“No, see, it’s perfect, ‘cause it’s hot out, and we’re both already sticky and sweaty,” she states in that convincingly girlish tone that she knows he can’t resist, not that he would ever resist such an offer. “Yea, totes obvs,” he responds, already half undressed. Read more
Displacement creates an odd sort of fuzz around the edges of the displaced.
She hears the murmurs and chatter of women chatting. They must be friends, or, at the very least, friendly, she assumes. They are, after all, sitting, conversing, and laughing all together in the same location that is, obviously, not the home of any one of them. From the tone, one would suspect a disagreement infiltrates the back-and-forth. The back-of-the-throat cacks and haucks in typical speech often times lends itself toward assumptions about hostility, disgust. Read more
“He is always recounting the story of the incident … or what is it?, experience?, in a completely different way. The first time he attempted to convey the important bits felt, contrived or unknown, almost as if he had never had to explain such a thing to another person before. Communication was never one of his strong suits. With words like, or phrases, perhaps, like ‘you know’ and ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ all peppered throughout, the telling felt, less than genuine. He was less than enthusiastic about either the story itself or the telling of it. Read more
He had never had one of his own before. That’s not to say he’s never had one; he has; it just was more of a hand-me-down, used, worn in a bit. Read more
The magnetism of want, the gravity of desire, the radiance of newness, she freezes. Resistance creates character. Submission lowers tolerance. Fearful, she ruminates through all of the possibilities, all of the probabilities surrounding the weakness of her will, a will that refuses to refuse the will of her will. A droplet forms at the place where her face becomes scalp. Salty, the droplet threatens to make her life miserable, unsustainable, constantly lacking. Read more
A quilt is not a quilt because someone has sewn many pieces and parts of fabric together to make something whole. A quilt is a quilt when stitching runs throughout and all over multiple layers of fabric and creates a design in thread that holds the top, batting and backing layers together. To quilt a quilt by hand is to create a thing for the sheer joy of doing it.
The two sit and share a space, she on the couch, feet firmly planted upon the floor, a large swath of pieced fabric across her lap, quilting an entire blanket by hand, he in a lazy-boy, tapping his toes to the tune he hums, reading a book through the bottom portion of the glasses resting atop his nose. She sighs and stretches a small, barely noticeable stretch of the hand. “How ‘bout some scups,” he states, not asking, more telling that he’ll get up to put a pot on. She smiles, eyes never leaving the work at hand. He winks and makes a click out of the side of his mouth, “Looking good there, Honey.” “Ah, why thank you, Michael.” Read more
“ … the smell of …”
The vapors and steam of garlic and onions, immune to the oily pull of the overhead fan, roam freely around the simulated rose scent of the freshly-washed, still-damp laundry drying on the other side of the space.
Putrid, the refrigerator farts upon opening, sour, acidic degradation of something once living now succumbing slowly to its own death. A metamorphosis from pungent to vile. Read more