Chaos and Control(19)
The climb down the ladder is much scarier than the climb up. On the way up all you see is blue sky, while on the way down, the ground looks too far away. Once my feet hit the dirt, I dust off my hands and give my old water-tower friend a wave. I have a feeling I’ll be back.
By the time I return to Vinyl, the shop is closed. The windows in Bennie’s apartment are illuminated. I hate where I left things between us and need to make amends. I was never good at being mad at her.
“Bennie, I’m back.”
I close the door behind me and immediately recognize the sound of Etta James singing “A Sunday Kind of Love.” The soulful smooth voice floats through the apartment and floods my head with memories of slow dancing in this kitchen with my big sister.
There’s a note on the fridge pinned beneath a dinosaur magnet. I pull it down and smile at Bennie’s familiar handwriting.
Wren, let’s not fight anymore. I’ve missed you too much. There’s Fruity Pebbles in the pantry. Catch you on the flip side. Bennie.
I find Bennie asleep on her sofa. She looks so small curled up into a ball at one end. Taking the crocheted throw from the back of the couch, I cover her and leave her to sleep. It must suck getting old and being tired all the time. Instead of the dinner I planned to cook, I fix myself a bowl of cereal and take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s still breakfast for dinner.
A new sunrise
And a new slow-motion
Replay of breathy words
And covetous kisses
On a vintage couch
Anger is born when I discover
There is no room for those thoughts Today it is butter knives and mold spores A speck on one knife
They all go for a steamy swim
Scrubbed until pruned fingertips Are numb with satisfaction
Dried and replaced in their cubby A dark drawer where they wait
To stalk and stab me with defiance A tiny spot of green
Sprouts on a cardboard corner
May as well be an atomic bomb
Contaminated, contaminated
This is what will kill me today Destroyed, and burned
Not worthy of recycle
I almost feel victorious
Hours pass and I still see Green flecks growing on my skin Popping up like seeds of sickness A grassy ink stain spreading
Contaminated, contaminated
Until bleach-soaked hands
Are washed and dried
- Preston
Chapter Seven
Company’s Comin’
“I thought you only ate lunch here on Saturdays,” I say, sliding into the booth opposite Preston. The scents of diner food and coffee combine into a familiar smell that makes my stomach grumble.
He tucks his pencil inside, closes his notebook, and slides it to the edge of the table before looking up at me. Gray eyes meet my brown ones, and it’s unsettling how with just a look he seems to pry me open around the edges. His body is stiff, his posture rigid. I try not to take offense to his reaction to my presence.
“Thursdays and Saturdays,” he admits.
I wave the waitress over and order a Coke and a salad. Preston watches me line up my utensils sitting atop a paper napkin.
“I think you’re wearing off on me.” I give him a smile, and he stares blankly. He closes his eyes for a second. His long, dark lashes flutter, and when they reopen, his gaze is intense. He touches his fork, then his knife. Then, repeats the process three more times. I don’t say anything, but I see his unnecessary shame.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be sorry. I could benefit from some order in my life, you know?”
“I know.” Preston looks shocked that those words left his lips, but he doesn’t offer an apology. The fingers of his right hand twitch, and I can’t help but wonder what he wants to do with them.
“So, Preston-who-eats-here-twice-a-week, are you ever going to tell me what you’re writing in that notebook?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and looks past me to the sidewalk outside. There is a method to conversations with Preston. It is new and foreign to me, but I’m learning to navigate my way through. I want to ask him about the notebook again, but I find the restraint to sit and wait for my answer.
“Thoughts,” he finally says. “A therapy of sorts.”
“So, like a diary?”
His forehead wrinkles, and his lips pull down on each side. “No. It’s poetry. I write poetry.”
This confession takes me by surprise and has my imagination running wild. I want to hear his words, in his voice, spoken only to me. When the waitress appears with our food, I realize I’ve been caught in my own head for a while, never responding.
“There’s an open mic night for poets on Sunday nights at Coffee Call on Madison Street. Have you always written?” I ask.
He lines his three plates up, spacing them out evenly. Today it is green beans with bacon, cornbread, and grilled chicken. When he’s satisfied with their placement, he meets my eyes again. This time there is a question there. He’s searching for my reaction. I offer a smile.
“I started when I was a kid. I used to write short stories. Poetry is more of a challenge.”
I nod and dig into my salad. Silence seems to hold us together in a bubble away from the rest of the bustling diner. It’s not uncomfortable. We both focus on our meals and each other. During my glances, I take inventory of Preston. Still twelve chews, his perfect jaw moving in a hypnotizing rhythm. There’s a stippling of black facial hair along his cheeks and jaw, not long enough to be called a beard. The V of his shirt collar draws my eyes down to his wide chest and shoulders. I’m obsessed with the way the sleeves tighten around his biceps. There’s the ever-present watch on one wrist. His nails are short and clean.