Candle

I am feeling personal today, stuck in my own head, out of my story. It’s raining. I have a cup of coffee, ambient lighting. My candle isn’t lit. Maybe I should light my candle.

My candle is lit. My themed music is on. Where was I in my story? (Not my head, my story…) Ah yes, the twins. Mercury and Mira. No wait, I was on Tuesday. No, I finished Tuesday yesterday. So yes, the twins. They are so alike; they don’t even know it. They fight, but with the same fire. They obsess over different things, but with the same devotion. They are the scholar and the gamer. Pretty sure that isn’t exactly the great traditional paradox. PS4s are pretty new, but the twins are not old. They are consumed.

Out of my head, into my story.

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Dating Profile (300)

The girls make the first move on Bumble. Yeah, sure. I’ll try it. Dating profile in 300 characters.

Dating Profile (279): You already annoy me.

Delete, delete, delete.

Dating Profile (244): I don’t drink, smoke, drive, have sex, or love children.

Occupation: Nanny

Well, the do not’s are easy, all the things that people have a problem with, that sends them limping away like wounded animals. Oh wait.

Dating Profile (222): Born-again Christian.

There, that usually pisses someone off. Now, I must sell myself. I must appeal to the general male masses of L.A. I skim through the male profiles. I find two trending pieces of critical information on countless profiles. Height and “good vibes.” I add this pertinent information to my own.

Dating Profile (196): 5′ 2.5″ Murderous vibe.

There. I feel I am headed in an excellent direction. Here’s where things get tricky. Obviously, I should be truthful. However, do I display the person that I am at this moment or the person I would be if I made a connection with someone?

If I displayed who I am now?

Dating Profile (2): Haven’t left the apartment in days. My only friend is a 6-month old that makes me gag when she eats solids. I have binged half of Netflix and watch unseemly man-boys play video games on Youtube.

Huh. I am not sure I would attract the right kind of fish with this bait. I mean, let’s be honest, there can be such a thing as being too honest.

Who could I be, to get their attention?

Dating Profile (148): Full-time explorer. Up for anything. Let’s hike,

I already feel exhausted. The problem is that I fairly know what a good amount of these guys would want me to write. Frankly, however, I could never live up to that kind of portrayal. In fact, I feel like my profile would be an anti-profile if I honestly addressed most of the information given in the male profiles.

Dating Profile (-459): I don’t go to the gym. I do yoga in my bedroom because I don’t want to be seen in public in yoga pants. I don’t really like traveling. I like BEING in new places, but getting there is rarely enjoyable. I don’t care about craft beer, most sports, or how tall you are. I am not 420 friendly; I am NOT up for anything, and you just sound exhausting with your hiking, surfing, and alcohol infatuations. Also, I don’t really understand why everyone is obsessed with tacos and “vibes.” If you don’t have anything in your profile, don’t bother. If you don’t have a shirt on in your profile picture, swipe left. How are you all not dead yet, and what am I even doing on here?!?

What am I even doing? Writing my dating profile makes me rethink whether or not I even want to be dating right now. I’ve become bitter and impatient with the modern tradition. I signed up for an app that gives me the power, but I might not even want it. Well, no matter the existential relationship question, I need to complete this deceivingly warped challenge. Me, in 300 characters.

Dating Profile (6):

Born-again Christian. 5′ 2.5″ Murderous vibe (INTJ). I love to write, read, and dance but can only do one competently. Bookstores and cafes. I can be cold and logical. I’ve been told it’s intimidating. I like adventures, but I like the calm, too.

I don’t drink, smoke, drive, have sex, or love children. 

Me, in 300 characters. It’s not enough, but it won’t ever be enough. I have to converse, reach out and understand what’s out there. The profile isn’t perfect; it might not make much sense, but I am tired. I’m sure I’ll change it multiple times, even though it may be awhile before I am ready to live up to its existence.

 

 

 

 

Sunday (1 of 7)

Light. It’s quiet. I keep my eyes shut as long as possible, curl up as tight as I can. Then, she sighs. Sunday sits in a chair tucked up by the window. Her knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on the caps. “Good morning,” I say to her amid a morning stretch.

Another deep sigh. I shift out of bed and wander toward her. She is looking out at the trees, probably watching the leaves fall. I kneel down to look up at her. I brush her short, brunette hair back behind her ear. “What are you thinking about?” I ask quietly.

She doesn’t look at me. Her pupils follow the warm colors spinning, being pulled away. “I miss her,” she says.

“I know,” I say.

She tilts her head, resting her cheek on her knees and her eyes on me. “You saw her yesterday,” Sunday says.

“You’ll see her soon,” I say.

“Not soon enough,” she says, turning to watch the leaves again, “How is she?”

I put my hands on my thighs and slowly stand up. “She is-,” I say, walking over to the dresser behind Sunday’s chair, “She is a mess, like always,” I say.

I pull out some jeans while adding, “She still can’t figure out what she wants to do. Nothing, everything. She is quite the hand-full. You know, she even dyed her hair purple.”

I pull out a t-shirt and shut the drawers. “Of course, that’s easy for someone who doesn’t have to work,” I point out a bit bitterly.

Sunday says, deeply sighing once more, “She sounds free.”

“Hey now,” I say, shimmying into the jeans and t-shirt, “You know who you kind of sound like?”

“Who?” she says, absently.

I walk over and put my hands on the chair’s arms, filling her whole field of vision. “Monday,” I say.

That gets her attention. She whips her gaze around and sticks out her tongue. I ruffle her pixie cut. “That’s better,” I say, standing up, “Now, I know you want to see her, but that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable without her. What would you like to do today?”

She put her knees down and thinks for a minute. While looking at her hands in her lap, in a child-like voice, Sunday says, “Can we take a bath?”

“A bath would be nice! We can do that later this evening. What else?”

Sunday looks outside for one more moment before standing up and heading to the bed. “Well we have time for a nice, big breakfast,” she adds.

“I adore breakfast,” I say, helping her smooth out the comforter and arrange the pillows, “You know who else likes breakfast?”

“Don’t say it,” Sunday pleads.

I wrap my arm around Sunday and lead her toward the kitchen. I whisper in her ear, “Monday.”

She wiggles out from under my arm, “Quit saying her name. I can’t stand her. You know you are already ruining this day.”

“Oh,” I say, “And I made sure to record the new episode of that one show you like.

“Oh yeah!” she says, “Forgiven.”

Sunday walks to the kitchen, but I pause to look out the window one more time. I have never been a real fan of Monday either. Just like the leaves falling without fail, she will come; but the smell of brewing coffee helps bring me back to now. I turn down the hall and join Sunday.

Sunny Was Here

It rains. The drops hit the tall glass wall, and I watch them.  I think, he’ll be here. I lean on the cold stone and slide down to my knees.  When it rains, it pours, I think. The street fills with the drops, and the cars slow.  I look down and pluck some puffs of fuzz from the wool that hides my arms.  He’ll be here, I think.  A man stares in as he walks by, but I look away.  I trace the cracks in the tile floor, and I think, he’ll be here.

As they walk, round domes of black keep the drops from their hair.  Some stare, and I look down once more.  I watch the light creep from me.  It fades from the tiles.  My head rests on the wall, and I think, He’s late.  I tuck my knees to my chest and fix my skirt.  I wore it for him; blues and greens zoom across the cloth.  It’s too cold for this skirt.  I grab my sleeves and pull them down.  I slip off the heels, and set them next to a crack in the tiles.  It was too far a walk for these shoes.

The rain looks bright next to the dark.  It holds light from the lamps and falls to the ground.  I stare out the glass.  I breathe on it and write in the fog, “Get here.”  I wipe it with my sleeve and move from it’s cold.  I braid my hair. I think of my next style, but he likes it long.  I’ll keep it long.  I’ll hit him, and tell him I’ll keep it long.  I move to write on the glass again, but I find no words to put there.  I can’t write, “He’s not here.” I can’t think, “He won’t be here.” I won’t.

I set my chin on my knees and breathe in the chill.  They sweep their brooms around me.  They look at me, but I look at the cracks in the tile.  I know they frown at me. I know they say, “Poor girl. It’s just her,” but I won’t hear them.  I’ll wait.  I think, he’ll be here, and so I wait.

My eyes wish to close and my mouth wants food, but what if he comes? What if he DOES come?  What words will he write on the glass? I see his ghost kneel down. He draws his lines neat, and I know the word he will make.  It would be her name.  He would write her name.  It’s her; not me.  I lift my body up off the floor, and pick up my shoes.  I feel – I breathe on the glass and write, “Sunny was here,” – cold. The door shuts behind me.

The drops break on top of my hair as I walk home. My eyes and steps trace the cracks in the street, and I think, I won’t write his name after this.

For some time, that made me happy. I felt strong; but the rain has not stopped, and I am still cold. I think, Sunny IS here. Sunny is here… But I do not feel “here.” I am still on the dry side of the glass with nothing to write.

Spun

WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT

A dry petal stuck to her wet lips, dusty roses from a rusty lover. She plucked it from the red ink and tossed it to a drooler, front row, with heavy pockets. The bouquet rustled as she spun. The feathers on her shoulders shivered as she pulsed. Was he watching? On toe, silk slippers, she popped her hips left, right, forward, left, right. She wanted him to see her. She wanted him to eye the weaving of her corset, to glimpse under the layers. She spun, brisk air swimming around her thighs. Loose curls swinging past her diamond-painted eyes. Would he wash it off in his bathroom, her bare thighs resting on the porcelain sink? She puffed out her chest and tucked it in to the beat. She ran the bouquet up her thigh, her side, until it pricked her peaking breasts, expanding with each inhale.

She spun. Her slippers sliding on cabinet, lace pooling at her waist. Would he come to her?  She dived forward, her back bending, her legs straightening, and her backside shaking an imaginary fox tail. Denim against her skin, her hands pulling at cotton. She swept the beat above her head and let it tumble to the sound of applause, of whistles and grunts. Her bow was short, her exit quick. She was feverish, lit. Leather sliding from tight loops, taut chord loosening silk and bone.

As the next act took the stage, she steadied herself and peaked at the crowd. She couldn’t see him. He didn’t come. What was she supposed to do? Then, she felt him, cotton and denim pressed into her back. Fingertips brushed across her arm, and she trembled. She spun, stood on toe, and whispered, “Take me home.”