What do you want from me?

Turning saints into the sea

Who was that girl?

What girl?

The girl in the photo. The eejit who said so many nice things about you.

A lot of people say things about me that they don’t really mean. You know that. You have the gall to be jealous.

I’m not. Was just asking.

So what’s it gonna be today? Princes in tights? The enigmatic foolishness of unrequited love? Headless women in outer space?

Headless women in outer space, please. With caramel on top.

I knew you’d say that.

Isn’t it funny how you know me so well?

I always thought you had a strange sense of humor.

Conversation

The word mistress disturbs me, she tells him after making love. I don't know... it makes me feel too Victorian. Quaint, even.

So what would you like me to call you, then? Lover? Piece of tail? Or would you prefer the more politically correct significant other? Do you think that would be more even-steven for you?

Don't be crass.

I think mistress would be fine. Because things aren't really even-steven 'round here.

No, things aren't.

Omissions: A Vignette

for A who says please before killing anyone


Not that she was a sadist, or hankered after being lonesome. Not that she was aroused by anger. It was more of the fact that she found it all ridiculous, these rites of passage for the mute and the eternally dumbstruck- the tiptoeing, secret handshakes, letters sent on the sly. Because she was curious, she could understand the logic behind omissions. What drew her to him was his inability to be farcical. For her, it was harder to break- this honesty, this total lack of regard for acknowledging sacredness. In his hand he holds poison that he never hides. No, he was not like the others. He liked holding it out, displaying his intentions. She sees this as more potent, more damagingly addictive, like the pungent smell of earth after the rain. A field of daffodils, yellow and bursting with strange revelation. Always, there was the promise of bloodshed, of bared wrists.

He tells her, all this is not about you My stories my poetry Some days, I write her letters She responds and it makes me lose my mind for a time I cry when she says she remembers me when she eats cold noodles You know she is in Korea studying I tell her about you She is not pleased Oh yes you are a likely substitute The slant of your neck when you bend down to tie your laces reminds me of hers Your eyes are hers teeth mouth candy ears But here it is, my hand over yours, however you would like to take it I'd like to think my heart is a carrot I will not pity you when I turn my back and say I don't know if I'll ever see you again Parting is never romantic It makes you feel oddly like snow written on then eventually smoothed over to make room for a new writer I will never omit never die for you never ever ever

When he gets this way, his hand brushes against hers. He says how's this for romance the moon you and overpriced coffee Love like everything else is a marketing tool. She smiles. This is the most love she's had in years.