1/4/2017 It's Buồn CườiIt's funny: life seems to cradle its inhabitants to the very precipice of 'goodbye' without allowing them to cry. Its counterpart, time, will methodically crawl closer to the dreaded moment—'goodbye'—but it lacks the power and decency to inform humans of what is to come. These humans will remain wondering if the feelings they feel are truly what 'goodbye' ought to feel like. They question if the faint tinges of sadness—whatever frail flakes of humanity they allow themselves to feel—will be the length of their woe. They question if their eyes—longsufferers of a dry spell—will continue crusty, free from a bath. But with steaming anticipation—before continuing on for the remainder of its terribly long, eventful life—time reaches 'goodbye'. And with reeling, combustible force, the moment arrives with triumph. We forgot about heartstrings until they are wrenched painfully. We forgot that drought of the eyes is always temporary; none are capable of keeping the brawniest tears at bay. No, they gleefully squirm out of our eyes like newborn tadpoles, thirsting for air after a lifetime of suffocation. And the moment's magical punchline is a mysterious weight that chains itself to the throat, heart and stomach, and plummets deep into a realm we forgot existed: 'goodbye.' Those faint tinges, the mild dryness of mouth or questionable thoughts—all of that isn't what 'goodbye' actually feels like. Diều đó thật buồn cười. What is humorous to some can be painful awakening to others. Danh considered a few of these odd realities while gripping her tightly. It's funny: they roared in argument last night over conflicting futures, their taxi remained ghost-quiet as it whisked through crisp airport roads, and they rushed to get her checked in and prepared to fly—all the while avoiding the unavoidable: goodbye. In its usual, calculated fashion, time collapsed tiredly into 'goodbye' and droves of emotion overtook Danh. Of course, she was sad too—but not as sad as he. And he knew, which only served to darken his melancholy. He buried his wet face in the hood of her jacket and shook quietly as she whispered sweet things into his ear—like caramel. And with a mouth stuffed full of faux fur, he murmured in muffled promise: "I'll miss you." “We can do this,” she breathed. “I can’t. I know we–but I can’t.” “We have to.” Danh raised his face, eyes reddened with retreating water, and smiled hopefully. It was frail hope, he knew. There is life, there is time, and there is a third: chance. But Danh was of the breed that chance always seemed to despise—it's a racist bastard, chance. Her eyes twinkled back before she lifted her bag and walked to the escalator. Ending sniffles, an irritable eye-rub and a few sharp sighs later, Danh knew it was time to leave. He took the long bus route home and watched glimpses of the sunrise betwixt thick, lethargic clouds that yawned across the expanse. It's funny; by which criteria do we select which shreds of our colorful, complex humanity to deem non-negotiable? When the boat people arrived, pale with portruding ribs on the muddy shores of Camp Pendleton, they brought with them a treasure trove of non-negotiable humanity. They unveiled gems: non-negotiables that soak and permeate water to evoke ancient flavor, that are ground and burned into penetrating aromas, that are draped over her shoulders with insurmountable allure. When we gather, we decide which threads on our collective tapestry are non-negotiable. It is like constructing a vehicle of sorts—one that is often defined as culture. It is simple like boiled beef and complex like conflict communication; it is intrinsic like privelege and marginal like preference. "Bánh Xèo! Cơm Tấm Sườn Nướng! Rau Muồng Xào Tỏi!" Steel clanged against cast iron and smoke selfishly crowded the kitchen space; the sweet scent of scallions and stronger smells of salted fish socialized near the ceiling. Burbling oil rustled between bouts of the cooks' incessant squealing and the noisy dancing of boiling water. Danh had hardly stepped into the kitchen before an apron was thrust in his face and he was told to start working. The air tasted busy. "Danh, Hien and Huynh are working double-time! Vội, vội, get on the next order!" Sorrow is so palpable and smoky that you can actually taste it—it's funny. Danh resolutely gulped it deep into his throat, tied his apron and grabbed the scribbled order on the steel counter. Cơm tấm bì chả thịt nướng — 1 order, #9 This is a non-negotiable. For Danh, a glimpse of his wrinkly grandmother hunched over a hot stovetop. For his grandmother, a lifetime in gritty, bustling Danang. And for the customer? A formidable legacy, a bristling authenticity that cannot be bought with dollars. Maybe đồng. It's funny—disquieting emotions always seem most riveting to an individual's homeostasis. Sorrow need only rumor a thought or two before its victim will let it rise, with thorns flaunted, from that deep place in his throat. Danh's hands willfully thrust themselves into minced garlic, chopped onions, sesame oil and golden honey. She's ended orientation week by now, she's likely been too busy to respond. She probably developed some new friendships already though—it's funny, she's always been good at that sort of thing. A soft smile appeared as he mixed, tossing in pinches of five spice, sugar, pepper and fish sauce. One week—I wonder if she's been thinking of me. I—I wonder, well, what if a week itself is too generous an assumption, if instead someone else occupies her mind? She's hard to read, even thousands of miles away. Then the ribs—roaring red and drenched in orange juice. Danh pressed them against the blackened grill, one by one. I am, I miss her. I miss the nights laying beside her, gently tickling the small of her back and sending her into a giggling fit. The red writhed in pain, seared with an amber carmelization as he flipped them. The fat, popping and sizzling, dispersed like shrapnel against the slicing flame. It speckled Danh's shirt. Damn, I'm wearing her shirt too. He rolled the eggs in the pan as they fluffed up, fighting to escape the heat. I don't blame her, I don't think—what have I given her to remember me as? An emotional screw-up? A codependent mouthbreather? The eggs expanded like hot air balloons, puffing to warn of their underbelly's death. Some tears dropped and sizzled on the pan as Danh stared at the egg. Life has that awful habit of cradling its participants to varying emotions, thoughts and experiences—without warning them to breathe. And when Danh cried, he breathed. He lived. Tears flew more readily. Of all times... I'm at work right now! Danh noticed Hien glancing at him concernedly while emptying a pot of hot water. Attempting a deep breath to suck back his tears, he inhaled smoke from some laughing spices nearby and begun a coughing fit. He even cried more from the smoke! That's it, I'm finished. It's finished. Garnishing the plate, Danh walked it out while the few others fervently kept the kitchen operating like Atlas carrying the world. The gentle breeze of the window-side fan provided a welcome retreat from the kitchen. Danh glanced for #9. And seated on the worn window seat, with #9 brilliantly emblazoned on the white table piece before her, was his grandmother. She grinned, her cheeks crumpling warmly with the beauty of a thousand long, dark dimples. "Bà nội, why are you here?" "Bạn ăn, cháu trai," she sternly stated, pushing the plate towards him. Danh looked over his shoulder, looked forward and sighed deeply. He gently lowered himself into the seat with fragility—like an elderly man who has lived through great pain. His eyes stared at the dish, tired. Cơm tấm bì chả thịt nướng was the thread his grandmother had chosen on the shores of Camp Pendleton to be non-negotiable. And it was a wise decision. As Danh's eyes darted from rice, to egg, to ribs, to fish sauce, they began to moisten. The thread went beyond the restaurant menu and even deeper than his stomach. It was weaved with intention into his heart, his soul. Warm, salty tears began coating the steamy rice. He glanced up and met his grandmother's eyes. She widened them, glossy and satinlike, and nodded down to the food. He remembered her hunched over the hot stove, murmuring about how he ought to eat more and study harder. He remembered visiting her in Little Saigon during vacation and happily scarfing down the dish every afternoon of the summer. He realized he was considered, valued and accepted every time she prepared this dish. No matter dirty knees from schoolyard roughhousing or fresh acne from midterm stress, her words to him were always the same: "Bạn ăn, cháu trai." More than an emotional screw-up and codependent mouthbreather; Danh was loved. Life, time and chance all can only go so far before love laughably demolishes them—it's funny. 4/22/2016 To Modesto With GuiltThe car’s wheels rumbled softly as we flew down the highway. Save for faint ballads ringing from the speakers, I heard streams of wind cut across the vehicle and the sharp sounds of asphalt crumbs crushed and crumbled beneath us. I slid my hands between my knees and shifted, shivering, hurling a glance at her. The moonlight illuminated her pale face as one wrought with almost palpable dissonance and emotional absence. She caught me. I immediately threw my bloodshot stare onto the large truck stuffed with produce ahead of us. Fumbling with the now cold oatmeal cookies in my hands, tears began jumping to my tired, sore eyes. I wanted to be home. My eyes pled for rest, but I could not oblige them next to her, in this car, on this road to Modesto. Modest growls sung out from my belly; all my mind and body synergized in a brilliant cacophony to indicate my inner turmoil. But not a word escaped my lips. Her hair shone like shining shards of stained glass, of blood, curling and tumbling onto warmly covered shoulders. I trembled. I thought of the many stories I had heard of men of valor: of slick Casanovas and reckless Republicans. I had to tell her. So like the prodigal son in a pigsty, I began rehearsing my apology, pursing my lips as I practiced. Time, time. I spoke. But as my lips parted and my words poised themselves to dive from my tongue, a roaring siren screamed from behind us. Blaring cries and bright, flashing lights enveloped the car and I looked backwards. The policeman motioned for us to pull over. She did, without a single word or flinch of her expression. The police car door slammed, and the man’s silhouette enlarged against his bright headlights. But my words were still sharp, burning against my tongue so long as I kept I them there. I couldn’t hold it. “Where are you two going tonight?” “Mode—“ before she could finish, I blurted my words out. "I'm sorry, Courtney!" And with them came my lunch of cold Biryani and homemade yogurt, splattering all over her glovebox. 11/30/2015 ChhaupadiThe blanket they gave her was thin and colorful. It was frayed in wide spots, hardly long enough to cover her small, delicate body. But she took it. Her mother filled a hairy burlap bag with rice, salt, and dried fish, and placed it in her hands, purposefully failing to meet the confused look in her eyes. But the others didn’t. Anu’s eyes darted in every direction she’d ever known, but all she saw were eyes – familiar eyes. Her family’s eyes. Some eyes that had hardly looked at her until now. Pulling the folded blanket above her quivering lips, Anu felt a deep, unnerving weight form in her chest. For any twelve year old girl, the attention of an entire village would be glamorous. But such a gathering was not common – it was Anu’s first time. “Chhaupadi Pratha.” The priest’s words shocked her and reality engulfed her. The entire village listened intently to a script many had heard several times before. “Sin. Sudra. We know that Debti punishes those who are impure. So Chhaupadi is needed.” The priest pointed at Anu with a hand of only three fingers and long, twisted nails. “Anu has grown into the curse of suffering. So long as she is impure, she will not touch any man or anything in the house. She will not touch any food or livestock. She will not use any public water tanks or wells. She will not stay in her house. If she does, our fruits will rot. Our cows will stop giving milk. Our houses will burn, our wells dry up, our families will bear illness and sin. Her hands and legs will grow twisted, her eyes will be plucked out by the gods themselves. So let it be done.” The weight no longer resided only in her chest – it had chained itself to her entire body and fell deep into the soil between her toes. Anu couldn’t breathe. She thought: why would he say such things about me? What’s wrong with me? Surely I have not sinned. She turned and saw her mother, silently staring at the dirt. Running back to her, she stretched out her arms to embrace her. But her mother stepped back. A man pushed Anu backwards with a cane and she fell flatly into the mud. “Anu, go!” her mother exclaimed. “If you stay we will be cursed – I have taught you this before.” “Mama, what have I done?” The plea went unheard as Anu sat in the mud, tears released in rivers down her face. No one helped her up, for now, she had joined the rank of the untouchable. Picking up the woolen blanket and the burlap bag, Anu slowly stood on her thin legs and walked towards the village gate. Most of the villagers had left, but Anu’s family waited as she passed into the forest outside, staring. Anu looked back again and again, seeing the same emotionless eyes. This is routine. This is tradition, she remembered. It was only her first time. Soon it would become normal. Walking down a path of sharp gravel and low-hanging trees, Anu reached the side of the mountain. Two small, feebly covered huts poked out in the distance like citadels on the mountainside. She recognized the first orange one as a space where she’d play as a child. Her mother would bring her there with her siblings often. But this one would not house her, Anu thought. Many frightening stories from the village girls that stayed in the hut dissuaded her. She continued walking up the side of the mountain to the smaller, darker hut. It was a frail one. It had three walls built of mud, with long, black branches for a roof. It would prove a weak defense against the merciless cold of Nepali winds, but this hut was harder to find, hidden away from the dangers Anu suspected would befall her. She sat, finally breathing. The cold mountain air dried up the remnants of water on her cheeks, and her wide, hazel eyes soaked in the valley’s vast expanse before her. And for the first time, Anu felt totally, completely alone. She was grateful for it, for the shame she carried was too great a load to bear before others. The moon rose quietly as Anu remained staring into falling darkness. All at once, the air began whirling about her and whipping up the ground of straw and dry grass with a sharp cold. She pulled the blanket over her bared shoulders, but the cold still shook her. Before long, all noise had subsided, save for the soft screams of the wind. Anu crept to the back of the small hut, pulling her knees to her chest and staring out into the black. Her eyes grew heavy and tired as the night grew darker and darker, but small rustles and whispers around her kept her awake. Suddenly, aloneness was crippling. Anu did not sleep. The next afternoon, Anu walked down to a mountainside stream to wash herself, as Chhaupadi demanded. Donning a long, red garment, she bathed slowly in the cold water. Closing her eyes, she felt water coat her body, cleansing her of the impurities she was deemed to have. One schoolgirl from the village said she was doomed to be impure. Many had gone up to the huts before, Anu recalled. She had seen several women in the stream before, laughing together as they bathed and swung their long hair back and forth. Her mother was among them sometimes. Chhaupadi must have been an exciting thing, she wondered. A nearby voice woke Anu from her thoughts. “Anu?” “Mama!” Anu’s mother stood atop a rock overlooking the stream, holding a large steel pot on her head. “Mama come down!” Anu began running out of the stream, grabbing her clothes and scampering up the rocks. “Anu, wait there.” Her mother motioned towards the dark hut and Anu calmly waited as her mother approached. She stopped ten feet away. “I’ve brought you food.” “I want to come back." “It is not time yet,” her mother said gently. “But it’s cold, I want—“ “We have to do these things.” Her mother pulled out naan and tossed it to Anu. Taking a bowl of lentil pulse, she set it down at her feet and began stepping away. “Eat, and tomorrow, wash the bowl.” Anu stretched out her arms, tears once more poking their heads out of her eyes. “Mama, please come here.” “Anu, do you want me to fall sick?” Anu whimpered, lowering her arms. “No.” “Perhaps in a few days you can return. I will come to see you tomorrow also.” Anu stared downward at the food, silent. “Be safe tonight,” her mother said, slowly walking away. The food would remain untouched until flies came and filled their bellies. Anu crept back into the hut and quietly sobbed until night fell. The night was quiet, and she fell asleep. But the noise woke her. First, the trees rustled and the dry grass cracked under staggered footsteps. Anu instantly sat up, pulling the blanket to her face and staring wide-eyed into sheer darkness. Tales of drunkards assaulting girls during Chhaupadi bolted through her mind. A few grunts echoed out in the black. The only visible ground was outside the place where the fourth wall would be, where gravel and dirt glimmered in moonlight. The steps grew heavier; he was approaching. Anu’s breath quickened and screamed silently inside her chest. She thought: could I run further up the mountain? Could I push him off the edge? Could I find my way back to the village? Impossible. Impossible, she thought. She resolved to run, for there was no hope to stay sitting in the small space. The footsteps quickened their pace. Anu slowly let the blanket fall and knelt down, crawling to the out—there. There he stood, immediately in front of her, staring inside the hut. A yell attempted to force its way out of Anu’s mouth, but fear stole her voice. Bending down, the silhouette peered into the hut. “Anu?” Silence. “Anu, it’s me – Lakshmi.” Anu did not speak, she remained immovable and terrified. Lakshmi slowly bent down, letting herself inside. Pulling a strip of matches from her bag, she lit a small bunch of straw so fire could illuminate the hut. Indeed, it was Lakshmi. A harsh sigh escaped Anu’s lips as she continued shaking. They clasped hands. “I knew you were doing Chhaupadi, and tonight I do it too,” Lakshmi said. “No one was in the first hut, so I guessed you were here.” As the shock began to wear off, Anu slowly smiled in disbelief. She stared into the dark brown eyes of her neighbor, her friend, her older sister of sorts; even here, she would not be alone. “Lakshmi, I am so happy you’re with me! It’s so frightening here.” “I know!” Lakshmi exclaimed. “Many times I perform Chhaupadi on my own. It never gets easier, I always fear for my life.” “I’m so scared,” Anu agreed. “I haven’t eaten or slept since coming here.” “Here,” Lakshmi murmured, pulling out a loaf of sweet bread from her bag. They shared it between them, eating and laughing as the moon grew tired and began to fade. “I think it’s a gift from God,” Lakshmi said, her eyes twinkling. “That girls like us don’t need to suffer alone. That when the pain, the bleeding comes for one – it also comes for another.” Before long, Lakshmi had fallen asleep on Anu’s shoulder, and Anu had begun to follow suit. She glanced down at Lakshmi’s face and smiled. Lakshmi was right, this was God’s gift. Everyone in the village deemed her cursed, marked with sin and impurity. But she was not alone in her suffering, nor was Lakshmi, the schoolgirl, or any other woman. She would never be alone. And they weren’t alone either. A yell rang out from outside the hut. Both girls sharply woke. Shooting each other a glance and scrambling to get their belongings, Anu and Lakshmi crawled out of the hut and looked up, meeting a pair of eyes that waited for them. A man stood, hunched over, grinning at the two girls. He let out a ghastly laugh, reeking of liquor and incense. “You made me walk all the way up here, Anu!” the man exclaimed. “And Lakshmi, you are doing Chhaupadi also?” Anu whirled around, scrambling to get up and run, but the man grabbed her. His long nails scratched against her skin and Anu felt three fingers grip her. The priest. “You cursed wretch! For touching me you will be punished,” he cackled. Dragging her by the arm, he flung Anu to the back of the hut and entered after her. She screamed and flailed her arms and legs against his fat, rough body. Growling, he gripped her hair and began tearing off her clothes. Anu screamed louder before looking into his piercing, cruel eyes. They were blank, yet consumed with a dark evil. A dull thud sounded out behind the priest, his eyes swung upwards, his grip went limp, and he fell facedown onto the dirt floor. Behind him stood Lakshmi, the sweat on her face glinting as the sun stirred awake. In her hands was a rock the size of a goat head, sharp and bloodied from the head of the priest. Immediately darting out of the hut, Anu embraced Lakshmi, crying. “We must go from here,” Lakshmi whispered. “We cannot stay anymore.” After standing in silence for a few seconds, they clasped hands, turned, and ran down the grassy mountainside. Their hearts beat relentlessly as their feet sought balance on the slope and their minds reeled from shock. The sun stretched and yawned, spreading its arms far across the side of the mountain. Anu collapsed when they reached the bottom. “Lakshmi, I can’t.” “Anu, we have to. We have to do this.” “But we are all alone.” “No, we are together.” Together. The words seemed wild and fresh again. She looked into Lakshmi’s eyes. Those dark globes were filled with tears yet they burned with life. Bravery in Anu’s sister was greater than bravery she had in herself. And that was enough. They were made to be together, to share in suffering. So Anu stood and they continued walking. And as they went, Lakshmi sang the tune sung by many women during Chhaupadi: “The soul screams, the heart shatters when we bleed We share our sadness here.” 11/12/2015 Eggs
The garage door collapsed behind me as I heaved the last box of groceries into the house. Heavy, cranky sighs escaped between my gritted teeth as I ripped open packaging to distribute items evenly in the fridge, just as Olivia would want. Beverages lined the refrigerator door, organized by type, brand, and color. Olivia’s decorative order impresses her friends, but it’s a costly illusion of surplus. I squeezed the fat, colorful vegetables into their compartment as she’d want. I slid packages of steak and seafood into the freezer – each into their respective areas. “Dave, are you home?” Her neat, calculated steps sounded sharper of late, almost painful in their tune. “Yes dear, I’m sorting the groceries.” “Dave.” I turned. She had gotten a haircut. Her lovely, long black hair was now tightly cropped into a small black bunch around her head. A smile drew across her pale, faintly-wrinkled face as she motioned to her head. “What do you think?” I paused for a moment. “Uh… yeah, it’s great. Fits you well!” I hated it. “I thought you’d be more excited,” she murmured, admiring and patting her head in the wall mirror. “I figured change would be good.” “No dear, I do like it! Sorry, I’m just exhausted. I had an appointment with the Jeffreys today.” “Oh. How was that?” “Oh, so stupid. You should’ve been there. ‘Moses won’t put the toilet seat down when he’s done.’ ‘All Sheila does is read all day.’ ‘He picks furniture she doesn’t—" “Where are the eggs?” Olivia ran her hands through the newly-stacked contents of the fridge, rearranging them like a refined artist at work. “Oh, I must’ve forgotten them.” “Dave,” she whined with a vexed tone. “I told you yesterday night as well as this morning. Didn’t you listen?” “Sorry, I was in a rush. You know how Sheila talks. They kept me in my office for nearly 3 hours.” “Aren’t you the pastor? Why haven’t you been setting time limits for anyone? Look,” she announced, before I could respond. “I need eggs for tonight’s dessert, I told Michelle I’d make biscotti.” “Olivia, I’m sorry,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “You can’t make something else?” “My goodness Dave, we’ve had this conversation a million times now – it’s not about the food. You just don’t listen!” “You don’t listen!” I instinctively shouted, quickly regretting my tone. “I got your grocer—“ “You know what, fine. I’ll get the eggs myself.” She started towards the key hanger, snatching her leather purse from its countertop nap. “Oh my go— Olivia, wait.” I grabbed and held her arm as she opened the door. “I don’t want to do this again. Why are we arguing about this?” She stared blankly back at me. “I’m going to get the eggs.” We stood in silence for a few seconds. My arm tumbled down to my waist in defeat as she continued glaring at me. “Olivia,” I whispered. “We can’t keep doing this. I’ve been meaning to tell you: I’ve heard that people are saying things. I read an email sent to others on the elder-board today — they’re noticing things and beginning to take issue.” “But they’re right, Dave. You know, if you don’t want to keep this up—“ “Don’t say it, Olivia. Don’t say it.” She paused, glaring at me with a rare moment of gentle vulnerability. But it quickly died as she clenched her jaw and strutted out, the door closing gently behind her. I panted like a deer for water. My drab sofa welcomed me with open-armed softness as I fell headfirst into it. The garage door grumbled as it fell shut, marking Olivia’s departure and leaving the house in an awkward quiet. I could almost feel the walls shifting nervously. New days didn’t seem to bring relief. Yes, we managed to do okay for a few days, but it was like walking on ice. Sooner than later, we’d argue and the entire cycle would begin once more. It is so frustrating. I slid onto the hardwood floor, laying my head at the foot of the sofa and staring at our tall, black bookshelf. How long would it be until I would be called before the other elders, before members of my congregation would find out? How long before they remove me? Where will I go? Are you finished with me, God?” There. There, between Lewis’ Mere Christianity and Duhigg’s The Power of Habit. What is it? A few lone papers poked their heads from between the nicely-lined books. I pulled myself up and walked over to the shelf. Olivia would not be caught dead leaving any stray documents or letters around the house — and she held me to the same standard. I pulled out the stapled papers and flipped through them. Divorce papers. My tongue went limp, totally free of speech. My mind distanced itself from any sort of thought. My heart hardly beat. Something crawled in my sleeve and my legs were numbed. It’s not a surprise, of course. It’s very much expected, only words we haven’t yet exchanged, written on paper, officially. Perhaps my grim expectation has weakened the fright of such words, but I am not, in the slightest, phased. I folded the papers and put them in my back pocket, pacing about the room. What should I do? When should I bring it up with Olivia, if at all? The walls seemed to creep closer together, tightening the space. Is this still a matter of discussion? Can our marriage still be healed? The air grew thick as I began unpacking the reality of the words in my back pocket. Has she been seeing anyone else? When did she file this? The date read of two days back. I need air. The gears creaked and clicked as I pedaled down the street – it had been some time since I last took the bicycle out. Olivia and I would ride to the beach during our summers – well, some summers ago. Now, the exciting, bright summers of southern California are full of quiet reading and quiet luncheons. Our house is quiet, save for a few irritable arguments. Olivia used to never mind talking, only now I can’t recall the sound of her voice. The walls grow quieter by the day, because they’ve forgotten what she sounds like. The ladies she dines with, the clients she deals with, whoever else she sees – they know her voice. But perhaps it’s a blessing; my ears have grown tired and weary of her voice. If only she spoke of the divorce – oh, how that would sound. Perhaps the speed and volume of my thoughts led me too far astray, but I hardly registered the blaring horn of the shiny black car approaching me. I slowly turned my head to observe the bright light glinting off the car’s windshield before its bumper smashed into my leg and back wheel, throwing my body onto the windshield. I lurched sideways and flew backwards onto the hot, prickly asphalt. A quiet black enveloped my senses for a brief moment. Ah, the sky is a ravishing, uninterrupted blue. My eyes flickered open and I craned my neck upwards off the ground, searching my body and surroundings. A faint ringing drummed in my ears. My twisted, dead bicycle frame lay before the car, which had stopped a few feet from me. My legs were torn and blackened, and my fingers, skinned and bloody, shook like dying trees in a snowstorm as I held them up before my eyes. The car door clicked open and the driver stepped out onto the road. I squinted upwards at a sunlit sky, hearing steps on asphalt and awaiting the face of my assailant. A silhouette shot in front of the sun and my eyes slowly focused on a slim face and short hair. Cold, dark eyes grew and shrunk in size, as if comprehending me just as I comprehended him. Her. A tingle shot down my spine, pinching deeply in my back pocket. My eyes drifted to a small, gray box in her hand. She had gotten the eggs. Olivia. I shifted and groaned, lazily searching my cluttered bed with sore, heavy limbs. A glass object clunked against my foot and a bag of some kind crunched under my waist. I turned and saw her pale, bare back, hardly covered by the dense, sticky blanket. Groggily staring through blurry, swollen eyes, I pulled off whatever blanket clung to her naked body. Slowly, she yawned and woke, extending her arm down beneath the blanket once more. Flicking her hand around, she pulled the glass object up above the covers – a bottle of whiskey, nearly empty. Pulling herself up with a groan, she held the bottle to her lips and waited patiently for the last small puddle of brown liquid to fall on her tongue. My eyes would not remove themselves from her. I am in a daze. Olivia. I finally moved. Olivia and I didn’t exchange any words since the accident, and I didn’t exchange any words with the hooker in my bed as I got up and left. It had been three days since I left the hospital and checked into the motel. It felt like time. I pulled on jeans and buttoned my white shirt, careful of my bandages. In my bag I placed my Bible, gauze strips, medicine, and some dirty pieces of notebook paper on which I wrote of my experience. I leaned down to pick up ripped pieces of writing and crumpled notes – history would not go to waste. Hoisting my bag and limping to the door, I glanced back. She glanced back, over her shoulder, grazing her arm softly with her nails. Would she have been more worthy a companion than Olivia? Upon reaching home, I was met with a recognizable quiet. A weekend in the motel since my hospital-discharge did me well, I think. When have I ever engaged in the darker parts of life? I opened the fridge and took out the eggs. One day all of this will hurt me, as my past exercises in foolish self-medication and indulgence have. Perhaps that day is tomorrow, but right now, I don’t feel anything. The pan sizzled as the eggs fell harshly on it. My next entrance in church will be met with a “painful” discussion, as the elders will call it. I will sign a thing or two and leave. I will see a few members around town, and will greet them pleasantly – if they will have me. I sprinkled in salt, pepper, and spices, proceeding to flip the egg around. It failed – the yolk split in half and the white filled in the empty spots. The best thing about eggs is that one can never go wrong – if one thing doesn’t work out, try another. I grabbed a fork and scrambled them. What kind of employer looks for higher biblical education? Once, God was everything that mattered, my dreams flew alongside his. How ironic that seminary, church, a “godly” marriage all drove me farther and farther from that truth. Maybe I’ll find someone else. “Dave?” I didn’t turn, my eyes stuck to the pan like the burnt pieces of egg. “Dave.” I turned. “It’s good to see you again,” Olivia softly said with a smile. I stared back plainly, in silence – no deep sentiment, no bitterness, nothing. The eggs had fully hardened, browning on their edges. “Want some eggs?” I emptied the contents of the pan into two small, plain plates. “Sure,” she whispered, nervously. Carrying the plates to the table, we sat together and ate in silence. I focused primarily on the eggs, but glanced up at her every now and then. Her cropped hair was more ruffled, her eyes sunken and tired. She ate as if she hadn’t in a few days. Her eyes shot up at mine as I examined her face. I wasn’t met with a sniff of arrogance, and she didn’t see tiresome apathy. I smiled. She did too; her smile was a shy one. She stared back at the eggs to conceal it. Healing suddenly wasn’t too far-fetched of an idea. Perhaps a stark, wholesome dose of shock was good for the soul. Maybe things are only bothersome if you chose them to be. And then, everything didn’t seem like it was over, even if just for a second. |
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January 2017
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