raining soon he repeated and before she answered he pulled up past her and turned off his car.

He had a moment, listening to the ticking of the engine still counting off seconds, and he looked at the storm ahead, with the road perfectly seeming to rise right up into it.  What the fuck am I doing?

 

He had helped her out when the rain came swashbuckling down, huge crates of it.  In one flash of the storm’s lightning he had been on his knees, undoing the jack and he saw her looking out at him through the driver’s side window.  The pane was rivulets of water streaking down, and her hair was still wet from when she was outside until he almost pushed her into the car.  He remembered thinking that she looked sad, not grateful, not really anything but feeling like she was lost.  Or locked.  At least that’s how he described it to himself.  Rain pouring in streaks across the glass in front of her face.  No smile, no anything.

He took the jack and opened the back of her Jeep and set it down on the carpeted bench.  As he was closing the door her heard her say something, not quietly but noticeable but it was cut off when the door slammed home.

He was going to walk to the driver’s side when he saw her open up the passenger side door.  It’s pouring she said, clearly hearing her as he walked over.  Hurry up.

He closed the door behind him, dripping wet and breathing a bit faster than normal.  He pulled a hand through his hair, drops falling onto his soaked body. She sat there looking at him.

I probably could’ve done all this myself, she started.

That’s a hell of a thank you.

Well…thank you, she murmured quietly.  I was getting around to saying it.

The strobes of some lightning played in, and he saw her a little bit better.  Her eyes were almost the same color as outside.

Well you’re welcome.  Probably the nicest thing I’ve done today.  He let out a slight laugh.  Probably the nicest thing I’ve done in a hell of a long time.

You changed a tire, you didn’t give me a kidney.

He looked at her with his head tilted.  You must really have a high bar for gratitude.

She smiled and said, I think you’re probably correct.

Well…he let the words take hold and fill the car… think I’ve done enough.  He cracked the door open and let himself into the pouring rain.  It was abating a little bit though, and as he walked to his car he didn’t quite feel it.

He turned on his car and saw that her flashers were still blinking.  He shook his head and pulled out into the highway.  As he drew away he looked back in his rearview mirror.

She had left her car and was standing in the middle of the road.

From where he was she was a slight frame…in a minute she would be a dot.  In another minute she would disappear from view.

He had a moment, listening to the growling of the engine still counting off seconds, and he looked at the clearing clouds ahead, with the road perfectly seeming to rise right up into it.  What the fuck am I doing?

He slowed down, feeling his heart pick up a bit, and at the same time feel angry at his loss of control.  He pulled over, and realized he couldn’t see her from the angle of the road.  Goddamnit.

He turned the car and from the rise he could see her still next to her car.  Actually she was in the middle of the road, a light color against the blacktop.  The storm had broken up and now and again a filtered beam of sun came out. 

Hello she said as he pulled up next to her.  He waited, car engine on, waiting for her to explain.  Or define.  Or say something longer than a sentence.  He had no idea why he was there, but something felt like a rescue.  Something felt like he had a fish-hook in him, that he could tug and pull and drive away as far as he could but he would still be winded back up and brought to her.

Why are you standing in the middle of the road?

Why did you come back?

I came back because you were standing in the middle of the road. That’s why I came back.

She continued looking at him, hands in her back pockets.

I wanted to see if you’d come back.  I wanted to see if you noticed.

He took a long pause. 

I noticed.

He watched as a glint of sun came out and landed between them, the day tinged yellow with a glistening along the dark pavement. 

I figured it would show up.  I just wanted to wait.

She was looking over his car, and he couldn’t see from inside so he got out.  High above them was a perfectly brilliant 7-colored rainbow. 

You rarely see the indigo and the violet.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this close.

He listened to her and watched and somewhat foolishly realized his mistake and his assumptions.

I’m sorry he said.  I didn’t know that you were waiting for that.

Oh I was waiting for you too.  I just wanted to have both. She smiled at him and in the crisp bright air he couldn’t help but see her against the sky, against the colors.  And framed against the afternoon he realized that in returning to her he had simply surrendered without even knowing.  And she had known it the moment he had stopped to change her tire in a rain.

Lightless Star, Scentless Flower

Uneasy sleep, so easy to sleep, collapsing in the middle of a muddled afternoon, gray dim light spilling in as the tips of high-up oak leaves strain in colors above the ground.

Fall is the decaying drift back into the ground; the fallen fruit discarded to return to the earth.  It is the graying air in the mornings, split by low suns a minute later in each new dawn, and a wind that bites cool.  It is an evening that seems guided by a lightless star, breaking in colors of a scentless flower. 

Fall is the cocoon of an afternoon, pale daylight streaming through holes in the trees, a silence like wet-leaves across the day.  Slumber comes easy as pillows grow warm and time blows dandelion-like in languid suspended air. There are covers and coverlets, lazing dust motes and somewhere the television may flicker emptily.  It is an afternoon, weightless as a lightless star, calming as a scentless flower.

Fall is the char of the wood, burning and crackling as it folds and immolates into itself, burnt oranges and blues to lick the air around it.  Fall will wrap itself around me, entangle me as its once green-garden vines now turn golden, slowing my movement and pulling me downward.  Fall is an afternoon nap, in the mid of September, as I try to hold onto the last sunburnt day in summer.  Somewhere between colors, somewhere between days, somewhere where I find the lightless star and the scentless flower.

Eskota

And she had asked in that casual way of hers if he knew Texas.  And he had stopped, there in the copper-colored dusk, and said he did.

No, she shook her head as the words tumbled out.  I don’t think so.  I don’t think you’ve seen the low moon.  I don’t think you’ve woken up to stand in an evening with enough stars to make you feel small.  I don’t think you know Texas at all.

He watched the fence line disappear down the horizon, a black line cutting a fine swatch against the field.  The road shimmered in slight waves in the distance, and he could just barely detect the faint soap smell of her. 

What am I supposed to know, then?  Is this a place?  Is this some sort of fucking attitude?  Can I learn it if I wasn’t born here in some sort of sacred ritual?  He walked the short space between them, her one arm across her holding the elbow, a slight cross against her chest. 

What do you see in me? she asked. 

I see everything.  I see blank canvass, I see unknowns.  I see an ocean that I would gladly drown in.  I see a storm that never goes away. I see a world on fire.

He reached out and held the tips of her finger.

 I see something no language would adequately describe.  I see you. 

She stared, a few blinks.  I am as much a part of this place as…trailing off she waved her hand across the expanse.  I’m as much a part of this place as anything.  I am the smell of salt air in Galveston, and as dry as the river bottoms near El Paso.  I am open, unending.  You cannot just simply try to contain me.

I’m not trying to contain you. 

You’re trying to shape me though.  Into something that you want.  It’d be like catching rain.

It was growing purple in the air, the evening tinted and tattooed with dark spots.  A little bit of orange remained, burnishing the edge of the flat horizon. 

Do you know how they make honey? He asked.  She turned her head to him.  He could barely see the colors of her eyes, dark against dark.  But he knew she was looking at him.

Honey?  You mean like bees?

Yeah, exactly.  You take this perfectly shaped…structure.  This work of art almost.  And you tear it in half, you crush it and you extract the honey from it.  It’s only sweet when it’s broken.

Is that what needs to happen?  She approached him and he could see her eyes much better now.  And there was a hint of storm in them.  I need to break to be better? 

Not you.  Us.  If I can’t be the other part of you, then maybe I need to be broken off.  Ruptured.

She was silent and her silence was darker.  It was almost pitch-black in the air but he could feel it heavy against him.  It was like the moments between lightning and thunder.

I don’t know if that is what I want.  I only know what I am here, what I have here.

He inhaled the cool air and watched her disappear.  She had never really been there, rather, he remembered the last time they had spoken.  He remembered how she had left, the contrail of her departure.  He still came out here now and again, turning off the road and stopping in the flat low land.  He remembered how he had tried, and in trying he remembered how she had pulled away.  How ultimately they had broken, and how it never was sweet at all.  In fact, it was exactly the opposite.