By the time he finally made it out the door it was minutes (according to the stove clock purposely set fast) until the bus showed up at corner, or at least until the bus was supposed to show up at the corner-as if it ever did- and that clock was set fast anyway so I’m ok, he thought. But the bus I usually wait for is a busy one, the 3:09, and I’ve never ridden the 5:35. It’s way too damn early, he added to himself. Deciding to hurry and not risk missing anything-and as a result waiting another half hour-hoisting the other backpack strap onto his empty shoulder and skipping the last few stairs with a jump and out the door into the parking lot where feeling the breeze of the cool LA summer dawn quickened his pace and vied with the adrenaline of the new morning and trip to take his breath away, he set across the pavement, jogging lightly he was able to get a view of the road and after checking the clock on his phone slowed down just slightly, relieved at the empty road. It doesn’t matter what time it is, the 810 is never on schedule.
It was 3 blocks to the main station but only one to the bench outside the taco stand so glancing both ways and making it to the curb he decided not to chance it. So crossing the road and sitting on the bench, first on the the very edge glancing nervously around with the backpack still on, the streetlights down the road clearly illumining the asphalt, then as the intersection light changes from red to green where the bus will emerge the back pack comes off and is set on the bench, still anticipating, still waiting but it didn’t come until he stopped looking for it, it never does. Hugging the curb with it’s headlights shining, “5:43 huh? Only the 810…” he said to himself as he stood up and it pulled to a stop in front of him. The fluorescent lights inside clashed so neatly with the fresh dawn that there was almost a timeless sensation, stepping up, paying, and turning to the left to see 3 people, silently taking in the layout and the empty seats and calculating the least obtrusive yet most comfortable location, maximizing personal space by sitting as afar away from everyone else as possible and everyone else would do the same until it was a question of inches and not front or back, and stepping up the stairs (noticing anything out of the ordinary, a peculiar and comforting habit) the ridged and galvanized floor ran with hot, sugary rivulets of cappuccino, still flowing but waning now apparently set in motion by the bus’ arrested motion. Past the first seat the door closed long ago and the bus starts forward and the caramel streams run backwards over the dirty floor, mumbling something as he steps out of the way but too late so when he sits down vows never to wear flip-flops again.
And this morning is so quiet like the bus never is, no one on the phone or talking even, only the running of the engine, the stops and the door (rarely), and the light traffic, still in early morning but when the bus pulls into the train station only 3 minutes late, time made up by missed stops and yellow lights, the sky is already lit and the passengers squint when the bus turns and the rising sun floods the windows. Without much hesitation, grabbing the rail as the final turn is made under the awning, and pulling himself off the bench with automotive momentum, by the time the doors open he is there waiting with a nod and slightest wave towards the driver (it was a good one today I’ve never seen him before never ridden the early morning shift). Out on the pavement and the square grass lot the sun is shining for the morning and the train is unloading (I’m usually fast off the bus and today it comes in useful, It’s these damn schedules that conflict giving you about 2 minutes to make your changes, 2 minutes you never get, taken up by bad driving or late buses, never two minutes… I’ve never been on time… that’s why I have to take the 190 sometimes, there it is on the left, every 15 minutes I think? I’ll have to double check on that, I think the train may have some timetables) so there is a moment’s pause to adjust the backpack, look around and take in the company, stare down the tracks, wait to load then up to the top section with a window seat, settling down with the earphones in, book out, then put away (It’s too early to read, not with this much still going on, I’m not even bored, not remotely bored to be honest still too much commotion with the promise of the ticket collecting conductor and…) And it’s off the bus again, down the stairs and onto the platform to the machine, pressing the buttons as the options appear, instantly, sliding $20s in and snatching the ticket out still reassured by the open train door so it’s a quick walk to the door and back up the stairs (my seat is still open… I guess I could have risked it but the fine is enough to discourage me, there have been times they haven’t checked I guess… not enough though. I might bet on a 50/50… ah, now we finally start…)
As platform fell out of view, he, Ben, absentmindedly picked up the book he started earlier and ignored as station after station emerged out of the endless suburbs. Several chapters in he glanced up and saw the sparse landscape that meant they were nearing the edge of the city. Fewer houses, hamburger joints, and car dealerships, now windmills, hills, trees… There was a field beyond one of the hills (that field, strawberries? Wheat? It doesn’t look irrigated, I wonder how they get anything to grow there, you’d have to be crazy to want to try and grow anything, especially here, but anywhere in general. So many problems to deal with, so little reward, when I can just buy it at the grocery… organic even if I want… and if I have the money why should I waste my time with it? Let other people fool with it if they want, we had that small garden once, just a few tomatoes, and greens, and… and that one day when I was talking to her out there and she…no that never happened, but she had in her hand that… Who is it for I say and you said the angels, you say it with a tone and with a frown aimed at me with a dare to ask why again, to ask anything one more time, and I see it so I don’t, but as I see you filling it up the rest of the way I can’t understand what I’m seeing unless I permit you’re crazy, and are you? I’ve known you for so long now, and this isn’t you, I’ve known people who would do what you’re doing and who aren’t crazy, but that isn’t you because I think I know you. I thought it did and I resist another word or two, the seconds have gone by as the bucket gets fuller and I forget mostly how upset you were when you told me about the angels before and so I ask more and you jerk up and stare at me with angry eyes and your voice is loud now as I learn ye, that is a bucket full of water, and yes the water is for the angels what the hell else do you expect them to drink if not water, they’d probably drink vodka but who has enough of that these days anyway especially with your salary, and I think you’re smart enough to understand why I’m doing this, I don’t have to explain it to you but I guess I do, don’t you know? I suppose I do know but I hope I don’t, I hope I’m dreaming or getting something mixed up but I know I’m not so I go for it, and I tell her what she wants; needs to hear, that how will the garden do well If there are no angels to protect it, the bugs and the disease and the heat, that’s right she says that wasn’t too hard to figure out was it and your anger turns back away from me and realigns with it’s true focus, to its home which appears to be life in general, people, the earth, God and everything, why? But I don’t ask why because that’s what you hate but I think that’s what you need to hear of course I think that… why I remembered that just now, why I made it up rather, she never did anything like that, I suppose maybe she could be capable of it on one of her craziest days, maybe….) And as the train went on, his mind calmed back down; after staring out the window a few more minutes the book was back in his hands on the next chapter.

Christmas was at your house that year, the year you decided not to come back and I spent the spring (still busy with everything, more busy with all of it than ever) alone, barely talking with you, hearing about your moves and jobs and travels only after the fact in the time slots I put aside for those updates, becoming less and less frequent as I prioritized my time and emotions away from you and past and the distant and towards the here and now and school and work and boy in my Psych class. I forgot about you but not totally about us even though that was the year m roommate went crazy on me and the rest of our floor, accusing us of sleeping with her boyfriend and of stealing her music and hair ties and then doing those things to us and so how would I have time for you and for us? That’s what I told myself then and I think I was right, so much happening during those months leading up to the summer just trying to get through all of it and make it work. Maybe you knew it would be like that? Your presentiment justified when you read my emails about my workload and crazy Cassie down the hall and internship taking up all my spare time, as you (what is it that you did all those months I still don’t know, never got a good idea other than the generalizations feed to me through texts and blurbs on the internet, spending three months in Honduras, living with your parents and suffering so lonely, pictures of you at some beach with some girl much prettier than me-“just a friend”- and everything else that went on that I never found out about that led into the summer and then next fall there you were back at school a year older but ten credits behind me ready to finish your degree noticeably more mature and responsible, tanned and relaxed. I was so envious of it, of everything, of the time you could take of and of the personality quirks that enabled you to do it and still thrive, potentially accomplishing more than even I with all my studying and work and business, that you could do it, not that you did is what bothered me.

So with the summer behind us and our reunion a week before Halloween, we settled into the winter and our familiar pattern, Christmas spent at my parent’s house on the coast, the snow and cold coming in off the ocean burying us in for the holidays, burying the last year of iniquity and estrangement and ushering in what became our future, instead of taking the optional interterm January my parents asked us to stay, “You need a break Esther, you work too hard we can tell you’ve lost so much weight and are you getting any sleep anymore?” Not really since he came back into the picture though it wasn’t necessarily for the typical reasons I suppose, just extra time to devote somewhere else, to someone else. But for that January I was happy, happier than I would be for a long time. Oh god we spent that winter better than anyone could spend it, skiing and hiking in the snow, coffee and hot chocolate in the small town shops and lodges, real maple syrup (local) and little things like that adding up to perfection, you enjoyed it so much the novelty astounding you as it always does, the change inspiring and perpetuating your curiosity and enthusiasm until it was time to load up our car and meet the spring semester and workload that would stress me out again and friends that would talk you out of proposing that spring as well despite my expectations, expectations that exceeded hope and potential but was planted in my mind as a reality which you broke; not sure if you knew that or not. But that summer was better than the last, at least you were closer and I could see you whenever I wasn’t working, and that fall you made it up to me with a ring I gladly accepted on that night cool and brisk.

*****

It was still early the sun hadn’t even arisen above the parking lot horizon that took my view in as I almost skipped out of her room and out into the hallway, stopping for a second to wander out a little into the courtyard grass, feeling the grass under my bare feet avoiding any traces of walked dogs and then hurrying back onto the concrete rushing to the stairs flinging open the door and bounding up the stairs several at a time apologizing and sliding sideways between a couple on their way down the stairs when the door opens to the second floor, skipping a step and settling into a light jog the rest of the way to my room. Opening the door and leaving it shut, slamming (if he isn’t up by now like I am there isn’t any reason for me to make concessions for his laziness doesn’t he now the morning is for waking up for consciousness for getting shit done, to be frank) I go to the kitchen and repeating to myself, bantering like a chant what I had said before I left, I’ll get it be right back I’ll get it be right back I’ll get it be right back, one step across the kitchen, two, three (a long stride to make it three) and four with the lid off the canister five getting the coffee bag out six lid back on seven eight nine backwards and ten opening shutting the door. A song popping up and whistling it back down the hall and into the stairwell where I slip on the first step my feet covered in dust and the concrete slick. Catching myself on the rail I drop the coffee and manage to grab it with my other hand before it hits the floor. I’m forced to stop when the blood rushes to my head and adrenaline gets the best of me, then it’s gone and I’m back to normal, normal like yesterday not normal like a few minutes ago (which is far from my normal) and I try to remember what I’m doing and where I’m going and why I’m so excited and tired. The rest of the steps one at a time, carefully but quickly and down the rest of the hall back to Esther’s door, before opening it now my enthusiasm for accomplishing a task wearing off and the few hours of sleep I got catching up to me, I hear the shower going still after I unlock the door and lock it behind me and put the key on the counter.

Mentally congratulating myself for getting back in time and for thinking ahead as I sometimes do I grind the beans and get them into the press right as the kettle begins to whistle from when I had put it on after I woke up. “Hey, I’m back.” “Is that you?” “Yep, I had some of that…” “Don’t come in here!” “I’m not, I was just saying I still had some of that coffee left from that San Diego place we went. Remember how good that was? … Remember?” “What?” “Nevermind.” “Have you ever slipped on those stairs out there?” No answer. “Hello?” “What?” “Nevermind.” “I’ll be out in a second.” “Ok.” I still have a few minutes until the coffee will be ready so I scoot up onto the counter and sit dangling my feet like I love to do. It’s a little known fact the kitchen counters are the most (or maybe this is just me) comfortable places to be in the whole house. Something about sitting and seeing the stove and cabinets and refrigerator all around you, ready to leap into action for dinner or breakfast or cookies or anything you want, always different decorations and utensils different kitchens in different houses some more comforting some less but always pleasant to some degree. Esther’s is great, actually identical to mine in the layout but differing in the decorations and clutter (or lack thereof) and smell. Lost in imagination I finally look at the clock and see its been five minutes almost six so I slip off the counter and out of my dreams and over to press the coffee and pour it into mugs, one regular mug and one travel for me and her, nothing but coffee in the first and a little sugar (but not enough on purpose trying to cut it back and break her from starting her morning off with so much false momentum and energy, crashing by ten o’clock if she’s lucky to make it that long) and milk in the second. I start sipping mine then immediately regret it as I spit it steaming back into my cup. I hear the shower shut off and walk to the corner of the kitchen I know is hidden from the bathroom (it’s strange how well I know her apartment in relation to the frequency with which I’ve visited, offset by my own apartment identical in layout and walls and flooring I’ve spent so much time in, feeling so at home with her here like I shouldn’t) and wait blowing into my mug and hearing her open the door and take the steps down the hall into the bedroom even the door opening with the familiar creak of my own and shutting as I jump back up onto the counter and sit for a while longer lamenting my burnt tongue and ruined coffee morning but recognizing the flavor of the beans from the San Diego trip we took just the last week… just getting back Sunday night actually. And today is Thursday so that’s four days almost but it seems so long ago we got into the car Wednesday and we took off work early to get down there before the traffic on the 5 held us back like it will do if you let it, which it does regardless it seems actually. The sun blazing as it only can here and the air conditioning in her car is broken so with the windows down we transition out of the city and into the desert sometimes catching a glimpse of the ocean to our right and always hills and rocks and scraggly brush, holding hands part of the way talking most of the way anticipating the next few days. Past Temecula and Escondido and into the LaJolla driveway of our friends not quite beachside but a few minutes walk will reveal the grass and cliff and surf and setting sun. “Perfect, huh?” I ask with my arm around her and she agrees and doesn’t want to go back, “To LA or their house?” and she just smiles and I get the picture.

Hearing someone round the corner of the rocks onto the beach we separate a little but continue staring out into the ocean. “Pretty rad view, yeah? Not like up where you guys live.” “Nope, that’s for sure. What are you guys up to tonight?” “Nothing really, just chilling around the house, maybe going to get some food, we don’t have very much stuff here.” “Can we maybe go to that crepe place?” I ask excitedly. “I think they close after lunch.” “Hm, well tomorrow for breakfast maybe, before we leave.” “There’s a pretty good Mexican place nearby if you guys like that.”

I recognize one name at least, the Science teacher, I read it as we walk by into the room where we stand around the tables that now only come to my waist, I look down at the Bunsen burners and gas valves, eye wash stations and sinks and listen, “We invited you al here today not just to reunite with all your old classmates, but with yourselves as well to revisit your past, to experience the changes you have made (for better or for worse), to evaluate your present life, so stay calm and reflect and open your mind and close your eyes.” And while we do the doors shut and a switch is flipped, a clock set and this hidden experiment, echoing down the dark halls of the night time high school, no one knows, no one guessed it was for our benefit, and some of us see through half-closed eyes the darkening and swirling room and even with eyes closed we feel pressed backwards even as we turn to face the acceleration, always backwards until our number doubled, we look around and recognize familiar faces in familiar seating charts and lab partners, familiar teachers and lessons (remembering as it comes flooding back) taught and written, some of us catching ourselves in actions we remember, when we appear all is still, then all is excitement and joy because everyone understands for some reason, I winding my way through the crowd from the front of the class midway between the teacher’s desk now cluttered with papers and odds and ends, and the blackboard and across two rows and back to the last row where I sit and amber sits awestruck and wide open eyes, some pleasantly surprised some rudely offended and I cant think of anything to say even though the whole room is buzzing with a nonverbal energy and all of a sudden everyone lets loose and the voices crash in waves on the cinder block walls, I just smile (me) and I ask how old I am even though I know, “28” I say (me again) and continue to smile taking in the polo shirt and khaki uniform, slightly untucked in the back slouched on all sides, artfully disheveled to minimize identification and punishment but maximize comfort, the belt hanging loose, orange undershirt clashing with the green collar and duct taped toes skate shoes bouncing on the bottom stool rung under amber, back hunched, “Well?” I say and I reply with a smile slowly beginning and growing, there is so much to say and so much to tell, so many warnings and admonitions. I start to say don’t go… but I don’t, start to say don’t even talk to… but I don’t say anything and I can tell I’m happy, “Good.” And that’s all that’s necessary because the knowledge of change and growth and potential manifest in the tan and muscle growth and height and contentment gleaming out from behind my eyes, that’s all he needs to know, not that I have no career, that I’m living where I am, that I have barely any money and I think the things I do and have done the things that I have done, am not famous or spectacular in any discernable ways but that’s ok with me and I’ve said goodbye to my mom and am looking off the balcony again like I do, too much.

I feel so restless on nights I work, after I finish around ten or eleven and want to go to sleep but can’t, too wound up to, and what I’d like to do is talk with someone or do something or go somewhere but I can’t think of anyone who would want to (not that many people to chose from anyway out here) and so end up staring off the balcony waiting for someone to walk by and start up a conversation or going to do some laundry, I probably have the cleanest clothes in the building and having a meeting there, talking about detergents or cloths or Gargay or California or whatever, but that seldom happens. Most of the time I’m waiting for Dora to come out, at least these days I am since she’s the only one I can talk to about all this, about Esther. I hear the click of heels turn the corner to my left, two sets of clicks and try no to spin around and look but make it look causal, and it’s two girls from the room at the end of the other wing who judging by their walk and dress and on their way to a party and not returning from one. They pass chatting and giggling and smelling like a night of clubs and bars, flirting and the high life, making me turn again and watch them as pass behind me and head towards the elevator and wish that I was going with them. I turn back towards the courtyard but turn again (this time I can’t help myself and it’s not casual or smooth) when I hear Dora’s door open and jerk my head back again when I see it’s not Dora who’s coming out.

Lighting a cigarette and walking to the rail beside me he nods his head and I give him one back and say what’s up and he says it’s a beautiful night, yup, and we both stare out at the courtyard for a little while. We’re both so calm and relaxed, yet I’m all wound up inside with questions and wonderment, Dusty? Brother? Boyfriend? Are they having a party? Why wasn’t I invited? But I just lean with the same look on my face staring at the same spot out there and apparently enjoying the evening until he offers me a cigarette and I decide it’s been long enough so I don’t decline. With a few breaths I find the courage to get this over with and he, after my introduction, says that it’s nice to meet me and that his name is Alex. “Are you having a party or something over there?” “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugs, putting out his cigarette and flicking it over the balcony and says goodnight and back inside.

I turn around also to my door, then stop and think about some things take a deep breath and head towards the stairs instead. Striding a little quicker than normal I open the door to the stairwell with a shaky hand and down the stairs, skipping a few to Esther’s door on the first floor where I knock softly and pray that I’m not making a mistake, but she opens it and smiles. “Hey there.” “Hi, can I come in?” It’s Tuesday so she only halfway glances over her shoulder involuntarily then steps aside and locks the door behind me as I stand in the hallway wondering what I’m doing there. “Well?” she says with her arms crossed and eyebrows uplifted? “I didn’t expect to see you again after…” “Yeah, I guess I came to apologize for walking out like that… but,” I leave it trailing and open hoping for any further explanation from her, but there isn’t much coming for now. “But what? Oh, hi!” She says and pulls me into a hug, apparently forgetting for a second who I was, which makes me feel a little better (the hug not the forgetting part) and so I say hi and hug her back. “So seriously, are you guys planning on moving soon?” I sincerely ask and want to know and my tone makes all the difference from when I asked the night before and this time she nods, “I think so.” I frown a little in a disappointed, not angry, way, and give her another hug and ask why even though I know and she says, “You know why,” “Where are you going?” “Ben’s parent’s place, that house out there.” “What?!” I say and I step back a little when she says this because Ben’s parent’s place is not close, not even in this state not to mention so far removed from civilization that, “How will you even live out there? Do you have any, or, do you know what to do, I guess?” I’m not sure what to ask or how to phrase my question, still jumbled in my mind anyway. “You don’t seem like a country person. You’re kind of a city girl actually.” I try and put this as a compliment which she takes it as, “I know, but I like going out there every once in a while, our honeymoon was alright, it was preferable to some sort of ritzy getaway or something similar, if it wouldn’t have been for… the setting was great is what I mean. I’ll be ok I think, I’ll bring some books or something to distract me.” She smiles and I’m not really sure what to say or ask next. Doe she really think she’ll be happy? Isn’t she just running away, and running towards a destination with company, both unprefered? “When are you leaving?” I ask instead and she shrugs and it will be sometime in the next few months, they’ll go back to Ben’s parent’s (first house) and get things together there before heading south, “That’s a lot of driving, are you driving?” “Yep, we’re going to a get a trailer and move most of the stuff that way, we don’t have very much.” “Ah.” We are quiet for a bit until she asks me what I’m going to do, which if I were here I’d be more worried about herself than me, but when I begin to answer she is glancing around the apartment distracted like she isn’t really worried about me anyway but she’s just multi-tasking-she’s told me-and really does care I think. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, probably the same thing I’ve been doing I guess.” “That’s not working very well is it?” “I guess not but I don’t know what else to do, can I move to the farm with you?” I jokingly ask and see that was the wrong thing to ask. “I’ve thought about it,” she answers quietly and I can tell she has by the way she quiets down as the verbalization of her fantasy (brought up unremarkably, as a joke or comment to be dismissed) transports her into reflection. “Well that probably wouldn’t go so well, would it?” “Or maybe it could,” she adds on.

*****************

Tree tops yellow orange red stretching and blossoming out shedding leaves twisting and twirling, zig-zag to the ground dancing around your shoulders and on top of your head, skimming off onto the ground as you sit there in the upturned five gallon bucket, sliding of your dirty brown hair (from the hay and dirt and dust), your tanned neck and back of your arms staring into the woods below the sun setting, thinking something I don’t know what so I ask and caught off guard your eyes dart to the dog pen oak tree lastly my eyes, and you smile that smile something everything is hiding behind and say nothing just enjoying the view. But that’s not all I know that’s not all because your smile is missing your eyes, and as they are drawn back to the woods I’m rehearsing the question I need an answer to i don’t know why. The way you think is so so different from mine, the perpetual distraction in your look that speaks to a preoccupation with something foreign to me conscious and unconscious perhaps even to you, but especially to me since the answers I get are never full, never full. So (i judge) it’s been long enough and before I organize my mind the question – the same question – trips out of my mouth and i shut it too late and hope you don’t think (I know you’ll think) i’m nagging, by the frown that crosses your face i’m justified but the speed by which it’s replaced by a look I can only describe as relief i’m comforted, and you begin with your voice pitched high with contained emotions bursting forth but regulated as you explain everything… no not everything even though i hear about the move and the isolation and work and nature and problems and solutions, it can’t be everything no because you haven’t said anything about me, about us, about me. So I sigh and the sweet potatoes are going to overcook so I head back inside and up half the stairs to teh porch I turn around at a sound, like a car or truck or dirtbike approaching so I lean against the rail and watch the dust rising behind the treeline, I squint into the burning dying evening until the road curves South and I can take my hand down away from my eyes as the dust accumulates, for a moment I take you in in my vision still sitting unmoved unchanged still staring still thinking about… A dirtbike roars into view shooting out from the trees where the road makes that turn over the creek, going to fast but maintaining control and it’s gone before I know it white t-shirt and jeans and boots blurring past you turning and watching where the road turns again past the garden, as the dust settles your eyes wandering back across the garden, the field, the house, me (do you see me?), the woodline and sunset still bright, brighter now the beauty and colors lost in the wash of brilliant spectacle and unfeasibly overpowering moment (cloudless level with the treeline burning across the earth) until the suspense builds and building it finally breaks and the shadows are illuminated to our eyes and I quickly duck inside energized knowing the night is coming on.
The kitchen is warming as I adjust to the indoors and find the pan on the stove teh water level lower than I left it bubbling, I know they’re overdone but I like them that way, I tell myself, taking them off the heat draining the water, adding the salt, pepper, butter mashing them down mixing it together leaving the skins like that thanksgiving before we left, when your mother advised me be vigilant; he needs occupation, needs to socialize, needs distraction, left alone with himself and nature (as will be inevitable I think to myself, all the way out there with only me) he cannot help but withdraw, retract and metamorphosize inward, to his detriment, be vigilant. I know him I say, I’ve known him three years isn’t that why I’m here? Because I know him? Otherwise what do we have, now I’m at the window watching the bucket where you were, barely visible, a white spot i can catch out of the corner of my eye without focusing there, the day is wasting away so quickly now, as it gets colder even down here the time change making it even worse (they say it was for the farmers but it was only for the golfers), I have it all on the table and all that’s left is the empty chair to fill across from me so I wait for just long enough to build some frustration that part of me entertains, imagining fancifully your telepathic apathy towards my contribution until I convince myself of your humanity and ignorance and rouse myself out from the table and to the door to call for dinner where it opens under my hand into yours outstretched, instead of bringing with it a moment it brings an unfortunate discomfort for which I apologize and you brush away with a swift brush of the lips to mine, washing your hands, choosing a beer from the fridge, sitting down with your boots muddy from the outdoors, and I wonder why I’m here while the night comes on, the last band of blue sinks, dark and whole.

  Here it is, the first installment of the novel. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors or poor content as this will be written in haste. I think  I know i can make a whole story out of this Untitled as of now.

    ”Double check, the groceries are all there I even remembered the veggies for that salad your mom loves to make but never has the ingredients for, so fresh and hard to come by, and the bread unmade, in flour and yeast and everything else we already have, you’ll turn into a dough and rise and into the oven and the best bread I’ve ever had, and isn’t that a recipe of your mother’s too i think, at least it was out of the old faded yellow cookbook she keeps next to the plates there above the counter.” She looks through it all and I can see approval but it’s unvoiced as the contents of the bag are transferred to the refrigerator (those that need to be) and I stand in confusion and think, whether or not now is the right time to bring it up and whether or not there will ever be a right time for this considering everything. I almost take a step forward, my mind drawing me back in hesitation and I transfer my weight and lean against the stove now ( across the gap from the island to the oven) and my hip bumps against the burner and it clicks on, I lose my balance and make a grab for the dial and click it all the way on then off  “What are you doing? Come help me.” I make up my mind and say ok and settle on a compromise unloading the rest of the vegetables from the bag to her hands to mine, I work quietly and smilingly then as the kale is in the midst of us I bring it up, I decide to and I do except I didn’t phrase it smoothly or any of the ways I was thinking about, just Dora said you’re moving, just like that (with just a trace of emphasis on moving, none on Dora who I’d rather not we focus this conversation on but I know she’s thinking about it), and you stop but not before I have the kale so I have an excuse to look you in the eyes and then turn my back to the stove and you and the bag and spend more time than necessary arranging and placing and listening but I can’t waste anymore time and you still haven’t said anything so I turn back around and you’re staring at me with that look that I can’t place any meaning on but have it narrowed down to anger at my immaturity, confusion with the world and men, or astonished speculation at how… i don’t know.

    I told Dora this is what would happen I told her what a bad idea it was but I never came up with a better one and my back-up plan (which is actually my everyday plan) of letting things unfold letting life resolve of itself, was not working to the point of me being miserable and so I just had to make a decision. I told her, Dora that is, what am I supposed to do? I don’t remember if that’s actually what I said or not, I think I might have just said um or something similar. I was opening the door and stepping outside and she was fumbling with her keys her arms full with a box of something, books I think because one slid itself across the top of the worn covers and cascaded down her side the white pages flapping and settling by her yellow boots soaked from the rain. I move forward out my door to help her but she glances at me through wisps of her dark hair and shakes her head to let me know she’s alright and now she has the door open and the book picked up without spilling any more. Shifting the box to her other arm farther from me, stretching the grey sweater (I think she made herself since one of the many owls that circles and comprises the neckline is sorta loopy and wonky but which I love anyway) owls while moving through her door, she stopped and turned and balanced against the door frame calls my name and told me you were moving. You see what I mean now? Just that and I didn’t know what to say. “To where?” “To anywhere I suppose, does it really matter?” Then giving me one more long, meaningful look, with the eyebrows and everything, she turns and kicks the door shut behind her where it doesn’t quite close, bounces back and then snaps shut on it’s own (it seems like).

    I don’t think she likes me much, if she did I’d go and ask her why you’re moving, she knows I’m sure just won’t tell me. I shake my head and sigh even though there’s no one to see or hear me but I like to do things like that for myself, it adds some interest and drama to my life (as if I don’t have enough, probably never will). I’m on my way out but I’ve forgotten why at this point so I’m on my way back in after thinking and failing to remember, I tug the door knob and I guess i locked the door so I have to get my keys out, separate the one from the other and open the door (it’s not tough to get them confused the mailbox key is so much smaller) which I guess Dora heard or she was just rethinking but I see her back in the hallway leaning against the door frame again but this time without the box or the boots, some clean socks poking out from beneath the rolled cuffs of her jeans, she has a hand on her hip and as she brushes aside her hair as if to clear the way for the conversation she says it’s because of me didn’t I know that? Of course I know that and I tell her, “Then why did you even ask?” she says, which I didn’t but I might as well have asked it’s what I was thinking anyway. With her eyes rolling she turns on her heels back to her apartment and I need to say something, I have so many questions and don’t know what to do, but oh god I’m so slow at coming up with things to say and she only gave me about 3 seconds as it was, so i throw out a, “Dora, because…” then leave it trailing like there’s something more to that thought which there is but I don’t know what it is just yet, It catches her right as she was even with the threshold and it stops her, mercifully, but like i said this is as far as the plan goes and I think she knows it too because of the look I’m getting now; a lot of disbelief. Disbelief I share because the past few days and nights (mostly nights, when the sun trails down the sky and disappears behind the 2 stories of office concrete out my window where I can see the evening die, or catching the reflection off the plate glass while I’m working-mostly there I guess that’s where I usually am then-and the hopes of the light and day go, speaking to the sinking sun no don’t go please please slower please give me a bit more one more slower please and the dark rushes up from where I can’t see it coming and swallows it up before my thoughts are finished and the sun was holding me still perplexedly rooting me, the moon and night sets me free and then that’s when the disbelief comes) I think, “It’s because…” until the next morning.

    I struggle to communicate this to Dora and I see a look of resignation and maybe some pity replace the other one and she takes a few steps forward, “Look…” she says and I’m all ears believe me, “If this is so confusing to you, if it’s comprehension is so difficult,” ah it’s going to be like this is it? I know where it’s going and I don’t appreciate it or find it helpful and now shes close enough that I’m reminded how much I like that grey sweater on her and I can make out the crooked owl on the neckline, comprising the neckline, I wonder how long that took? “Maybe you need to rethink some things, like how you…” And with that she stops and blushes a little and looks down and I think she believes she went to far because we don’t know each other, really, so she turns and starts back to the apartment 207 that she shares with Dusty although I’m not sure whether Dusty is a boyfriend or a cat as I haven’t compiled enough evidence to really support either one of those claims (so i suppose he could be a dog or fish or something but Dora is more of a cat person), all I have to go by are a few vague comments of hers but if it were a cat wouldn’t she have named it Mr. Dusty Paws or Dusty… something like that, something more catlike, I almost call out to her and ask her how Dusty is but I stop myself and remember what she said and try to think about that as her door slams and mine is still open just a crack remember i was going back inside? I was going for some coffee that was it, a little break from this evening, which was a pretty good idea yes it was, so I close my door and head out into the night.

    I’m out in the night for all of 3 seconds when I come to conclusion that I was not intending to go for coffee, or perhaps I was but later and not at the time I ran into Dora with the books, but rather I was going to do some laundry, the ratiocination being tied to the empty laundry bag I’m gripping a little less tightly in my hand still. Sometimes I’m glad I’m not on some reality television show or famous with the paparazzi or anything because of moments like these, so it’s another sigh and glance up to the stars as I head back the other direction into the building towards the laundry room. By the time I pack up my clothes and take them back, dumping them onto the bed unfolded and warm, it’s time for coffee which was the right decision in the first place and so once more I’m out the door and down the hall and down the stairs slowly the first few then the night and the everything else catches up with me and my breaths come quicker and I clear the stairs one, two, three at a time like someone is behind me and with my feet quick and eyes bright i hit the door and I’m out and I probably should have been more careful because although the swinging metal door barely misses her (i mean just barely brushes her sweater) I have to catch myself and do a sort of pivot but I still give Dora a little bump while she’s texting on the patio there and walking too slow (in my defense). I say whoa or something, “What are you doing?” she says with a frown, and I tell her about the laundry and the coffee and I try to add some self-depreciation because we are not off to a great start this evening and the more conciliatory I can be the better. An she thought, she tells me, that I had gone back inside after we talked but obviously i didn’t, and I’m being so cheerful and I don’t know why, I don’t know why. I guess it’s doing it’s job though because she allows herself a little smile at everything (which you couldn’t even really help if you think about it, the last 20 minutes or so) and she’s disarmed, “Where are you going?” I ask not bothering to ask who she’s texting as if it wasn’t obvious enough, ” Funny, actually, I was in the mood for some hot chocolate, or something warm… I think it’s these rainy days that do it,” she adds. I nod and agree but don’t say anything because as an afterthought, almost right after the rainy day part, she tells me she left Dusty watching a movie. See? It’s things like this. I turn that over in my mind for a while then dismiss it as inconclusive. Dusty (cat) probably loves, as many cats do, watching movies and would be more than ok about being left at home instead of trekking through the rain to a coffee shop where he would not be welcome. Dusty (boy) also probably loves watching movies, as many guys do, and may or may not have been ok with being left behind in the apartment in lieu of trekking through the rain to a coffee shop where his presence would be neither welcomed nor scorned, merely attended to. So with Dusty (cat/boy) left behind I ask Dora which place she’s going and I’m going there too, it’s close enough to walk and the rain is slowing down or stopping, just a misting that you can’t really feel except barely when the wind blows and it tickles the back of your neck, so we start on the 4 blocks to the square together, and she puts on the coat she was holding, I didn’t mention that part, and pulls up the collar and buttons it up tight with her hands nestled deep into the pockets, with her boots scattering the puddles I am trying to avoid with my flip-flops, we talk about nothing and I realize again that I barely know her and I never have.

         It takes me all of 3 blocks to think up of something to say or a way to start the get-to-know-you conversation but when I finally think i have something and practice it once or twice i my mind, then open my mouth and look over at her, she’s already lit up with something to say all over her face and I think she was just waiting for me to look in her direction instead of into the puddles and she asks me something about he rain and I answer and keep what I was going to say for a better time, so I wait and wait, a few more seconds then a car careens through the intersection as we approach the curb, a little faster than it should have been going, right as we get there. She and I shrink away from it into each other, not quite touching, but barely feeling each other’s prescence, comforted by it and the the smell of her hair reminds me of this one friend I had, in college i think, good memories as most of them are, a good friend; and the looks we give each other then, on the surface it’s about speeding cars and pedestrian woes and danger but there’s something else to it, it flashes for a second and I think I’m understanding something, above us the clouds have drifted and pulled apart revealing a few stars and as I look up I think i recognize them but can’t put them into a constellation, “Come on” Dora says and the cars have gone and the street is empty and glistens with the fresh rain, the reflective bright as glass puddles and the yellow white lines and dark textured asphalt that I hate to disturb as I walk into the reflection of the night and feel empowered and a rush of energy (the lights of a city on a dark night) so i stride ahead even with Dora although I’m not sure she notices but she does when I compliment her coat and ask where its from. She smiles now and digs her hands a little a little deeper into the pockets, shrugs her shoulders to push the collar up even higher around her ears and hugs herself in its warmth, which I envy (the warmth, not the her or the coat or anything) since I always misjudge the weather and the wind is cutting right through my t-shirt, which makes me a little angry that the weather is like this here since it’s not supposed to be and that keeps me warm enough, “Boston” she says, its from a little boutique there and she’s proud of it, a good find, she says, one of a kind vintage, and now I’m full of questions, so many I don’t know which ones to get out first but I manage with the Boston part and I find out that’s where she used to live, 3 years she says with a distance in her eyes, and I don’t know her well enough to tell whether the way she twist her mouth and moves her eyebrows and slowly walks the stairs to the coffee shop means it was good or bad or mediocre or heartbreaking or what, as we walk through the door someone is holding for us, a nice older lady that I smile at and thank and receive a smile typically reserved for couples young and in love of which we are only the former (the young, not the couples part) but i guess we give off that atmosphere.

       Dora… I think and can’t remember or have never know her last name so I ask while we’re waiting in line and she’s staring up at the board, and she gives me all three, “Dora Belle Emberson.” Wait for it, ” Dora Belle!” I exclaim then stop myself a little too late and the frown that crosses her face verifies that I just ruined my one chance at not appearing dopey, which I am. And she knows it too with the withering looks she gives me, i apologize with a you-get-that-all-the-time-huh? and tell her i think it’s a pretty name and turn to think about my order for a few moments of awkward silence until she walks up tot he counter, and the kid behind it with the stupid haircut, and orders a hot chocolate ahead of me. I ‘m listening, and she says for here, in a mug, and then she changes it to a mexican hot chocolate and apologizes for the trouble. I order and amerincano and don’t change it to anything, for here, and I get a plain white mug with the shop emblem on the side while Dora gets a neat handmade looking thing which I slightly resent and make a silent vow to bring my own next time (which I don’t, if you’re wondering, but Dora did because she didn’t like the way theirs fit in her hands, the little handle). We sit and I know it’s coming it has to be, and she looks at me and asks where my coat is, and laugh and say something but I’m thinking about what she said earlier about you moving and it’s bothering me too much to ignore now so I get it over with on my terms and after I answer I start the real conversation, “So she’s moving?” A sip of hot chocolate and a look over the rim of the cup from her dark eyes and shes not saying anything for now.