chicken nugget picnic

You pulled a blanket out of the trunk of your car and spread it out on the curb in the parking lot of a suburban bar. That you even had it must have meant something. The warm air carried our laughter and the enticing scent of Wendy's chicken nuggets past people filing out of the bar as it closed down. You told me that smoking would damage my skin, that it was beautiful and didn't deserve to be ruined. I'd usually be annoyed just like any other smoker when someone tells them it's a bad habit, but your delivery was charming.

The evening started as a disaster, friend fired from work and bad news all around. I hardly even knew you when you asked if anyone wanted to play pool. Truth be told I'm not very good at pool and would have said no if it had been any other night. It's fallen out of my memory who won. Those kind of things don't typically stick with me.

People were leaving, but you, like me, had the feel about you that the night wasn't over, so I invited you to tag along with me. We took your car because it's impossible to refuse a sober ride when you plan on moving on to the next bar; things were already coming together so well. Being close to someone hardly known was exciting, I guided you through a foreign city to a bar made out of a double wide trailer. When we left, I took music from a friend that would end up spelling one of the most wonderful disasters, a simple song we played loud that still rings in my ears.

a beginning

Nestled in a fort of pillows I'd constructed over the course of the evening, it was time to go home. Two in the morning and a long drive back to Dallas, where the couch I'd claimed as a bed waited for me. I didn't want to leave, to be alone and driving late at night. You'd turned out the light while I stalled and talked, my mouth pouring out words like it does when I'm nervous. I was nervous.

Darkness makes it easier to talk. In a room with no windows late at night, it is the easiest thing to talk. I hardly remember what I said to you. The words were just an excuse to stay. Swapping stories, the night passed so quickly, so much spoken but with so much left to say. You touched my arm and it was electric; such a small gesture and my inhibitions and worry gave way to comfort... and longing.

All the words had run dry while the sun rose and a sliver of light began making its way to our unadjusted eyes, and I found myself lost in your arms.

forgetting my sweater

The sun is still bright but the air is chilled. The days are shrinking into early dusk while I think of clove cigarettes and cross-country drives, horns sounding so clear and strong while miles disappear beneath the tires.

It was cold inside the office. They'd kept the air conditioning on, because in Texas you can't be sure if it's really going to cool off or if the weather is just playing games. It was cold enough inside that a jacket or sweater would have been more than appropriate, but I kept leaving it in the house in my groggy morning ritual of stumbling out to the car hardly functioning as human.

Thursday was no different. Stumble out from bed, do what is required to be at least marginally presentable, grope around for keys. Keys that are heavier than usual - they must be caught on something, struggle to free them from... my sweater. Tied to the keyring by the hood drawstring. What more could I want in life?

learn well the hunter's remorse

One of my cats was a dark blur, leaping to the back of the daybed-turned-couch and startling me away from a pretend world in the television. There was a moth in the house, flying erratically from light to blinds through the chilly room. Her eyes wide and wanting, the cat chirped and scrambled for purchase on the hardwood floor, desperate to make contact with the small, soft-winged mystery. Sharp teeth closed on the grey body; it fluttered briefly before coming to a final rest.

Puzzled, she gently batted it with a clawed forepaw. Nothing. Chirping, not with the chirp of the hunt but with confusion, she nudged it with her nose. No response. By now, the other cat was aware of the situation and came to investigate. Still nothing. A few chirps later, a few more fruitless battings, and the dead creature was devoured.

smoke and colored glass

Sunday is as good a night as any to be at the bar, to be at any bar. This Sunday I was at the Amsterdam, five Crown and Cokes and three hours in conversation with my best friend. I have one of those; I count myself among the lucky. Dim light leaks through colored glass lamps haphazardly hung throughout the bar, made tangibly warm by drifting smoke, and we pass the time talking about how nothing ever ends up how we thought it might. I worry about this frequently. Even when you can feel change coming before the first inklings of movement are made, it's hard to be prepared.

Her mom has just had a surgery and she's here on family duty. Before too long she's leaving for Seattle and I'm afraid. Growing up seems to be a matter of holding on to things that are worthwhile even as they fade out between your fingers and scatter across the country. I'm thinking of the future and forgetting about the present, and she reminds me that this is rarely fun. I let go.

We run out of cigarettes and I pay the tab. She sidles up to some other patrons and asks for a cigarette for the two of us - it's a good thing she's so charming. Someone's dog is barking as we cross the street to the car, but it's not time to go just yet. We smoke and sit on the curb, cars drive by on their way home from whatever revelry or disappointment or habit that brought them here.

Before we leave she plays me music. She's got impeccable taste and whatever she chooses is always perfect for the occasion. It's a real talent, finding and loving music this much. There's a harp and an imperfect voice that soars in chorus, choosing impossible words that make me smile. I'm looking out the windshield and I can see the highway as the sound washes over me and rolls over the concerns in my head. Lights reflect and distort through the glass, lengthening when I blink. These are the things I love most in life, this is a moment that makes it worth it. If people sing despite vocal limitations like this, with no concern but to sing, then my problems are nothing.

disappearing

I want to be so well-liked or unnoticeable that I could travel the country by couches. If I could cook like a five star chef I don't think anyone would mind me for a few days, if I sang heartfelt lyrics and played harmonica and left quietly in the night leaving nothing behind.

photograph in a history book

When the seasons start to change is when I feel the most nostalgic. The first day the air is crisp and cold and I notice the changing leaves beckoning on autumn, the call of summer-green leaves filtering the cloudy sky and the sound of cicadas. Those days where the the slow turning of seasons becomes as apparent as the passing of a minute are the ones that dig up thoughts and feelings that slept far under the surface of consciousness.

I play old songs through my headphones and drift out the window of the 13th story. The louder the music, the more real it is. The horns soar in my ears, a chorus of voices and times long past, a familiar and comfortable feeling tinged with longing rings through me. I'm never more aware of time nor more unphased by its passing. The lyrics are a eulogy, I'm dreaming wide awake in color of late night joy rides and hours passed sitting outside a coffee shop talking and whiling away the time, counting in the minutes in cigarettes and waiting for something to happen.

The day is nearly over, the sun sinking away. When I drive home I'll sing in the car.