All Over Mystery

I hook my left thumb through my belt loop as I precariously hold a beer with my other four fingers. The bottle sweats, allowing droplets of cold water to slide down my bony fingers toward my bonier wrists. The wetness is stopped by my watch. I look. Midnight? I Sigh. Survey. Drink. Watch the boys watch the world. Watch the girls watch the boys. Some things never change, no matter how old you get.

Kyle’s hand is on my back. His fingers snake around my waist to make a trade. Corona for keys. He slides the chain inside my pocket as he swipes the beer and says please with his eyes. I come very close to laughing. Until I realize that I am staying sober. He ambles toward the guys at the bonfire, looks back once to make sure I am behind him. Hasn’t he gotten it yet? I have always been behind him. Always lost to the girls, always one of the boys, never quite a woman.

The bonfire. Rocks in a circle, flame in the middle, surrounded by muscles and musk. I settle into one of the lawn chairs, slip my shoes off to feel the grass under my feet, and sip the wonderful taste of testosterone. I hold out my hand to Kyle, palm up, fingers twitching, and he reaches into one of his pockets. Slowly, almost secretively, he hands me a pack of Marlboros. I take one, light it, and place the pack back into his waiting hand so that he can hide it back in the depths of his jeans. How ridiculous, trying to monitor the progress of death.

I settle back to breathe it in and tune it out. A newcomer soon breaks the pattern of the sexes. She looks at me, the lone female. Shifts her gaze to Kyle. Rests it there. Asks an idle question. Kyle tells her that, no, I am not his girlfriend. Obvious pleasant surprise is followed by obnoxious purring before she strolls back to her corner.

Then, from one of the guys, there was a slow why isn’t she? Kyle reaches back into his pocket and retrieves the red and white box, silently holds out his hand to me. I wait until the cigarette is to his lips before I flick the lighter. He only smokes when he is distressed. Or when he is avoiding particularly distressing questions.

The one who unsettled Kyle glances at me from the other side of the flames. He has a certain look about him. It is the look of the drunk-turned-philosopher. Mix alcohol with testosterone, and the limits of understanding become boundless.

Kyle continues to ignore the question. The scrutiny is forgotten as drunk gains the advantage over knowledge. I am the only one who truly wants his answer. The night keeps moving on.

Seventeen cigarettes later, three of them his, fourteen of them mine, Kyle hands me his beer and reaches inside my pocket. I shift and allow him to free the keys. He hands them to me and smiles. He's ready to go. We're ready to go.

Walking across the lawn I feel a hand on my arm. It is the perpetrator of the perplexing question. He whispers something in my ear.

Is he worth driving home?

I smile. He continues.

Is he worth waiting for?

I glance at Kyle, wondering how obvious it really is.

Published in The Sunflower Dream, June 1999

An Explicit Haiku

Long work day
Unwind with hubby
Curl my toes
Bliss

B Train Dissonance and New York Lullaby

On rural Route Nine just before twelve,
Lights wound around the airport road,
But covered in slippery spring rain,
Hyde Park had darkened before ten.
One apartment was the only thing awake,
And really alive.
(All of the above surpassing the alphabetization of Boston’s Back Bay.)
When she’s home,
She’s really home.
Corona in one hand,
Marlboro in the other,
Sprawled across the lap
Of any of the seven guys
Who were never
"Those"
Kinds of guys.
(Interesting, though, she had kissed five of them.
A dare.
A mistake in judgment
Too many shots of Goldslager
Desperation and temporary insanity
But one,
One had almost been love.)
She smiles,
Sighs,
Pleased
To be away from the screeching halt of trains.
Content
To let cigarette smoke seal cardiac fissures.
Happy
To let barley and hops empty her brain.
Ecstatic
To be "one of the guys."
She reaches above her to crack the blinds and stare at the rain.
On the back of the couch
Just near her elbow
Almost within her reach
Is the needle and thread
Belonging to the fabric of fate.
It hums with the desire to weave a new and defining stitch,
But it goes unnoticed among the beer, the smoke, the testosterone.
The sounds of the
New York Lullaby.