Neighborhood Crashes

The invite started innocuously...a fence, a neighbor in the driveway...he was going to be home alone that weekend due to a horse-show so it was just him and the dogs and maybe a cocktail alone.  He was ready for such an evening, tired from an afternoon of golf on the nearby course so he was a bit caught when his neighbor approached him as he unloaded his clubs from the car.

Hey, we're having a few kids over tonight...and a bunch of parents...why not stop by?  We'll have more food than we need.

He stood there listening to the request, dripping sweat and holding the clubs...Let me think about it...I am leaning towards it but I don't have anything I can bring...maybe some bourbon?

We have a ton of stuff...just come over...bring some of your cigars.


He was sitting at a table near the pool...there were about 20 people on the patio or in the house...from where he was sitting he could make out the dark pine trees and beyond them the lighter green of a fairway of the golf course.  It was dusk but a few fireflies were bouncing along. He twirled his drink, currently a vodka with a splash of cranberry.  He had arrived an hour after the appointed time, airbrush kissed the wife of the host, shook the host's hand and meandered out to this spot...he pulled out a cigar from the Liberty collection and lit it.  He was far away enough from the kids and the smoke kept the mosquitos away.

He had changed into dark jeans and a linen shirt...he was sunburnt and probably over-served but he kept quiet.  The neighbors had done a nice job, lighting candles on the diving board and on tables...it was an odd mix...parents and kids, like chaperones but the kids didn't really care...laughing and moving from inside to out...there was faint music on somebody's Spotify app but it kept changing from 80s music to current...the volume stayed the same.

He inhaled, wondering how long he was gonna stay...what the border of politeness looked like when he saw her shape.  Rather it was a color first, then a shape...white, a stark contrast against the bricks of the house and the other parents...a white (cotton?) dress, but it was graced by an angle of cheek bones that were stunning from across the yard.  He felt her turn and observe him...felt his sunburn flare a bit and he exhaled a blue plume of smoke.  She had already moved on, talking to another parent or somebody...

His cigar smoldered, his drink was empty so he blew on the tip of the tobacco until it glowed and he set it on the edge of table.  He figured he'd need to go in to find the vodka and the music seemed louder and the fireflies were getting bolder and getting nearer and there were more of them.  He stood up and crossed the yard.

Inside it was graciously cooler, the air conditioning at full blast because no teenagers know how to close a door...the noise was louder, the rooms smaller and the conversations at full tilt.  He nodded to the owner (neighbor) in a "thank you for inviting me" gesture, and looked at the bar...lots of rum and tequila...but finally found the vodka.  There was a huge bag of ice in the sink and he refilled his glass.  He found the cranberry and felt a small victory at being able to assemble his drink without much drama.

How is your view?

He heard her voice and wasn't sure it was meant for him...like a polite nod to a guest or neighbor.  But it was intimate and yet matter of fact...like the way a business person speaks...but also somebody from the low country of Virginia...a sideways drawl that never leaves...the James River churn and the waltz into the Atlantic creates a salt mixture that is hard to replicate.  Her voice...in his recollection, was like what sounded like bourbon being poured over a perfect circle of ice.

But again, he wasn't sure it was for him.  So he turned.

She was wearing white...not searingly but adorning her frame, a lovely one that was aligned slightly with her left hip pushed forward...like she was waiting for him to move out of her way.

I'm sorry I'm in your way....uhm, what view are you talking about?

She had a drink in her hand, empty...and her eyes were filled with mirth...a brief smile.  Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail.  Her cheekbones were framed and geometry friendly.  A young teen interrupted her, tugging her away to meet somebody.  She leaned forward, like in an apology and turned away.

He watched her remove herself and turned and added more vodka to his drink.

He returned to his seat at the backyard, the gloaming of the evening turning purple...he saw his cigar waning but when picked up and inhaled it grew orange at the tip.  He settled down, listening to another song that bounced in the air like the humidity.  He could no longer see the green fairway and the outlines of the pines were black.  He sipped his drink, the shapes of people yards away.  The pool reflected the patio lights and shimmered.  It was pleasant.

He felt more than saw her approach...like pushed air...a slight disturbance.  He saw in his peripheral vision a white shape...against the house, against the blackening pool.  He couldn't see her face but that voice was like moniker...he would be able to place it anywhere if ever heard again.

I'm sorry...I got pulled away she explained.

Perfectly fine...I wasn't sure if the question was for me.  The view?

He picked up the cigar, careful to exhale away from her.    He continued....I mean when you asked me I was looking at the bar...and then I was looking at you...so I wasn't sure if I was...going to compliment the bar?  Or compliment your dress?

She laughed, a deeper than expected one...it was exquisite.

I apologize...I saw you out here and thought I'd ask about the view from this spot by the pool.

Ah...well...up until darkness it was quite nice...it's a lovely crowd but the fireflies tend to win.

I'm sure...it is cooler here as well...and I do love the smell of cigar smoke.

He looked at her...pulling on the cigar again...he blew it away from her though.  Well, I'm just a neighbor taking advantage of some free drinks...and maybe good company..

She moved very slightly...altered might be the right word.

Is that what I am?

I don't know.  Maybe?  You've got an empty glass and an affinity for cigar smoke.  I can help with both of those I suppose.  

She regarded him.  And then in that voice.

Could you fetch me a bourbon?  Rocks and water...and maybe a cigarette?  We may as well smoke together.


Inside the music continued to get louder, the teenagers starting to dare each other with jumping into the pool...some of the adults were off the patio and into the interior parts of the home.  He had found a young teen with a pack of cigarettes and matches and offered twenty bucks for them.  He stuffed those in his pocket and made way for the bar...he discovered Blantons and poured a double and put a splash of ice and water into the glass.  He refilled his with a ton of vodka, little ice and little cranberry.  He headed out towards the outside.

She was still standing there...patient...visible by the white dress.  Against the backdrop of the lawn and the pines she was almost angelic.  He didn't tell her that.

He handed her the glass.  He pulled out the pack and she pulled one out.  He struck the match and held it close to her...she pulled his hand closer and lit the end...her hand stayed perhaps a moment too long...and he could smell her perfume. But she was just a shape now, an orange glow...

He regarded her.

This blossom.

This new planet.

This new color.

Against the evening she strayed close to him...fireflies against pines...beauty versus darkness...ice molting in a glass and the sound of others very nearby.

She took tentative puffs of her cigarette...letting it mostly burn...sipping at her bourbon...he knew he was moments away from somebody suddenly appearing...to rip away this visage but he breathed it in.
The humidity, the music...the shimmering pool, the outlined pines...

I am very pleased to meet you....he extended his glass...she offered up hers, clinked it with a satisfying collision of crystal and the evening kept on...not really noticing them behind the pool, near the pines...the blink of fireflies trying to attract each other to bliss.

A favorite tie

He had purchased the tie one foggy night in Chicago, walking with a co-worker and wondering about his suit and his originally selected necktie.  Passing a Louis Vuitton store he decided to duck in and peruse the selections...he found one attractive, frowned at the $200.00 price tag but eventually bought it.  It stayed in its bag for a long time.

The first time he wore it was for her.  Sort of.  He had a meeting with a client, had flown to a city and knew he would run into her.  It was going to be a very brief encounter, the kind he hated...there was a tremendous amount of history and for them to be polite like strangers and quietly demure to the calmness and small talk was offensive...beneath the skin there was hot blood...cravings...so when she placed one hand slightly on his chest and tugged at his pocket square with the other he swallowed slowly...feeling the soft weight of her...smelling the perfume...feeling the slight squeeze of the tie around his neck like a submission.  To her.

The tie became a part of the way he felt around her.

He wore it to a funeral, no pocket square, the dark suit somber and his heart sagging.  As he was tying the tie knot in the mirror he briefly remembered the last time he saw her and it made him smile...and when he rode over in the limo he tightened the knot by pulling up on it towards his collar and he remembered her again.

An embrace.

She fell into him exceptionally well, fitting him like a tailor crafted her perfectly, her height against his, the clutch of her and the closeness...it was instantly recognizable.  And when absent...he felt weightless.

When he hung the tie up he kept it separate from the others, it was visible each time he opened the closet door...it wasn't quite like a picture of her but rather it was like remembering a feeling...or maybe it was like putting on a cape...he felt different when wearing it.

He would've worn it to meet her family.

He would've worn it her promotion party, shaking hands with strangers, glancing occasionally towards her, where she would be radiant, drawing in the other employees anxious to congratulate her. He would've stayed to the side, holding a plastic cup of bad champagne and whenever he caught her eye he would've slightly raised the cup...to you he would mouth.  Holding the bubbly liquid in front of him, he would've been the best dressed but only because he wanted her to know that was how proud of her he was.

Later....

How could he ever imagine then, as he slipped the tie off his neck, the loop still intact, and he circled it around her wrists, her naked body lingering beneath him, her architecture and landscapes against the sheets, and he cinched it delicately so that her hands were almost in a prayer, the tie around them then secured to the top frame of the bed...she smiled a wickedly warm smile that was more of an invitation than a greeting...and they collided and clutched and soon the tie was on the floor, a reminder of an embrace.

Later...

Wearing it in a new suit he felt empowered and vulnerable and the memories of her spread well beyond his collar and he walked briskly in a chance to hurry up to finally see her again.

Low Suns

Good morning...

tell me what you see...tell me how you feel...do you ache like I do...as the day begins.

A morning alone, 

but peaceful.  A quiet that is not quite as quiet when together...

When the room grows slightly brighter...the soft shape of you becoming more focused.

Morning is a color with us...the evening past, the empty morning...there is no sense of time except when together there is never enough.

So when our color emerges each new day and we are separate it is a lonely orange...

But it does represent a new one as well...another chance.

A sound of a voice, the carefully formed words in a note...an exchange.  

A reminder.

That the same damn sun is just as far away from me as it is to you...and perhaps that just makes us feel closer...even if it feels like you are so far gone right now.

So good morning...let us be reminded of our color.

Let us be reminded of our mornings.

And let us speed through the days until we find our next one.

Evening Trees

She turned the key on the back door of the restaurant,  felt the lock slide into place and tugged at the handle to ensure it was locked.

The night was concussive, tree crickets chirping their songs, the heavy humidity of July in Surry blanketing the still air...after the cool air in the bar it was warming to her.

She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the brief match flare and the orange tip the only things near enough to see.  Further out she could find the one parking lot lamp dripping yellow light onto her car but here in the doorway it was very dark.  She preferred that.

She twirled a bit of her hair in her finger, a habit when she was thinking, the tendrils wrapping around her and she thought about whether or not she would shower when she got back.

katy-did,  katy-didn't

The sound of the chirping was loud, almost like from a concert's speaker, and beneath the blackened limbs she could see the tell-tale blinks of fireflies.

The river was beyond them, the void between work and home, and she knew the ferry was waiting for her.

It could wait.

She inhaled, letting the smoke infuse her and she closed her eyes against the evening.  She remembered some of things he had said in their last stay...straining to listen as if he was still whispering to her.

She exhaled, releasing the smoke into the air, and with it she started to relax.

She felt loved.  She felt at peace.

katy-did, katy-didn't.

In the dark noise she wondered when she would see him next...and if they would have the chance to share a pillow, share proximity.

Or if they would just greet...a brief hug.  Maybe a kiss near the ear.

Eyes sharing something that the mind already knew existed...maybe widening a little at the first glimpse of each other...like salt spilling out of its shaker the anticipation of a taste...a spice that was shared.  She drew in another puff of smoke, shorter...and started walking to her car.

katy-did, katy-didn't

The trees grew louder as she crossed the lot.  She exhaled and flicked the remnant and it arced in the air, orange sparks alighting and hit the gravel and flared briefly.

She pulled the car door open, no reason to lock it down here...nobody would steal it...nothing inside worth protecting.

She let the windows down and turned on the radio to a station near the beach...she thought about starting another cigarette.

She remembered the taste of his mouth, the shape of it...the contortions against hers.  She remembered once the collision of teeth in a moment.

She backed out of the space, the outside noise spilling inside the car, the bit of breeze in the movement, and headed towards the ferry pier, the sounds of the evening trees filling her ears and she could smell salt in the air...

katy-did, katy didn't

Polaroid

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real 
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures 
Are all I can feel--The Cure

The capture...how a moment can linger long after it happened.  The moment imprisoned.  A memory stamp.  The beauty of a picture is it is forever embedded...timeless.  But what it doesn't capture is what isn't seen.  The surroundings, the proximity of something just outside the frame.  The rest of the room.  The color of the sky nearby.  It is a time-box, a jewelry box, a container.  The picture is just that...a rendering.  It may not describe the mood but it may capture one.  It may not detect a temperature but it will convey one.

What happens when the beauty in person is so much better than the picture?  The picture becomes the second prize award...it is bittersweet.  The in-person is so glaringly better...so infinitely better.  But that goes away in a goodbye.  It disappears in a walk away.

Save me a picture.  Keep me a moment.  Give me a second.

The closed-eye kiss.  There is no visual...rather it is just a presence.  A pressure.  The mouth finds the terrain and maneuvers.  If lucky, if goddamn lucky it aligns, finds urgency, emotion...detection.  Solace.  Unimaginable visuals playing in the mind's eye.  Nothing could paint it, nothing could capture.

No pictures.  

But memories.  

Visceral, tongue-bit memories.

Yet somehow a picture can remind.

Can rewind.

Can put back in place a moment.  

Restore.

Return.

A picture can spark a memory like flint in a lighter.  A brief spark.  A slight flame.

It can burn.

It can burn.

A picture can burn and when we close our eyes we can still see it.

It can burn.

Mindful

Relax...

Breathe in...let a stillness overcome you, let your closed eyes find meaningless darkness, no distractions nor frustrations.

Feel stress molt off of you, purge, slide off, slough off...puddle around you.  Let your beating heart slow...calm, calming...


Such bullshit.

My mind is full of you...my mindfulness is imagining you here, breathing in you, heart against heart, fingers clasped together, legs against legs.  The perfect alignment, whether face to face or front to back.

In my mindfulness state I am less than perfect, full of flaws.  I am a weed, a nuisance.

You pluck me and breathe gently upon me, blowing wishes that scatter and float across the day, some true, some aspirational.

I decorate my mind with images of you, and I come back often, remembering...remembering.

Scorched

I

He remembered a roadside...they had been walking in the suffocating humidity of summer, the smell of the James river a nearby presence and she reached down to pluck a dandelion from its stalk in the dry uneven ground.  She managed to keep the tiny white delicate seed head intact and she blew against it gently, scattering the white eyelash shapes in front of her.

I made a wish, she said, continuing to walk down the rocky path.  She never told him what it was.  Beside him the river rumbled along, carrying whatever secrets and wishes it could afford.

II

He was now on a roadside, the brown flat terrain of Iraq devoid of contrast, just numbing sand and rock.  The platoon stopped at the outskirts of some unpronounceable village...just another slight bit of urban terrain warranting a brief inspection as they continued to provide security ahead of a larger force.  He walked to the water buffalo truck and filled his canteen.  The water spilled over his hands, staining the sand even darker.  He drank it guzzling, the heat a mad presence beneath his helmet.

In the crack of some of the village wall, growing between a gap where the dirt met the bottom of the stone a small bit of yellow peaked out.  It was a dandelion, about two inches long, and it was the color of the sun in summer.  It was the first time in country that he had noticed, and it was stark against the bulwark of the brick.  He remembered the eyelash shapes moving away from her in her wishful moment back in the States...he had the exact same wish now as he had before.

III

He remembered the sounds from the house cascading onto the porch...the dinner over, the dishes clanking against each other as collected, the faucet creating white noise in the sink...conversations growing louder to talk over the din.  They were outside in chairs, watching the very first fireflies alight.  She was actually smoking a cigarette...she found some in her brother's truck...she only smoked once in awhile (he told her she looked sexy as hell) but she did it either when she was extremely stressed or extremely relaxed.  He watched the orange burnt end flare when she inhaled, and her exhalation of pale smoke reminded him of those eyelash shape seeds from the dandelions, spilling over like a thousand wishes.  She had her hair pulled back.

IV

He lay against the track wheel of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle, trying to spoon his MRE dinner without dropping it, the smudge of food mostly tasteless, a wet pulp almost that was neither warm nor cold.  The track was still warm, the air like a hair dryer on heat continuing to blaze the sky.  Across from him, in the shadows were the soldiers beneath an olive tree in a courtyard shaded and dark.  A few had cigarettes, he could see the outlines of their helmets and the stark orange of the lit ends...they moved up and down, pulled into lips, drawn, becoming lighter and more orange with the inhalations.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the plucked dandelions from the day before...they were dying, the green stems growing browner...but the yellow petals were vibrant.  A few fell off in his hand at being touched.  He made wishes as these petals were brushed to the ground, making tiny, eyelash shapes of color in the sand.  

His wish was always the same.