Tag: young

Zaedilux

You know there’s little to love. Just an open palm waiting to hold yours on those Tuesdays you might just tell your boss that speech you’ve been rehearsing for years. Chinese takeout sprawled on the coffee table, crowded boxes around cheap dollar bargain candles makes them tower like the buildings in midtown. Like your living room houses a whole world in a miniature city.

Her picture is there next to yours and the stark contrast is blatant. She is bright and always leaning, her still smile moving like the wane of a wax stick. Yours is reserved, meaning but trying not to. A little sadness dampened in the twilight of your eyes and crows feet.

“It’s too hot for movies about fish,” She whined at The Shape of Water.

Your apartment always had open windows because air conditioners are fucking expensive. And our generation may be complacent with all the opportunities available, never having to have had walk ten miles barefoot to get to school, but when the WiFi is down and the housing market crashes- we make do.

“Run a cold shower,” You said, always the pragmatist. Incapable to see any conversation as anything other than a back forth of searching for solutions. Ever the architect, building systems wherever there’s a hint of chaos or dissatiafaction.

She loves and hates that about you and does this thing when shes had enough- throws her arms in the air and lets the wind take her. Stage falls stage left to the sweaty elbow sofa, groans as of she’s been shot or generally tired of your shit.

“We could get an AC?” You said, softly kissing the hole in her basketball shorts that are actually yours. “Think of all the energy we’d waste and hard working children in China we’d be supporting.”

“Goddamn commies,” She chides, tracing a shape on the wooden floor her top half dangles from the sofa.

She is afraid of conflict but likes hunger games, to play the satire of being awful knowing you obviously mean otherwise. The third and final girl you’ll ever love, which is a good thing. The feeling wasn’t as stupidly hot blooded as the first, careless as the second, or hopelessly astray as the little ones whose name you pretend not to remember in between. That was the year you peaked, emotionally; your very own golden age and platinum summer.

She took you to the beaches in Guatemala and you learned how much you enjoy lazing away in the sun with a good book local hand-rolled cigarettes. You dragged her to Amsterdam, the south street seaport docks and all your other dark and lonely haunts. It was a confession of sorts, somebody else had to see all the terrible places you’d been, even if you only told her some of the stories behind the monuments of your misdeeds. She commented how they all had one commonality, one motif. They were somber places that made her reflective, made her think. And you felt better about your past because of her, because maybe that’s the why behind all those bar fights and 4 am wanderings. Instead of mischief and a terrible sense of not belonging anywhere.

“I want a picture of you,” she said. So you flipped the camera on your smartphone, crossed your eyes as best you could and hit send. She laughed.

“No, a real one. Something to write your name, the date, and how you make me feel on the back of it.”

Slowly slipping into the smooth routine of duality- two worlds, one small Manhattan apartment, a twin xl mattress and the kind of sex you will eventually only remember fondly and never masturbate to. You couldn’t, there were too many feelings mixed in those concoctions to derive solely pleasure from. Her picture no longer on the coffee table, but high on its pedestal above the refrigerator. The death of her father looming in the tresses of that bold and endless Summer. When you couldn’t bare the weight of her sadness while on the verge of reconciling yours. And so you retreated, as you always do. Not to the beaches but those dark, familiar, and terrible haunts. Because the ruin you know is safer than the one you don’t.

“What do I get out of it?” You asked.

“My satisfaction,” She replied.

And you were more the type to find another job than quit dramatically anyway.

“Sounds like communism.”

Do You Like Me? □ Yes ☑ No (aka The Art of Keeping Up With Innocence)

Sixth grade roaming an empty elementary school
hungry, but we didn’t know
for what. One day left, then, Summer-
and the heat goes up like teacher shrugs
for homework and nobody cared.

Justin was cool- backwards cap, and young,
and pretty, and a boyish face.
Jessica was tall like high school, and I
heard she got expelled for smoking weed
in the girls bathroom.
Tamara was black and bored and blue all over:
anything anyone ever said she made pretty,
mean faces at.
Tanya had shiny hair
down to her shoulders,
a simple but bright smile,
her brother or dads oversized overalls.

I liked Tanya, but Tanya only liked to hit me.
“Two for flinching bitch,” she would say.
Punch, punch, and sore arms.
We played spin the bottle, because Justin.
Second turn I spin, and it lands on Tanya.
She looks at me and laughs, loud. “Nope, no way.”
Nobody minds. They shrug and we keep playing.
Even I understand, because reasons.
Spin the bottle turns to spin the Justin.
Tanya kisses him and her face shines Christmas,
like what she always wanted. Jessica pretends
to enjoy it and Tamara gives him a peck on the cheek and
blushes.

The girls smoke in the girl’s bathroom, the boy’s don’t.
Justin looked bored because we didn’t have much to talk
about, but we weren’t old enough to know that,
or have phones
to pretend to stare at
awkwardly.
He said he’ll be right back, but then he wasn’t,
and Tamara walked away like I wasn’t even there.
Then Jessica left.
Then Tanya left.
No one is in the hall and I’m going to go see Michael
because everyone else is gone
and social embarrassment hasn’t dawned on me.

I’m about to leave but an arm grabs from behind
and shoves me into the stairs. I’m scared and I see
it’s Tanya. She liked to hit me. I’m more scared so
I closed my eyes and I braced for punches and sore arms
but nothing is happening. I opened my eyes and
she was standing close enough that I can count
the denim strips on her overalls. She leans in,
she kisses me? Is this a kiss? I’m confused and
we stay like that for a while. I stop, to breathe.
She leans back and I’m confused
but happy? Because she saw it on my face and laughs
again,
loudly.

“Tell anyone I’ll kill you,” she had said.
“And two for flinching, bitch”
Punch, punch, and sore arms.