When Susan saw Bill crumble saltines into his tomato soup, that was the moment she knew that she loved him. And when Bill tasted the beef stew that Susan made he said it reminded him of his Grandmother’s cooking. They loved each other and loved to eat, sometimes naked in the dining room chairs, with cloth napkins in their laps.
It was hard to talk about love sometimes because it wasn’t polite with a full mouth. So they learned to talk with their eyes and the hand that was free of the fork or spoon. Susan’s eyes crinkled at the corners when Bill smiled as he twisted the fettuccini on his fork. Bill’s nostrils flared when Susan licked the chocolate mousse from her lips. Susan brushed back the long blonde hair from her cheeks so it didn’t get buttery as she bit into the fresh French bread he baked each morning, and Bill lifted his hand to slip the kernel of corn from her chin to her mouth. Susan, from where she sat, next to him, fed him bites of wild salmon poached in white wine, capers and garlic, each morsel teasingly smaller until he was begging for just one more taste. Over and over he would twirl his finger in the garlic mashed potatoes and she would lick it off, her rough tongue exciting him. They loved each other more than they loved food.
Friday, January 29, 2010
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love - Maria Robinson
He's older. He calls me honey. I call him by his name. He's breathing over me. It's labored but hot and full of hope.
He wants me to stay with him. I want him to adore me and leave. I like to pretend to banish him. It makes him anxious and ardorous. When he feels he is back in control, I pretend to surrender. Then, I punish him and push him away again. This makes him want me more. This game goes on for hours. Then we go out for dinner at an Indian restaurant.
He wants me to stay with him. I want him to adore me and leave. I like to pretend to banish him. It makes him anxious and ardorous. When he feels he is back in control, I pretend to surrender. Then, I punish him and push him away again. This makes him want me more. This game goes on for hours. Then we go out for dinner at an Indian restaurant.
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love - Jennifer Baljko
When I was younger, “we” talked about love the way college kids talked about love. We were in love because we went to the movies on Friday nights and hung out together all weekend. We blushed when we sneaked kisses in the kitchens of parents’ houses, and prided ourselves on doing the nasty in public places without getting caught. In the eyes of my 18-year-old self, love was a physical thing defined by the fairy tales living in my mind, and held in check with society’s expectations.
Two decades later, the “we” has changed, and so have the musings of my heart. Love is pregnant with comfortable silent pauses, a knowing look and soft caresses. Compassion, understanding, compromise, forgiveness, honesty, companionship, respect and unity fill in the gaps. We steal kisses all the time without a flush of embarrassment, and make love with spirited enthusiasm and unrestrained appreciation. In the eyes of my 38-year-old self, love has moved into a soulful state of being, made perfect only with daily practice.
Two decades later, the “we” has changed, and so have the musings of my heart. Love is pregnant with comfortable silent pauses, a knowing look and soft caresses. Compassion, understanding, compromise, forgiveness, honesty, companionship, respect and unity fill in the gaps. We steal kisses all the time without a flush of embarrassment, and make love with spirited enthusiasm and unrestrained appreciation. In the eyes of my 38-year-old self, love has moved into a soulful state of being, made perfect only with daily practice.
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love - Darcy Vebber
That night, Lisa found out Sam was already in love. Crazy about a girl named Deena who went to Central and had been the star of their senior cabaret show. He said she was amazing and he sounded so happy it was almost impossible not to share his pleasure. “She just glows. I saw her and I had to meet her. I went right backstage and introduced myself”
“How do you do that?” Bobby asked. He didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I mean, how?”
Lisa tried not to sulk. They were sitting in the dark on Bobby’s patio, drinking sun tea from the big jug his mother kept out there and smoking a joint. Heat rose from the cement beneath their lawn chairs. The temperature wouldn’t drop below eighty until dawn.
Bobby wanted to know what happened to their friend Rachel, who brought Sam to the show. Sam said Rachel was a pal, really. A friend who understood. He insisted that Deena was unlike any other girls he knew. “She’s not just beautiful, she’s confident. She knows who she is.” He lay back with his hands under his head and sighed.
Lisa made a little dismissive noise. Later, when she lay in bed and replayed the conversation, she couldn’t decide if she had meant him to hear her or not.
Sam said, “What?”
“Well. It just seems kind of limiting. To know who you are when you’re like eighteen.” She leaned back in her chaise to look up into the night sky. So endless and beautiful. She pulled her attention back to the patio and felt irritated. Right. One of those impossible girls who were already complete, who didn’t get lost in the night sky or her own thoughts. A girl Sam already was in love with. She thought she could feel Bobby watching her. “You might be disappointed.”
Bobby laughed. “I told you Lisa was smart.”
Lisa turned to look at him. Had he? Had Bobby talked to Sam about her? She felt a wave of anxiety.
“She’s got you figured.” Bobby sat up so he could lean a little closer to Lisa. “Sam is a romantic. Every new girl is amazing, every one is going to change his life.”
“And you?” Lisa felt bound to ask.
“I’m a pragmatist.” He sounded solemn and even a little angry. “I don’t believe love is going to change anything.”
This time, Sam laughed. He had just finished taking a final toke of the joint and smoke burst through his nose as he coughed and sputtered. Finally, he leaned up on one elbow to look at Lisa. “What about you?”
She was startled. This was the first conversation she could ever recall having about love. The idea of answering Sam, of looking in to his handsome face, meeting his eyes and saying anything about love froze her brain. The word naked came to mind. That wouldn’t help. In school she had learned when you don’t have an answer, ask a question. “You mean like romance?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess romance. Attraction, sex, all that. Are you waiting for Prince Charming?” He smiled.
“No,” she said as if she had been accused of something.
“I told you,” Bobby said again. “She’s not like that.”
Lisa was surprised to feel tears come to her eyes. It was as if something had come into reach and then been whisked away again. “Of course I believe in love.” She sounded completely unsure of herself. Clearly, she had no idea what she was talking about.
“How do you do that?” Bobby asked. He didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I mean, how?”
Lisa tried not to sulk. They were sitting in the dark on Bobby’s patio, drinking sun tea from the big jug his mother kept out there and smoking a joint. Heat rose from the cement beneath their lawn chairs. The temperature wouldn’t drop below eighty until dawn.
Bobby wanted to know what happened to their friend Rachel, who brought Sam to the show. Sam said Rachel was a pal, really. A friend who understood. He insisted that Deena was unlike any other girls he knew. “She’s not just beautiful, she’s confident. She knows who she is.” He lay back with his hands under his head and sighed.
Lisa made a little dismissive noise. Later, when she lay in bed and replayed the conversation, she couldn’t decide if she had meant him to hear her or not.
Sam said, “What?”
“Well. It just seems kind of limiting. To know who you are when you’re like eighteen.” She leaned back in her chaise to look up into the night sky. So endless and beautiful. She pulled her attention back to the patio and felt irritated. Right. One of those impossible girls who were already complete, who didn’t get lost in the night sky or her own thoughts. A girl Sam already was in love with. She thought she could feel Bobby watching her. “You might be disappointed.”
Bobby laughed. “I told you Lisa was smart.”
Lisa turned to look at him. Had he? Had Bobby talked to Sam about her? She felt a wave of anxiety.
“She’s got you figured.” Bobby sat up so he could lean a little closer to Lisa. “Sam is a romantic. Every new girl is amazing, every one is going to change his life.”
“And you?” Lisa felt bound to ask.
“I’m a pragmatist.” He sounded solemn and even a little angry. “I don’t believe love is going to change anything.”
This time, Sam laughed. He had just finished taking a final toke of the joint and smoke burst through his nose as he coughed and sputtered. Finally, he leaned up on one elbow to look at Lisa. “What about you?”
She was startled. This was the first conversation she could ever recall having about love. The idea of answering Sam, of looking in to his handsome face, meeting his eyes and saying anything about love froze her brain. The word naked came to mind. That wouldn’t help. In school she had learned when you don’t have an answer, ask a question. “You mean like romance?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess romance. Attraction, sex, all that. Are you waiting for Prince Charming?” He smiled.
“No,” she said as if she had been accused of something.
“I told you,” Bobby said again. “She’s not like that.”
Lisa was surprised to feel tears come to her eyes. It was as if something had come into reach and then been whisked away again. “Of course I believe in love.” She sounded completely unsure of herself. Clearly, she had no idea what she was talking about.
Alone - Donna Shomer
I am standing at the side
of the pool of independence.
my daughter swims laps,
back and forth,
I can see her turn around in the distance.
sometimes, on her swim out
I leave my vigil
or turn my head away –
trusting that she can swim –
Or just called away
by my insistent life.
I am mesmerized by the
sometimes irregular returns,
by whether or not she will
let me make her tea,
by the good path out that she chooses
each time and
by how much it hurts to watch her go.
of the pool of independence.
my daughter swims laps,
back and forth,
I can see her turn around in the distance.
sometimes, on her swim out
I leave my vigil
or turn my head away –
trusting that she can swim –
Or just called away
by my insistent life.
I am mesmerized by the
sometimes irregular returns,
by whether or not she will
let me make her tea,
by the good path out that she chooses
each time and
by how much it hurts to watch her go.
Alone - Kaye Doiron
It is snowing on the Southern side of Canigou. The wind is biting cold. He walks in knee deep snow and turns to gaze upon that fairy tale village that winds it’s way down from the rocky mountaintop. Eus. His caravan is parked on the Southern side where the winds are less fierce. It has been snowing for days now and his home is surrounded by piles of his own fecal matter as it is much too cold to wander off the beaten path to relieve himself. He torments himself with the shameful knowledge that he has travelled for one hour in the freezing snow with numb feet for hash. It is quite a magnificent hash, he admits. Black, soft, from Afghanistan, he puts his hand in his pocket and rubs it between his numb fingers. He quickens his pace.
The caravan has been out of power for days and if not for the snow he would have run out of drinking water over a week ago. The fire is ready, the embers still burning underneath the blackened wood. He goes inside to get another stack and in record military time he has a warm roaring fire to warm him. He warms his hands, his feet, and he rolls a sweet, hot joint. His ritual smooths his wrinkled soul. It takes away the edge of the cold, of the pain, of the loss. It tames his dragon like she once did. He does not allow his thoughts to linger here for long, on her, for if they linger too long his heart will awaken. That, he can not allow to happen.
Like the way the wind slightly blows into a sail on a calm day he allows his thoughts to dance upon his children, his memory of them, it is certain they have changed considerably, it has been over a year since he’s seen them. Bella climbing up on his back to jump into the sea off his shoulders, her white blonde hair blowing in his face, her sweet little girl smell. Ah, but here it comes, the void in Danny’s eyes, the way Sean looks at him out of the side of his head, not sure what’s coming, soon he will check out too. His love is a dangerous one, he is not to be trusted. He pulls a deep, long drag, savors the sweet bitterness in his mouth, closes his eyes and knows he is resolved to stay alone
The caravan has been out of power for days and if not for the snow he would have run out of drinking water over a week ago. The fire is ready, the embers still burning underneath the blackened wood. He goes inside to get another stack and in record military time he has a warm roaring fire to warm him. He warms his hands, his feet, and he rolls a sweet, hot joint. His ritual smooths his wrinkled soul. It takes away the edge of the cold, of the pain, of the loss. It tames his dragon like she once did. He does not allow his thoughts to linger here for long, on her, for if they linger too long his heart will awaken. That, he can not allow to happen.
Like the way the wind slightly blows into a sail on a calm day he allows his thoughts to dance upon his children, his memory of them, it is certain they have changed considerably, it has been over a year since he’s seen them. Bella climbing up on his back to jump into the sea off his shoulders, her white blonde hair blowing in his face, her sweet little girl smell. Ah, but here it comes, the void in Danny’s eyes, the way Sean looks at him out of the side of his head, not sure what’s coming, soon he will check out too. His love is a dangerous one, he is not to be trusted. He pulls a deep, long drag, savors the sweet bitterness in his mouth, closes his eyes and knows he is resolved to stay alone
Alone - Patricia Spencer
Marcus has been living in the park since Natalia moved away. She took half of everything. Said she needed space, that they’d always be friends. Marcus knew better. There’s a bench under the hundred year old elms where he sleeps at night. At dawn pigeons arrive. Marcus feeds them potato chips. In the afternoon he drinks cans of beer from a paper bag. One night Marcus dreamed of Nikola Tesla. Next morning he heard pigeons whispering to him from the branches above. When he answered back, they all flew away.
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