liveAudience

i.
She had just quickly written down a list of to-dos, running over them with her eyes, running her eyes to the sidewalk outside the cafe, back to her notes, affiliating tasks with things she would see on the street in the next couple of minutes: dogs with large brows, pot bellies of passers-by, stop signs.  

Straightening her glasses, she packed up her book and day planner, put on her jacket, fixed her collar, and walked to the dish tub, placing her mug inside and smiling goodbye to the barista behind the counter.

“You’re welcome.”

“You too.” She smiled back and then sat down near the same window as she had the week before.

——

ii.
I had just quickly written down a list of to-dos, running over them with my eyes, running my eyes to the sidewalk outside the cafe, back to my notes, affiliating tasks with things I would see on the street in the next couple of minutes: tall firs, red cars, women wearing sneakers.

Straightening my glasses, I packed up my book and day planner, put on my jacket, fixed my collar, and walked to the dish tub, placing my mug inside and smiling goodbye to the barista behind the counter.

Seconds after stepping outside, I walked back in for my umbrella. The day had brightened up, and I had left it by my stool.

——

iii.
You have just quickly written down a list of to-dos, running over them with your eyes, running your eyes to the sidewalk outside the cafe, back to your notes, affiliating tasks with things you will see on the street in the next couple of minutes…

Straightening your glasses, you pack up your book and day planner, put on your jacket, fix your collar, and walk to the dish tub, placing your mug inside and smiling goodbye to the barista behind the counter.

You step outside and realize you’ve left your umbrella. The sky has cleared up, and you left it by the stool.

You walk back in, pick it up, and leave.

She had started signing her emails with imperatives. “Love Aunt Linda.” There was no comma, no break between the Love and the Aunt, and apparently a complete sentence. He wondered if this were somehow indicative of larger things in her life. He knew she had spent some time at the psychiatric hospital uptown, but was never too clear about what for. Something about psychotic breaks from reality, which never made much sense to Brian. In order for her to have a break from reality, she needed to be in touch it to begin with, and the artist that she was, Brian never thought his aunt had gripped reality in her life. She mostly swatted at it when it buzzed too close to her face or her canvas. And now she was commanding him to love her as if she were someone else. “Love Aunt Linda.” Love that woman who is your aunt who is not me.   

Unsure what to make of it, Brian shut down his ancient desktop computer and walked to the piers to find a quick fuck. Even if he couldn’t understand the rules his aunt lived by, he was quite clear about the rules he lived by. He grabbed his thick brown jacket, wrapped his deep blue scarf around his neck and stuffed a couple condoms in his pocket. Locking his studio apartment door behind him, he jogged down the stairs, remembering the first time he came to New York with his mom and ate at Katz’s Deli in the Lower East Side with her and her sister. His aunt. There was nothing greater in the world than their corned beef specials. Cole slaw, Russian dressing, rye bread, his aunt reminiscing about her days at Pratt in Brooklyn. Her wild stories of Studio 54 peppered his sandwich. She had bought him a plastic parrot mask that just went over his nose, so that his entire face was was still human except for the large yellow-orange beak sticking out of nowhere, making him look like he belonged on either Zoobilee Zoo or the Island of Dr. Monroe.

Back in his apartment, he was fucking a thirty-something former twink who moaned, “Fuck that ass.” Brian finished at the sound of the command and gripped the former twink as tightly as he could, cumming rivers into latex. 

There was no feeling in it anymore. Ten years ago she had sliced it open and it had healed in a rigid white line– as if she had inserted a short stem into the wound and then stitched it up. It still rolled there, stretching the flesh white. 

 

I slid my finger along the ridge, guiding my tongue to follow the line, repeatedly. Just another place she couldn’t feel and I was belaboring it with care. The line could have encircled her whole body, climbed her chest, spilt and unfurled into a spray of stems while my mouth was over it. But when I lifted my lips it was the same. Four inches I could conceal with my open palm. Or my closed fist. Depending on the context. 

 

I pressed my mouth to the end and pulled hard on the skin. I meant to coax the nerves up and she shifted– but only from the pressure. My mouth filled with a soft iron taste and I realized I must have successfully broken the skin. A cluster of dense petals hung two thirds of the way off the bent stalk, tugging it. 

 

Before she opened her eyes I wiped my hand across the wound to mop up the blood, temper the severity of the impulse. Nothing came off. The droplets lay flat below the skin and I realized my mouth was bleeding. 

 

The next morning, instead of the blossom over her heart that I meant to leave, she woke up with something else. The petals had collided into a marbled cloth and the whole head had smoothed to a heavy sack. Even the stem, though still white, rose as the heavy wooden stick of a runaway’s knapsack.