The CuisinArt

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be something I wasn’t: I’ve been a child and wanting to be a teenager, a teenager wishing I were in college, in college impatiently waiting to become a man, and a man, wishing I was a better man. My whole life, I’ve felt like the pet dog at dinner, heeled, on the ground, snout on his master’s lap, hoping, waiting for a chance to have even a morsel of the meal that lay just inches away. With the smell assaulting me, I’d salivate at the thought of devouring it, but only managing to obtain a taste of the crumbs that fell from the kings that sat above me. I’m an old man now. I’m tired. I’m leaving.

The bad weather. It would come one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in Ithaca. Soon, the aesthetic pleasures of fall would be meddled with and wiped away by the white snowdrifts; our moods flew south with the ducks.

I am going to miss the ducks. They paddled close to my dock. I often went out there to read, or strum my old but trusty acoustic. It needed new strings. Penelope would always throw the ducks bread, and soon a crowd would gather. She loved to imitate their sounds and quacks. I would sit and smile. It was getting too cold to eat dinner out there, but we would often graze on bruschetta and full bodied reds while the main dishes finished cooking. She loved my cooking, as undistinguished as I thought it was, but that had always made me feel all right. The wine and the meal and perhaps a few beers were sure to keep me full, but with enough energy left to write after the sun had withdrawn under the stretching silhouetted tree line opposite our unassuming lake house.

Though still plenty of fine days to be had and enjoyed, the arrival of the dreaded weather was in sight now. Just a few minutes down a darkening road. Left with the choice to wallow or savor, I chose to exclusively wear Hawaiian shirts, drink spirits and work often and with my own heat - along with the new fireplace – that would be warmth enough to avoid the toil of winter living. Though as I architected this mantra, the voice of doubt, which I fought hard to ignore, sang its hymn deep and proud and in stereo. And eventually, it was all I could ever hear.

I left around eight on Thursday. I let P - as I called her, despite her disapproval – sleep, or more appropriately, I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. I stopped in a Podunk gas station before departure. Gas, oil, wiper fluid; I would need coffee. “Do you need room for cream?” asked the clerk, a girl of no more than 20 with a pallid face still afflicted by the scars and memories of acne and adolescence. “Just leave room for the lid,” I instructed. I always took it black in those days. Her eyes told me she had 15 minutes left in this abhorrent shift of menial, meaningless labor; but the truth was that she had years. In the car, I alternated sips on an organic cigarette and freshly brewed cup to compliment each other for the five hours I had ahead of me.

I recalled that morning: the sky had less color than I could ever remember. When I looked across the endless pine covered landscape of central New York, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Not only that, the atmosphere looked as though the sun had never been there in the first place. I couldn’t stop looking. I knew of the sun. I loved it, it has been a source of friendship. But where had it gone? I looked in all directions. There were no traces of anything save for this endlessly bleak and bloodless sky and this troubled me. There will be eight minutes from the point of which the sun burns out, and the time we can no longer see it’s bright, and resplendent rays. Had that harrowing day arrived?

Hours later, the sky was black and clear and crisp and beautiful. I’d made it. The stars shone and reflected upon my windshield, which was finally clean: I ran out of wiper fluid two weeks prior and since I was driving with a suspended license, under the influence, and over the speed limit, I didn’t want a dirty windshield to arouse any suspicions among young officers who needed to fill their ticket quotas for the evening. I don’t know if it was recklessness, or just indifference, but the prospect of being arrested and losing my car, injected no fear into my bloodstream. I had other things on my mind, yet it was still far from wise to burn bridges I very well would have to drive over again. Ignoring my provident sensibilities, and a phone call from P, I pressed on into the night along the empty, bending road.

Nerves, perhaps? Something didn’t feel right. A numbness of sorts had overtaken Meng Yau’s left hand. A stroke? He felt no pain, although when he looked at his fingers, speedily marching around the instrument’s neck, he saw his little pinkie about to fall off. There was no blood. Just the single digit, that tiny one on the end, dangling by a thin strand of skin. Swinging loosely as he continued to play.

This is odd, Meng thought as his pinkie broke apart from his hand entirely and fell to the stage floor in a tailspin.
Why, he wondered, did that just happen? Attempting to answer that question, Meng replayed the evening’s events in his head.

Though the park’s air was cool, all he had felt when this performance began was the hot lights above him, pushing sweat out his pores. The gerontocratic lawn before him, population on blankets and in folding chairs, applauded his entrance. Meng remembered trying to shake away a dizziness in his head as he took his seat, center stage, and readied his instrument.

He thought back to the crowd’s silence as he first poised his then full-fingered hand over the fret board. Eyes squinted out into the distance once more before closing in concentration, Meng raised his bow and placed it above the strings.

How unnecessarily dramatic, he had thought.

With a long stroke, he drew his bow across the hull of the object resting against his body. This first note, low and ominous, carried out across the night, spreading into nearby ears.

And a few notes later, his finger fell off.

Meng was convinced he had done nothing different than any other night’s performance. He pushed up his glasses and smiled outward to where tradition told him the audience lay. Perhaps none of them, he thought, have noticed a thing.

So, mostly blinded by brightness, he decided to forge ahead. To not let his sudden handicap deter his concert. He moved his hand a little faster and stretched his fingers a little farther to compensate for the missing member.

Forward and back, quickening in pace, the spell he was casting mounted in pace and grandeur. The longer it went, the more it took hold of him. He felt the heat dripping down his brow, and in opening his eyes to bat away a salty bead, he happened to glance at his left hand again. Both his ring and middle fingers seemed to have gone completely limp. Lacking any dexterity, all he was able to do was clumsily slide them up and down the instruments neck.

Fear finally took hold of him and he felt his stomach drop. What is happening to me? And as he finished that thought, both of his fingers broke off his hand and freefell to the stage floor, joining the pinkie.

My god, Meng gulped. And then he thought of the audience. Perhaps they will only think of this as a diminuendo.

And the heat from the lights was becoming unbearable. He felt covered in it. Dripping in perspiration. Surely, he thought, I look repulsive.

Breathing heavily, he reached up to wipe at the slime of sweat on his brow, but as he brought his hand down, he found it covered in hair. Wet hair, his own, sticking to his hand.

At this exact moment, his tongue discovered a small, hard object inside his mouth. He spit it into his lap. A molar. Tonguing around, he found a space in his mouth where a tooth used to be. And continuing investigation found the entire lineup to be loosening and ready to dislodge completely.

What a contretemps! Meng thought as he spit a few more teeth into his lap. What more could he do except attempt to keep track of them all?

It wasn’t long before Meng’s mouth was all gums.

He decided to stop playing then.

Rising from his chair, he wiped at his lower lip, which hung weighty on his face. Saliva dribbled out his mouth and down his shirt. He tried to speak but, to his surprise, his jaw had unhinged itself.

What a wicked role Fortuna has given me tonight, he thought. Then his legs gave out and Meng tumbled to the floor. The teeth he had cradled in his shirt spilt across the stage.

As he stared at the lights beaming down at him, he wondered what the audience out there must be thinking of him. All this work, he thought. Six years of college…

But his schooling could not save him from his undoing

From Adam

–

Pitiable destination, never to be reached
A weak stream drying
Droughts of love and verve, parched for a crest that would replenish strong rivers,
Flowing lush beneath a permeable blue
No solace, but the desert
Dried tears, salt and not much more

Weak streams creep
Creep toward a sea of dust
Stream to dust, dust to dust
Nothing here in the delta
Desolate, easily traipsed

I’ve come far in search of rivers, to the horizon’s end
Prayed they be wide and rolling; spare me weak streams

Abandon it, abandon the attempt
Before the arrival at the weak stream’s delta

Nay, I’ve pressed on in misery

An oppressive trail
Full of old dogmas and forbidden gratifications

The straight and narrow, like an arrow to the horizon
Black as bold typeface in a blurry, smeary green-gray jungle
Flagellated in contrition, I mush forth with eyes on the line
Limping gait favoring to the left, to the right
Footfalls lead, follow
My uncomfortable, uncontrollable arousal into brambles
In search of always sweeter fruit

Though I walk the line
I veer subconsciously,
In search of sweeter fruit, delectable indulgences
And sap on the trees
Scarred, mute, remorseful,
I trek haphazardly from the darkness,
Back to black as boldface

Guiding stars lay hidden
Cotton web clouds stick to my thoughts, my memories
Clouding my reason, chastity
Diffusing the black bold straight-and-narrow

Yet somewhere an alabaster moon, partially concealed
Hovers like peering over shoulder,
Threatening to expose the fraud, painstakingly spun
A looming apprehension and
A persistent, recurring erection at the wrong time

Amidst the uncertainty, the doubt, the lack of
A light to follow through the night,
There remains a steadfast guilt
Guilt of the circular penitent, succumb to his egression’s transgressions

A beacon, pulsing, warm, stands like a monolith deep in the smeary jungle
And I veer into brambles
I bow to my own obelisk in the wrong place, always at the wrong time
Huddled in the shadow of its respite, I am lost to the horizon and old typeface
I am tempted by something that stings to spite such things
Overcome by fructose and bramble berries
Red as sin in the smeary gray-green

Sullen, bedraggled, utterly sober, wading once more back from brambles
Again, still again, I follow footfalls
Those deep, weary drums that sound the dirge

I fail to grasp: no sweeter fruit but straight lines black and bold
Sullen, steeped in the languor of misdeeds and paths too often taken,
I tread the line
To the delta
Slightly off kilter, dead and closer to dead.

Here is a poem from Shane, our newest and making a run at bluest Contributor, though he has some stiff competition….
–
you are the leading role in a play i’ve seen before
the shadows are bigger than the actors, and a violin sings the score
it looks like a comedy but ends as a tragedy
because your role requires you to be what you have to be
your words are written, and your lines all memorized
and you laugh at the clown with tears painted under his eyes
the tickets were expensive and too much to afford
and the real price that i paid is at the end of your sword
the crowd is snoring and the audience is bored
some are getting up and running toward the door
but still i sit here watching on the edge of my seat
biting my nails in anticipation for what I’ve already seen

–something seathroughe

He dreamed of writing
Famous films for the screen
For wealth and fame, and all in between

He took courses and classes
To improve his skill
He had a little talent, and more than enough will

But with no connections
Or friends well equipped
With power or influence, to sell his script

Networking takes time
And he hated to be
A small drop of water, in a vast open sea

He needed to meet a star
Of A-list quality
So he joined the Church, of Scientology

He’d meet Tom Cruise
And show him his play,
And Tom would fast-track production that day!

Now, a fraudulent sycophant
And in his mind he did posit
That he’d move up the ladder with every deposit

And so he gave to the church
The endowment his parents left him
And with no questions asked, the church made their collections

He acted his way
Up the OT rank and the file
Knowing L Ron would be proud of this duplicitous style

From OT I
To level VII in a year
He was so close now, well past “The Clear”

After all this dedication
He one day met Mr. Cruise
And shared his script, which he knew Tom would approve

But to shock and dismay,
And in true Hollywood reversal
Tom hated the story, and refused to call Universal

The dark moment had come
For this opportunistic endeavor
Because the Church wouldn’t let him leave; “You’re with us forever!”

He’d read about people
Who tried to break out on their own
They were beaten and harassed at work and at home

So he found other members
Planning an egress, just like he
And this was the reincarnation, of the “Galactic Confederacy”

The battle was fierce
Thetan meters violently destroyed
And soldiers of Xenu, soon were deployed

The bloggers and hackers
In V for Vendetta Masks
Joined him in this foreboding task

And together they fought
Against a Church, “So they say”
Though our hero just wanted someone to make his screenplay

Without truly knowing
If his story was worth making
He really wanted fame, and fortune for taking

Like Mr. Hubbard before
And like many to come
There’s millions to be made by exploiting the “dumb”

And regret he sure did
Infiltrating this bad sci-fi dream
With intergalactic wars, as the source of why we’re mean

Oh how silly we are,
Oh the lengths we will go
To seek ultimate truth, though we’ll surely never know

For art or religion
Or to be self-actualized
Don’t follow ambition, with two blinded eyes

And L Ron’s no different
From a rabbi or priest
Taking money from peasants, to enjoy they’re own feast

Our hero barely survived
After nearly kicking the pale
Don’t join a Church, just to make a movie sale

And he returned to LA
And started anew
And just as he thought, networking blew

But his will was as strong
And his desire as extreme
To see one of his movies, up on the silver screen.

Dylan’s Newest. Don’t Worry, you won’t feel so illiterate at the sight of his veritable display of vocabulary this time…
–
- we are transferring power at this time…. Challenger is now running off its three onboard fuel cells…

The bath water splashed. Annoyed, bitter. Approximating her broken state. The letter dampened in her hand, the edges loosening from the water collected on her pruned fingertips. She read it over once again to make sure nothing was left out.

“Sweetie, is that the radio in there I hear?” Her mother pounded the door from the hallway.

“Of course,” she moaned.

“Oh, well… how much longer do you plan to contemplate suicide?”

“For as long as is suitable, mother.”

“Surely an hour and a half in the hot bath is enough.”

“It would be highly inappropriate to rush this decision ,” she spluttered. “And besides, the water is no longer hot.”

“So why do you insist on sitting in that tub with the door locked?”

She hit the water with frustration as the radio commented “…coming up on a go for all sequence start…”

“Even the most superior of minds in history have required seclusion! If there is a morsel of compassion in your withered body you will grant me this lavatory’s occupancy for this one night!”

“But we only have the one in the house and I have been in need of a constitution since you first locked yourself in there.”

“The level of your insensitivity staggers the mind,” she coughed. “When you were bawling over the cancellation of your favorite magazine did I not pat your back and say ‘There there?’ It seems only reasonable to ask the same from you in this, my time of pain. What is wrong with the Reenebeds water closet?”

“Baby, it is nearing midnight. I will not knock on their door at this hour for such a request.”

“Well, surely I can not be blamed for your timidity.”

“It would be uncouth, my dear!”

“And this abominable act you’re putting on isn’t? How ironic!” she sighed violently.

…and we have a go for auto sequence start, Challenger’s onboard computers have primary control of all the vehicle’s critical functions…

“What are you listening to?”

“It is a rebroadcast of the Challenger launch.”

“Oh. Darling,” her mother pleaded. “please unlock this, if only for the reason that when you kill yourself I can then enter and properly mourn your passing.”

“Your mourning would just be a humiliating display of lachrymal clichés. Best to avoid it altogether. You will have to mourn in this exact manner - through the door.”

“Honey, that is absurd. And, if I may say so, I would rather you not follow through with this threat. I rarely understand your actions, and this is no exception.”

The nearby radio announced “…T minus 17 seconds and counting…” and at that moment she furiously spat water against the closed door.

“Did you just spit at me?” Her mother gasped.

“I was planning to spit at the door when the countdown began regardless of whether or not you were on the other side.”

… 8… 7…

And there in the bath, water beneath her, she reached to the lighter on the sinks counter, cued it, and leaned its flame to the letter. The parchment burned. The edges squirreled around to touch the words, which there, on the backside, read mirrored.

This is timeless, she thought.

“Do I smell smoke?” Her mother squealed.

And a few years before this, far away from this Idaho bathtub, a space shuttle exploded.

From Dylan…

–

I had married a Succubus but
Didn’t realize till after we’d wed
Emerged a vixen so oleaginous, I
Had to escape from the Demoness’ bed!

For some newlyweds we had quite the dwelling
A place atop a hill with twenty-five rooms
All surrounded by marshland and mire
With an inhabit of her womanly ruse

For leviathans she had quite the beauty
Though a chthonic she looked tanned in the sun
Not carious, at least not on the outside
But on the in she was well over done

She didn’t sleep and had impressive peripheral
So my skedaddle had to avoid the day
I needed desperately the cover of sable
In aide to avoid her covering gaze

In her repast the night I had planned it
Slipped her opiate to addle her limbs
Then used that moment to slip out of the side door
While she collapsed to the parquet languid!

Then came the moment of my anagnorisis
As I tromped through the Buffalo Swamp
The gangly devil who I left behind was
The only woman I ever would want!

So went to return to my darkly lit quarters
Fetch my true love and sorely apologize
But as I lifted my feet from the peat stirred
A snake so deadly when it bit me I died!

The pain was quick but the poison was quicker
I fell in water and was numbed to excess
I could have lived to die with my darling bloodsucker
Instead I died with a snake and regret!

And the more he thought, the quicker he thought, and the quicker he thought, the sooner he became aware of himself, and the sooner he became aware, the more he thought about his bland outfit, and the more he thought of that, the faster he walked, until he came but a step from colliding into the counter and ball rack behind the lanes. In a sudden and swift move, graceful as his bowling stroke, he slid out of the way, narrowly avoiding the embarrassing scene of spilling water on himself and ruining this moment and his entire month hence.

Approaching the table in front of his lane, he stole one more glance and saw that her eyes remained facing his direction.

He set his cups down, inhaled deeply, but through his nose. He did not want her to see his skittish preparation. He faced her. His cell phone - which lay on the table - rang. He turned, saw his sister’s name on the display screen and nearly collapsed from sickness. He hit the silence key. Avoiding his sister was not a scenario he was unfamiliar with. When he looked up, the woman tilted her head bashfully, and manufactured a coy smile. He felt reinvigorated and set down the phone.

He took a step, only to hear the phone ring, yet again. This time, however, it was his work. And this time, he had to support himself on the table, because he truly thought he might collapse. He promptly silenced it, and without a moment’s hesitation, in a rare feat of spontaneity, walked over to her.

She took notice, and immediately sat at attention, rapidly deciding how she would react to the upcoming exchange. Computing dozens of greeting scenarios and the appropriate response to each at computer-like speed, and each one unique, based on how he would prompt her.

When Eric finally did reach his new destination, he was unable to say anything. He’d thought so much about his phone and summoning the courage to just walk there, what he would do once he arrived eluded him. So he said, “Hi.” And she, shocked at his choice, merely returned with, “Hi.” Ken watched from the front desk, cautiously, unobtrusively, but intently.  Eric bounced lightly and fearfully on the balls of his feet, slid his hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and after a moment, the two could manage to produce little more than a mutually nervous laugh.

She was even more beautiful, to him, at such a short distance: Her modest, yet slender stature, the curve of her hips, the loose fitting knitted sweater, which hung over her nervously contorted fists, and her flowing hair made him weak. He’d forgotten about his parents, and his sister’s call, and his job, and all the choices he’d made, that up until this point, had led him down a most undesirable path. He’d also forgotten how to speak.

In the distance, Eric’s phone rang, yet again, and the echo of that electronic ringtone ran up his spine like a platoon of red ants. She glanced over his shoulder and asked if he should take that. Before he could warmly dismiss it, a pile of energetic youngsters plowed through the door of the alley. Eric and the woman shifted their attention to the unstoppable force heading their way.

They’d both wanted a distraction, but neither of the two they were presented with. “Hey Miss. Donaldson!” Yelled a small boy who led the pack towards the woman. “I should,” “-Right, so should I,” they said. They both knew the moment was gone. The difference? The woman thought it was just this moment, but Eric, he knew it was the only moment.

Back at his lane, he felt a cold sweat, and an uncontrollable shudder of his hands. He picked up the phone to see that in fact his sister had called again. The shudder took control of his entire body. Not externally visible, but internally debilitating. He placed the phone down, though he’d wanted to slam it. He picked up his ball. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was still his time; his time to escape, however short it was.

He balanced, approached, and like all the other times: Down, forward, slide, release, and pop up. His back leg kicked up, with the faintest bit of life and charisma as the ball rolled its way down the lane. And after a perfect path, followed by perfect contact, 60 feet away, stood one pin- the 10-pin- in the corner, alone amongst the black behind it.

But, being as rigidly stable and uncompromising in the release of his emotions as he was, he just spun slowly on the heels of his plain white sneakers, grimaced slightly and clenched his fist for no more than a moment before releasing. He repeated the process, and threw a ball, which shot down the lane harder than he normally threw it- the spin, less graceful.

The lane sensed this change, and reacted accordingly. The ball twisted at the last moment, and missed the pin. Missed the spare; missed his chance. His phone rang again. The ball returned; he had nine frames remaining and three games after those frames. He silenced his phone, picked up his ball and placed it in his bag. He wiped the oily grease from his fingers onto his jeans, grabbed his coat with the other hand, and walked out.

He made eye contact with no one as he left. Not Ken and not the children and certainly not the woman. He stepped outside, and was struck with a breath of cool, but piercing wind. He thought about the long hours, the never-ending days, and the years that had rolled by like a ball on it’s way to the pins, only to twist just a bit too much and strike nothing but the black tarp.

He thought about the strikes, the spares, the splits, and the gutters. All those frames, all these games, all this time without memories- where had they gone? But he would remember today. He stood outside the alley, alone in the wind, in his horribly bland and self-loathing outfit: a royal blue collared shirt tucked into a black denim pair of jeans over white sneakers. And back in the alley, in the furthest corner of the furthest lane, stood the 10th pin.

It was 4:45, and Eric had skipped out of work a few minutes early. This wasn’t a problem anymore. He’d spent 10 years in the same office, learning the same people’s tendencies. He knew Susan always had a cigarette at 4:35, and stayed outside, pretending to talk on the phone till 4:50, at which point she would return and start packing her things. He knew all of their vices. He did nothing with them, but use them as a means to avoid them. Ducking out was no longer more difficult than slipping in 10 minutes late from his lunch break. He could probably stretch it to an hour.

He despised the outfit he’d chosen to wear today: a royal blue collared shirt tucked into a black denim pair of jeans over white sneakers. It was such a bland and self-loathing outfit. He despised attention being brought on him. It didn’t even match.

He’d arrived a time in his life where pleasures were a dying breed. Natural selection was taking over, and in the form of banalities and inconveniences. Almost everything was at this point- an inconvenience. There was his sister. He could hardly stomach the bemoaning scene - where she pried for money and support - that was lunch on Wednesdays. He watched the History channel, although he wasn’t particularly interested in it. But he didn’t want to be included. News, sports, celebrity scandal- he wanted nothing to do with it.

He stopped trying to meet women, or more accurately avoided them, as well- turned off to the whole concept of marriage after spending his childhood absorbing the noise of his bickering parents, and most of his young adulthood trying not to hear the shouts from what was once a marriage, turned adversarial co-habitation.

Standing alone, the only sounds in the alley were the gears churning on the ball return. The ball travels down the lane, up the return ramp and back to his hands- Time and time again; too repetitive to remember. Just an image. He lined up his shot, balanced his weight and approached with a smooth, upbeat stride reminiscent of a dance step. Down, forward, slide, release, pop up. His back leg kicked up behind, with the faintest bit of life and charisma, as the ball rolled its way down the lane. It was poetry in motion, but he never thought of it that way. The sport had become his escapist pleasure, but he hardly allowed it to be even that.

The ball glided along the second arrow from the right, rotating forward and diagonally on its axis toward the front pin, just off center and it followed the exact path he’d aimed for. The ball struck the pins just as he had planned, and evaporating in front of the ball was each pin, with the exception of one. He’d thrown a perfect ball and received imperfect results. He stared at the 10th pin, alone in the far corner of the lane. It should have fallen with the others; it should have been a strike.

But, being as rigidly stable and uncompromising in the release of his emotions as he was, he just spun slowly on the heels of his plain white sneakers, grimaced slightly - certainly not enough for anyone who wasn’t watching to take notice of - and waited for the ball to spit itself back out the return and into his hands. The result was almost as he expected. Of course he wouldn’t get the strike. He couldn’t get a break in any other moment of the last 10 years of his life, he thought, why would he get one in bowling? And had he gotten a strike, it was but a mere confirmation of what he knew should of happened. There was no pleasure, either way. If he couldn’t win, he’d at least be satisfying with predicting that he would fail, unfairly. Feeling justified, he picked up the spare and waited for the next frame. He’d already forgotten the last one.

After the game, he approached Ken, the establishment’s owner and only employee. A rigid business man; willing to purchase or spend capital on what the old fashioned and lifeless alley needed: snack machines, electronic dart boards, an updated food stand, but intransigent on spending a cent more than necessary. Before attending to Eric, Ken ordered a woman, who just entered the building that she’d have to throw her bottle of soda out. “We have soda machines, if you’re thirsty.” Eric gazed at the door, knowing kids were to follow this woman, and his own private lane amongst the beautifully desolate alley was moments away from being intruded upon in the crudest of fashions.

Ken turned to Eric, knowing why he was at the desk, and went straight to the bar. He’d always purchased a pitcher of water, for one dollar, as well. The days were getting longer. Each minute dragged. The weeks felt like they would never end, but conversely Eric also felt that so many years had escaped him, and faster than the pins fall upon contact. Eric hadn’t had any contact in some time.

Each day at the alley was beginning to feel that way. The games were long and grueling, and by the end, it felt as if he’d never even started. Ken returned, not with a pitcher, but with two plastic cups of water, and charged Eric nothing. Eric nodded his head and returned to his lane, a cup in each hand. Ken is a rigid businessman.

As he walked, he turned his head toward the door again, which had yet to have rowdy children burst through. He couldn’t stand children. He couldn’t even remember what it was like when he was one. Was he ever one? Rotating his head back towards his destination, he and the woman, who now sat, embittered and thirsty, met stares. He tried to divert his gaze, casually, but something in his neck kept him from turning.

She wasn’t particularly beautiful, plain but pleasant. Her hair, however, was stunning. It was long, rich, and flowed down her neck, around her shoulders, and dangled delicately and deliberately off her back. In the midst of the inauspicious attempt to be inconspicuous, he noticed that she too, was not turning her head, aimlessly staring at the ceiling, or pretending to find something to occupy her attention until Eric had looked away. 

Decidedly more curious, he saw that she unmistakably smiled at him. What was this happening? Could this be one of those real moments that he’d only seen on screen or heard told time and time again by a burdensome colleague? When you avoid people, you rarely see their eyes, or their smiles, or their hair. You see faces, and fabric, all forgotten by the mind as quickly as it was processed and before you realize it, you haven’t seen a person in years. But this time, he saw a woman.