He traces the raised outline of the tattoo from under his shirt.  It still ached.  And itched, now starting to scab.  Her wine hasn’t stayed full.  He doesn’t tell her he dropped his fork on the floor.  Replaced it with hers while she went to the bar.  She enjoys her rigatoni and doesn’t seem to mind.  Why spoil it?  He downs his water.  Lemon was a nice touch.  He eyes the waiter.  Thanks him, with a wink.  “…tomorrow at seven.  So I need to be up at five.”  He raises his eyebrows, “sucks.”

She pauses, finishes chewing.  “You’re going to get germs in it.”  He takes his hand out from under his sleeve.  She picks around the pasta.  “Every piece is the same.  It’s pasta.  What are you looking for in there?”  She says nothing.  Pokes around more.  Finds her perfect piece.  Watches him as she chews it.  No expression.  It is all inside.  He is inside there too.  He knows what is kicking around.  Waits for it.  Waits for it.  It’ll come… “What’d they charge?”  There it is.  “Your pasta.  My steak.  That wine.”  “Good.  So I’m covering this.” “You’re idea.” “Thought it would be nice.” “Still thinking that?”  She pauses.

“You say hurtful things.  You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m trapped either way I answer.” “I’m not trapping.  I’m factting…” she quickly corrects, “stating a fact.” “I like factting. I’m factting now. You’ve had three glasses of wine here. Two before we left. Five glasses of wine.” “I’m not the one with the problem.” He looks away.  She sees him as he looks back quickly.  Trying to hide.  He picks up his water.  “You say hurtful things.  You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m just factting.”

“What if I said, now, I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” She stays cool.  Keeps poking around her pasta.  “I wouldn’t know what to say.  How can you just react to that?” “So you wouldn’t say anything?” “Would you say it to begin with?” “I said it. What do you say?” “I don’t like this game anymore.” “It’s hard a fact.” She sets her fork against the plate. Shaken.  Fights to hide it. “Stop it now.” “What?” “The witty banter. Who are you? Fucking Hemingway?” “He was never one for wit. More Wilde.” “He liked fucking boys.” “Yeah. Hemingway never liked that.”

She searches through her pasta.  He waits.  His hand finds its way up his shirtsleeve again. “Why would you say that?” He plays his fork around his plate. “I didn’t mean it.”  He waits.  She picks up her wine glass.  Ignores his glare, even though he’s not watching.  She knows he is.  “You think I’d never do that.  End this.” “It’s not in you. You care too much.  About people. You’re aware.” “You told me that before.” He smiles. “Don’t pretend you remember.  You never remember.” He smiles, but he knows she’s right.  He doesn’t remember.  “I meant it.” “You never said it.” “I just told you.” “It’s the wrong context.” “Still said it.” “Eat your steak.” “I’m not hungry.” “Then eat that fucking tattoo on your arm.”

With that, she’s up.  To the bar.  He watches her.  Standing quietly at the bar. Composed.  Withering beneath. He looks at his shirt.  He has unknowingly lifted a scab.  Blood feathers through. Absorbing his sleeve.  He takes his coat.  She watches him from the bar.  He doesn’t push in his chair.  She knows he did it on purpose.  It always bothers her. That no one has manners anymore.

written by blistertoe (blistertoe.com)

Police lights turned outside the backyard window.  James stood watching with nothing else to do.  Caught captive in the sprinkling of rain.  Each step he saw in a new drop.  Another idea in a new drop.  Across the street, the house with the noisy dog was quiet.

One thing had happened.  But on the window, a thousand raindrops had landed.  A thousand ideas.  A thousand possibilities of what really happened.  All of them would spread.  Neighbors were emerging.  Evolving from their worlds like slow Cro-Magnon.  Rakes rested on houses.  Mowers calmed down with the lift of a handle.  Jump ropes sank.  Everyone stepped into the streets like a July 4^th parade.  Their gaze fixed on one thing.  A police car parked crooked in a driveway.  Lights slow going.  Silent.  Just the revolving monotony of red and blue.  The sense of sound melted down into a gradual absence.  The absence of one sense immediately heightening the others.  Dirt and summer heat waved up from the streets in a musky haze.  More neighbors spilled from backyards.  The tanginess of barbeque growing putrid in their mouths.  Popsicles were moldy and sticky and dripped down the little ones’ hands.  James saw from the window the final crescendo of Our Town on a cheap MGM backlot.  All the dropped clues and songs and dances pieced together so nicely.  A big white shiny smile.  A gay two-step hand in hand past town hall.  This fascia was shattered by a police car.

James flicked back the window lock.  Lifted the heavy wooden window with a shaky arm.  He propped the hammer in the corner to keep the window from crashing down.  The damp musky breeze hit him first.  Garnered the deepest association.  On the news at lunch, he knew it would be here after  lunch.  The green globs slid towards home as an unstoppable force.  Leaning over a half-eaten bologna sandwich, James was enthralled with its power.  We knew it.  We knew it and we could do nothing about it.  Tomorrow, it would rain.  While we are cleaning up lunch, it would begin to rain.  Slowly.  We would look up, unsure.  Stick out a hand and verify.  The hard, cold force of one drop would confuse us, two would assure us.  It was raining.  The drops would increase slow, and then gradually drop faster and faster as we hustled the patio furniture inside.  The dusty dank scent would leak up from the roadways and driveways.  Our foreheads would be dotted and our arms would collect drops in our little hairs.

James knew it all already.  The rain would come.  It would spoil pick-up games.  Postpone reunions.  Push a bride to tears.  But they would ignore it.  Like he ignored it.  The silly superstitions he would try would not matter.  He could still eat Fruit Loops even if something bad happened the last time.  He could wear the blue boxers.  He could think sunshine.  Say it three times.  Nod.  Put away all his dishes.  It would still rain.  The silly superstitions would not change the rain from coming his way.  He saw the looming green coming.  It was on two stations.

His stomach still felt heavy though as he left his lunch at the table.  He shouldn’t have put on the blue boxers.  He shouldn’t have tempted whatever it was.  He knew what happened the last time.  A dampness spread through him.  He tried to ignore it.  But it sat with him and reminded him.  But he looked at the TV.  The bloated green waves had not changed.  And wouldn’t.  The events of today did not have a specific pattern.  Patterns attached themselves.  James attached patterns to find excuses.  He was aware of it.  The processes.  The patterns.  The reflections.  It must have been this…all the excuses.  No chance.  No choice.  It was coming.  He always knew it.  James sat down.  He was going to be there regardless.  Like the rain.  He didn’t understand why everyone was so shocked to see a police car.

written by blistertoe (blistertoe.com)