He heard that people who move to Philly either love it or hate it, no in-betweens. Nearly two years have passed since his arrival and, decidedly, he counts as one of the lovers. After a period of shyness, he met Rose the same way he met most of the people he knows in the city – by being himself and having the balls to do what he felt was the right thing at the time. In the case of meeting Rose, having balls and doing what felt right just meant pushing his way through a crowd of people to get her a drink at a party where he'd caught a look in her eye of hopeless frustration.
When his dinner guests begin to arrive, he's preparing a salad. He expects nine people, five of whom he knows. The other four are Rose's friends Suki and Annabeth plus their boyfriends, and this little group arrives last, knocking on his rented row home door just as he removes a roast from the oven. Suki and Annabeth hug Rose and wish her a happy birthday while the others all introduce themselves. He places the roast on top of the stove and joins them in his living / dining room, where he immediately recognizes Suki and Annabeth's boyfriends. A sudden feeling of having come full circle in Philadelphia overtakes him.
"Linc, hey," says Rose, "come meet Suki and Anna and their boyfriends, Garret and Joe."
"Hey, I'm Garret, thanks for having us." A hand extends and he shakes it.
"Yeah, thank you. I'm Joe." Another handshake.
"Nice to meet you guys, I'm Lincoln, everyone calls me Linc. Welcome. I hope you eat meat?"
Both men nod.
"Well alright. You guys look familiar, by the way." He considers mentioning the day when he spoke with them briefly at 700, but decides against it.
Garret and Joseph shrug, and Garret says, "We're around."
They eat dinner and talk about their lives and the city and how the ones who know each other know each other, and he's so happy he can hardly contain himself. The beers go down too easily and he worries that he talks too much and that he overcompensates for talking too much by seeming too interested in everyone else. Did he come off like a zealot for land bank legislation? Did he ask Suki too many questions about the pet rabbit her friend lets roam freely around her finished basement?
Everyone seems to have enjoyed the meal, or at least they tell him so when they leave. It never feels right for him to ask men for their phone numbers, so he doesn't ask Garret and Joseph for theirs, but he thinks next time he sees them around the neighborhood, they'll remember tonight's dinner.
The Coffee Shop
At times he turned to the bottle, but the bottle wasn't always a friend. He was good at lots of things, but not the things he really wanted to do. A battle between 'hell is other people' and a deep, maddening loneliness drove him to wild thoughts, and often to drink. He wanted a wife, but where could he meet one? He usually had a job, but couldn't always keep one. He valued good results at anything he did, but his work never felt important, always meaningless somehow.
Wintertime was more difficult than the rest of the year. Shorter, grey days. Snowfall. But he spent more time at the coffee shop in the winter months and that's where he met her.
She just wanted to get out of the house for a bit that day, otherwise she would've made her own coffee. She saw him reading with such a serious face and it made her smile and ask if he were in pain. She wanted to know why he read books that made him cringe and look so depressed, and he became defensive until he realized how ridiculous he sounded and they both started to laugh. She'd just moved to the neighborhood and was killing time before her roommate came home and his shyness made her curious. She loved her family and her career and had a positive attitude about everything.
They dated casually and then became more serious. One night she saw his ugly side, his black-out-drunken side, and she told him he'd have to stop doing that or there'd be no way she could date him, no chance of him meeting her family. He gave up the bottle for her and they lived long lives and they went to their coffee shop often, even though they could make their own coffee at home.
Wintertime was more difficult than the rest of the year. Shorter, grey days. Snowfall. But he spent more time at the coffee shop in the winter months and that's where he met her.
She just wanted to get out of the house for a bit that day, otherwise she would've made her own coffee. She saw him reading with such a serious face and it made her smile and ask if he were in pain. She wanted to know why he read books that made him cringe and look so depressed, and he became defensive until he realized how ridiculous he sounded and they both started to laugh. She'd just moved to the neighborhood and was killing time before her roommate came home and his shyness made her curious. She loved her family and her career and had a positive attitude about everything.
They dated casually and then became more serious. One night she saw his ugly side, his black-out-drunken side, and she told him he'd have to stop doing that or there'd be no way she could date him, no chance of him meeting her family. He gave up the bottle for her and they lived long lives and they went to their coffee shop often, even though they could make their own coffee at home.
Marissa (by Yasmin Khan)
Cradling his warm scrawny softness between her knees, Marissa’s heart left her body and entered that of her newborn son. Watching his fists and face fight the weightlessness of the air, she was terrified of hurting him. “Hold it” said the woman known as The Chinese, reaching into a flowery washbag. Marissa wondered where it had come from. It wasn’t kept with the tampons, first aid kit, painkillers and dust covered condoms needed for running a brothel.
The baby let out a hiccup, a gasp and a long thin wail that ricocheted off Marissa’s breasts, making them ache; instantly filling with milk. “HOLD IT!” ordered The Chinese, selecting some scissors from her bag. With a muscly crunch, the cord was cut and Marissa lay the baby down, then screamed out in pretend pain and folded forward.
Lying within reach, the scissors were small and sharp and smiling. Marissa had been a brilliant pick pocket as a child – deft and quick. As a teenager, she’d dealt drugs and fallen in love with a gang boss who chose her to take a shipment to London. After bringing the heroin to this ever-curtained house she had never left.
“Placenta coming now” The Chinese said. Shielding her son with a tent made only of her knees, Marissa curled her fingers around the scissors, brought up her hand and punched the pointed blades into The Chinese’s neck. The side of her fingers and fist slid sank against soft flesh.
Marissa was already floating as she heard the panicked, urgent gurgle and scream. She dragged the metal sideways, opening the wound before digging the point in again. Marissa’s hands were filthy with thick blood – she needed them clean to tend to her son. She needed the stupid kneeling pile of flesh to topple and still. Again, she jabbed – this time taking care, leaning in low like a lover before ripping the ugly flesh a final time. Then all she could hear was the pure single noted cry of her son and she could wash them both clean.
(Yasmin Khan is a writer who is half Pakistani and half Irish. Having worked as a TV and Radio Journalist for 17 years, she is now exploring her love of writing fiction. She has an MA in Anthropology and is fascinated by stories and how they transcend physical settings.)
The baby let out a hiccup, a gasp and a long thin wail that ricocheted off Marissa’s breasts, making them ache; instantly filling with milk. “HOLD IT!” ordered The Chinese, selecting some scissors from her bag. With a muscly crunch, the cord was cut and Marissa lay the baby down, then screamed out in pretend pain and folded forward.
Lying within reach, the scissors were small and sharp and smiling. Marissa had been a brilliant pick pocket as a child – deft and quick. As a teenager, she’d dealt drugs and fallen in love with a gang boss who chose her to take a shipment to London. After bringing the heroin to this ever-curtained house she had never left.
“Placenta coming now” The Chinese said. Shielding her son with a tent made only of her knees, Marissa curled her fingers around the scissors, brought up her hand and punched the pointed blades into The Chinese’s neck. The side of her fingers and fist slid sank against soft flesh.
Marissa was already floating as she heard the panicked, urgent gurgle and scream. She dragged the metal sideways, opening the wound before digging the point in again. Marissa’s hands were filthy with thick blood – she needed them clean to tend to her son. She needed the stupid kneeling pile of flesh to topple and still. Again, she jabbed – this time taking care, leaning in low like a lover before ripping the ugly flesh a final time. Then all she could hear was the pure single noted cry of her son and she could wash them both clean.
(Yasmin Khan is a writer who is half Pakistani and half Irish. Having worked as a TV and Radio Journalist for 17 years, she is now exploring her love of writing fiction. She has an MA in Anthropology and is fascinated by stories and how they transcend physical settings.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)