Trees go by. Go by. Go by. Go by. Go by. They keep going by.
"Go Bye" a generic mommy in my head is playing with her child. Mouthing the words. Cute. Hot. She's fire. A lioness.
"Go Byyeeee," very melodic and tender. A parenthood petal unfolding for a very limited stage. A pair of milk blue eyes static but learning.
Mama picks me up from the train station. I'm very sleepy. I don't know why. I'm very very sleepy.
"Jocelyn! I swear I never seen such a sad state young lady. Walkin' around with that short skirt made for goddamn toddlers and your hair like you's a lady of Shalott painting with them hollow eyes"
I just don't have the energy to fight her right now. I get into the truck and close my eyes. I need a fucking job. I'll flip burgers, I'll clean toilets.
Ahhhh. I put the window down, light a cig and take a drag. The dizziness subsides as I try to find a definite cloud outline. I find one, trace its life line. Tiny cloud up above me. Hope you're full of rain. I'm so hungry. I'm so thirsty.
Slamming the door, angry, red red red. Mama aches. Mama is aching with yearning for the years past. She holds her arms steady and rinses the heat away with her cool. She lights one, makes a sharp right and we drive down undiscovered land.
*
The first night in New York. Drunks littering the streets and becoming enamoured. Becoming the streets, melting into the streets, sticky with want.
Adam straightens his shoulders.
*
New York Citysome time after graduating
I straighten my shoulders. I stretch. Kitty stretch. Look outside.Plains of green stretch. I wish. This is not an LM Montgomery piece. However.
Pastel skirt. Green. What a sensible colour. Yes, mama would approve. All my loud clothes in a pile. In a fire. By some road. Beside a chewing cow. Or two.
Some random white tee from my ex. He used to paint in it. Washbasin white. Water. Splash splash. Eyelash near my mouth.
"phoo!"
I blow it away. It tickles my chin. My teeth are pearly white. Wow, pearly pearly white.
The torn piece of paper on which he wrote his name is grimy.
I try to set it straight. Pull down my dress, run my hand through my hair and breathe. Breathe.
Breathe in, breathe out.
It's fine.
It was a very rainy evening two weeks ago. There was a windowsill. A bunch of books. Some unknown faces, smiling and talking. We were drinking wine. We were on the cusp of becoming comfortable in our own bodies. With the imperfections and all. I bumped into Paul on my way to the bathroom. Spilled half my wine on him, and the other half on a Peruvian rug. We always tease Carla and Jon about their south american purchases and indian teas and aromatic rosewood.
I didn't make a big deal. I was getting older. Spilled wine and a handsome guy was no longer news. It was just what it was.
"here, I'll wash your shirt" I just about take it off him with neither the finesse of a practiced lover nor the nonchalant graze of one of those film girls with the faded eyes and dirty blonde hair.
He smirks. I hear a car ignition somewhere. Oh no wait. It's just how my insides feel. There is a small fire inside me. Heartburn?
"Well okay, it's white. You can just get it out with soda I guess. Old trick"
"Soda water?"
"Baking or the water"
"Okay thanks. Are you Joce?"
"Um, yeah. Why?"
"You're writing? You're working?"
Currently, I'm doing neither. I'm unemployed cuz I don't wanna sell out and I can't write cuz I'm too paranoid about keeping the nice place Daddy got me if I don't get a job asap. So, I chill with my dog and my painter friends to hurt the time, to help the time, to coax the fucking time to be on my side.
"Yes, I'm writing"
"Cool"
I don't tell him I was offered a part-time post by a prof to research obscure victorian authors' lives. I don't tell him I chill with my dog. I don't tell him I've been eating cucumbers and porridge since graduating. He sees my ribs. I'm thin. Not hungry.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I heard stories. Girl with the eyes, girl with the boys, with the dog"
Damn it. People know Flash cuz I used to be a slut. Kinda.
"Oh nice. have a good one"
"Listen, I'm in publishing"
"oh yeah?"
I bite my tongue. (So he can get it later) No. I breathe. I'm calm. Cool as a panther in waiting but never waiting. Just go with it Joce.
Adam straightens his shoulders.
*
New York City
I straighten my shoulders. I stretch. Kitty stretch. Look outside.
Pastel skirt. Green. What a sensible colour. Yes, mama would approve. All my loud clothes in a pile. In a fire. By some road. Beside a chewing cow. Or two.
Some random white tee from my ex. He used to paint in it. Washbasin white. Water. Splash splash. Eyelash near my mouth.
"phoo!"
I blow it away. It tickles my chin. My teeth are pearly white. Wow, pearly pearly white.
The torn piece of paper on which he wrote his name is grimy.
I try to set it straight. Pull down my dress, run my hand through my hair and breathe. Breathe.
Breathe in, breathe out.
It's fine.
It was a very rainy evening two weeks ago. There was a windowsill. A bunch of books. Some unknown faces, smiling and talking. We were drinking wine. We were on the cusp of becoming comfortable in our own bodies. With the imperfections and all. I bumped into Paul on my way to the bathroom. Spilled half my wine on him, and the other half on a Peruvian rug. We always tease Carla and Jon about their south american purchases and indian teas and aromatic rosewood.
I didn't make a big deal. I was getting older. Spilled wine and a handsome guy was no longer news. It was just what it was.
"here, I'll wash your shirt" I just about take it off him with neither the finesse of a practiced lover nor the nonchalant graze of one of those film girls with the faded eyes and dirty blonde hair.
He smirks. I hear a car ignition somewhere. Oh no wait. It's just how my insides feel. There is a small fire inside me. Heartburn?
"Well okay, it's white. You can just get it out with soda I guess. Old trick"
"Soda water?"
"Baking or the water"
"Okay thanks. Are you Joce?"
"Um, yeah. Why?"
"You're writing? You're working?"
Currently, I'm doing neither. I'm unemployed cuz I don't wanna sell out and I can't write cuz I'm too paranoid about keeping the nice place Daddy got me if I don't get a job asap. So, I chill with my dog and my painter friends to hurt the time, to help the time, to coax the fucking time to be on my side.
"Yes, I'm writing"
"Cool"
I don't tell him I was offered a part-time post by a prof to research obscure victorian authors' lives. I don't tell him I chill with my dog. I don't tell him I've been eating cucumbers and porridge since graduating. He sees my ribs. I'm thin. Not hungry.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I heard stories. Girl with the eyes, girl with the boys, with the dog"
Damn it. People know Flash cuz I used to be a slut. Kinda.
"Oh nice. have a good one"
"Listen, I'm in publishing"
"oh yeah?"
I bite my tongue. (So he can get it later) No. I breathe. I'm calm. Cool as a panther in waiting but never waiting. Just go with it Joce.
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