stomach by the fire with her sketchpad open, lazy pencil strokes lining the paper with each flick of her wrist.
Oh, poor you, he says sympathetically. Do you know what, sweetheart, we’ll get you that book.
Thanks, baby. She smiles at him then returns to her sketching.
I’ll tell you how, he continues, snapping his laptop shut.
She looks up, bemused. Pencil down, chin propped in hand. I’m list-en-ing, she says in a singsong voice.
Okay, so here’s what you do. You go into the bookstore and you buy a cheap paperback novel. Smile sweetly and make small talk with the people at the register. Turn on the charm, just like the way you do when you’re trying to flog me your sketches. “Hey look! I just drew these. What do you think? D’you wanna buy them?”
She giggles.
Then, he says, after you’ve finished paying, wander over to where the book is, pick it up and flip through it, looking as if you didn’t have a care in the world.
He lets out a small chuckle, leaning forward.
Then my dear, you get as close as you can to the entrance without attracting any attention. And… you bolt! As fast as you can, down the escape route that we would have planned the day before. I’ll be in the car waiting so as soon as you jump in, I’ll put my foot down, hard, on the accelerator, speed off to somewhere quiet before we stop and I’ll look at you and say, Can you believe you did that? How does it feel? And you’ll be sitting there, your adrenaline pumping, your heart racing, hugging the book against your chest, saying, “Oh my God! I can’t believe I just did that!” Then do you know what I’d do?
What — would — you — do? she says between peals of laughter.
I’d take you out, fuck you up against the car.
Dumplings
Her impatient hands work slowly.
Like this , she says.
Then you dip your finger in the egg yolk.
Put it between the sheet and press it down firmly.
She watches as he fumbles.
The little pocket of pastry is foreign in his hands.
She reaches out, placing hers on either side of his face. Pulling him towards her, she kisses him warmly.
This is why I love you.
The sides of his face are white from her flour-coated hands.
It makes her laugh.
If only you could see yourself the way I do.
He smiles sheepishly.
Yours are so pretty, he says.
He puts down the oddly shaped dumpling.
And picks up another sheet of pastry.
The Garden
The curtain, a smoky gray color, drops from the creamy white ceiling. Crawling with strange bugs and eight-legged creatures, from where an ominous fan whirs.
His hand reaches for the cord. A string of shiny, black beads that glisten against the bright, early evening sun.
Flashback to the time he found her in the garden. White cotton dress pulled up around her thighs, feet blackened by the rich, lush earth that she had just been turning. With an apologetic smile that said, I couldn’t help myself.
That Night
It was one of those nights that you are not altogether sure really did happen. There are no photographs, no receipts, no scrawled journal entries.
Just the memory sitting in my mind, like a half-blown dandelion, waiting to be fractured, dismembered. Waiting to disintegrate into nothing.
As I close my eyes, the pictures play like a blurry montage. I can see us driving for hours, until the street signs grew less familiar — the flickering lamplights giving away to stars. Then sitting across from you in that quiet, little Italian place. Your hands pushing the plates aside, reaching across for mine.
The conversations we had about everything and nothing. And kissing you. How I remember that.
It was one of those nights that my mind still can’t be sure of. That wonders if I was ever there at all. Yet in my heart, it is as though I’ve never left.
Chapter 3
Finale
They gave us years,
though many ago;
the spring cries tears —
the winter, snow.
— MELANCHOLY SKIES
Three Questions
What was it like to love him? asked Gratitude.
It was like being
Oh, poor you, he says sympathetically. Do you know what, sweetheart, we’ll get you that book.
Thanks, baby. She smiles at him then returns to her sketching.
I’ll tell you how, he continues, snapping his laptop shut.
She looks up, bemused. Pencil down, chin propped in hand. I’m list-en-ing, she says in a singsong voice.
Okay, so here’s what you do. You go into the bookstore and you buy a cheap paperback novel. Smile sweetly and make small talk with the people at the register. Turn on the charm, just like the way you do when you’re trying to flog me your sketches. “Hey look! I just drew these. What do you think? D’you wanna buy them?”
She giggles.
Then, he says, after you’ve finished paying, wander over to where the book is, pick it up and flip through it, looking as if you didn’t have a care in the world.
He lets out a small chuckle, leaning forward.
Then my dear, you get as close as you can to the entrance without attracting any attention. And… you bolt! As fast as you can, down the escape route that we would have planned the day before. I’ll be in the car waiting so as soon as you jump in, I’ll put my foot down, hard, on the accelerator, speed off to somewhere quiet before we stop and I’ll look at you and say, Can you believe you did that? How does it feel? And you’ll be sitting there, your adrenaline pumping, your heart racing, hugging the book against your chest, saying, “Oh my God! I can’t believe I just did that!” Then do you know what I’d do?
What — would — you — do? she says between peals of laughter.
I’d take you out, fuck you up against the car.
Dumplings
Her impatient hands work slowly.
Like this , she says.
Then you dip your finger in the egg yolk.
Put it between the sheet and press it down firmly.
She watches as he fumbles.
The little pocket of pastry is foreign in his hands.
She reaches out, placing hers on either side of his face. Pulling him towards her, she kisses him warmly.
This is why I love you.
The sides of his face are white from her flour-coated hands.
It makes her laugh.
If only you could see yourself the way I do.
He smiles sheepishly.
Yours are so pretty, he says.
He puts down the oddly shaped dumpling.
And picks up another sheet of pastry.
The Garden
The curtain, a smoky gray color, drops from the creamy white ceiling. Crawling with strange bugs and eight-legged creatures, from where an ominous fan whirs.
His hand reaches for the cord. A string of shiny, black beads that glisten against the bright, early evening sun.
Flashback to the time he found her in the garden. White cotton dress pulled up around her thighs, feet blackened by the rich, lush earth that she had just been turning. With an apologetic smile that said, I couldn’t help myself.
That Night
It was one of those nights that you are not altogether sure really did happen. There are no photographs, no receipts, no scrawled journal entries.
Just the memory sitting in my mind, like a half-blown dandelion, waiting to be fractured, dismembered. Waiting to disintegrate into nothing.
As I close my eyes, the pictures play like a blurry montage. I can see us driving for hours, until the street signs grew less familiar — the flickering lamplights giving away to stars. Then sitting across from you in that quiet, little Italian place. Your hands pushing the plates aside, reaching across for mine.
The conversations we had about everything and nothing. And kissing you. How I remember that.
It was one of those nights that my mind still can’t be sure of. That wonders if I was ever there at all. Yet in my heart, it is as though I’ve never left.
Chapter 3
Finale
They gave us years,
though many ago;
the spring cries tears —
the winter, snow.
— MELANCHOLY SKIES
Three Questions
What was it like to love him? asked Gratitude.
It was like being
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