The lady on the other side isn't well.
So he says.
It's terminal.
There's a man living hats up on a wall,
harnesses and wigs, kitty litter.
He could burn the house down.
Or he could bake me cookies.
A refrigerator in the middle of a bedroom
hums the contents of frozen meat.
Four lanes are more abrasive than two.
A few trees and you're good to go.
I see her at the grocery store hunched inside the bodycare aisle, squinting against the fine print on shampoo bottles. Flip flops and cut off shorts, a Warrant t-shirt, hands clutching a carton of Marlboro Lights and a six pack of Diet Pepsi. Vices that she once announced were the toxins of humanity. Soda and smoking are just cancer waiting to happen. So I quit. Smoking and beef and cheese, corn syrup and transfats. I learned the roast beef we shaved into paper thin slices for our customer’s American sandwiches was flayed from the hind quarters of innocent bovine. You don’t want to see what they do to those poor cows. She scrubbed her face with coconut oil in the employee bathroom. Her shiny ponytail bounced as she cantered between the fry and salad stations. The Eurythmics hummed while sopping up grease stains with a mop. Books on astrology, feet up on the table, yogic stretches between preparing curly fry orders. This isn’t my forever place. One day I’ll leave. Right now I’m here for the mountains. I follow her through the store from a distance, observing the shape of her petite body from behind, somehow thinner, more frail than I remember, hair stringier, duller. I call her name, once, twice, three times. She limps a little on the left. A car accident, a ski accident, death accident. Trauma keeps us from remembering our names. My hand taps her shoulder. Her ruddy face turns to me, scarred and cracking under florescent lights. My body attempts to hug hers. She recoils, opens her mouth, chipped tooth protruding from red gums. Sorry lady, you’re mistaking me for my twin sister, happens sometimes.
One stands and asks what one knows, what one knows is limited by what one doesn't know. One walks away defending one's once-was spirit. One right clicks off a page to a better vision of one's daughter's toothless mouth. One sips a glass of water and chews cashews. One passes by and asks one to come downstairs in less than a minute. One follows, more unknowing. One's dry mouth follows one's rapid heart tick. One lumbers downstairs toward the certainty of confrontation. One feels blood flush cheeks. One closes a door quietly. One sits across from one other. One's lip trembles under bright lipstick. One breaks the silence. Is everything ok? One says sorry and shakes no. It's not ok. One thinks it's mostly Ok even if one cannot grasp the Ok. Ok is mild. Ok is just fine. Ok is better than not Ok. One thinks one is being accused of misconduct. One scans one's browser history for unsavory sites. One finds nothing but innocent missives and a photoshopped image of a man in a yellow singlet. One reads from a script in wobbly tongue. One isn't in this for the long haul. One blames capitalism. One questions the notion of performance in capitalism. One dreams of stepping outside capitalism and never finding a way back. One questions one's integrity in the moment. One's body heats up from the core and splits into limbs. One thinks this could be a dream. One questions reality. One tries to hold back tears and is successful. One looks at one's cell phone and says to call with any questions. One thinks about all outcasts with fondness. One feels proud of not fitting in. One's body roils. One's body rushes vertically. One hand shakes one's shaking hand. One stands and nods. One hugs a hug that is false. The hug doesn't trust itself. The hug dies in the room where other hugs have died before. One's body feels lighter. One's body feels heavier. One walks outside and breaks. One sees the nurturing bow of trees for the first time in months. One frees a chuckle from its cage. One pisses one's pants only a little.
