After the baby finally stops crying and falls to sleep with little hitches and sighs, she remembers how she used to love being half naked in public. She wore shorty shorts and halter tops all the time if she could. A tinkly gold charm anklet and her toenails painted fire-engine red.
Now she’s sitting around in an old sweater and jeans waiting for Charlie to come home. Waiting sucks. Charlie said he was going out, be right back, and that could mean anything. It could mean fifteen minutes or an hour and a half. He could be picking up a pack of cigarettes or some diapers.
He could have a stocking cap pulled over his face, threatening a store clerk. The clerk sweating and fumbling with the cash. “Please, man. Here. Please, I got a kid.”
And Charlie would probably say, “The fuck? I’m not going to shoot you. I got a kid too.” Ha ha. He thinks he’s being funny.
There’s not much you can do to make a two rooms homey but she tries. Plants on the fire escape when the weather gets warm. Blue throw pillows here and here. When the case worker visits with her tidy notebook and sprayed black ponytail she blinks and looks around and around. She asks, “How about this? This domestic situation?”
When Charlie gets back he’ll smoke his single lonely cigarette in bed. The blue light pouring in from the window. Glass shattering on the street below them. She’ll stand in that blue light and pull off her sweater. The fabric of her old bra straining against the weight of her new breasts. Every morning she leaks milk across her fingers and hides in the bathroom to taste its sweetness.
She doesn’t care about the gun in the dresser drawer, tucked far back beyond her good panties, doesn’t even think about it anymore because she knows how Charlie’s bones ache for one last hit. She knows how he still feels that pull in his guts and across every inch of his skin. That he resists and resists is the bravest, coolest thing ever.
When he gets home she’ll crawl under the covers with him, her flesh warming from the heat of his hands. Already she’s thinking; I forgive you. There’s nothing to forgive. We have a whole lifetime of doing the right thing.
(Marylou Fusco is a writer living in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Swink, Carve, and Rumble magazines.)
Twilight Surprise
Joseph’s head rested between his forearm and bicep, on the bar. He refused to look again at the cell phone smushed against the side of his leg, inside his jeans pocket. He longed for the days when he hadn't owned a cell phone.
She’ll either come or she won’t, he thought. It’s open mic night and people will play music and either she’ll be here or she won’t. I’ll be on this barstool or in the bathroom but I won’t be anywhere else until I’m in bed and that’s all there is to it.
“Another?”
“Huh?”
“Another Maker’s?”
Joseph raised his head, squinted, made a fist and stuck up his thumb and then lowered it toward his empty glass, as if his hand were a bottle.
The bartender poured and he eyed his drink as some guys breezed in and sat at a corner table. A new, buzzing undercurrent began to flow throughout the bar, a sort of lo-fi hum of blended conversations rising in volume. Joseph felt it hypnotize him.
“I think they opened for Radiohead in Camden tonight,” he overheard the young lady to his left try to whisper.
“They know one of the guys who cooks here,” someone else mumbled.
“Hi there!” It was Annabeth’s voice, she came after all. How much time had passed?
“Hi,” he said, expressionless, suddenly at ease.
“Did you get my texts?”
“Oh, sorry, no. Drink?”
“Sure.”
“How was your evening?”
Annabeth laughed, shook her head.
He thought of asking what she’d been doing, why she didn’t come sooner. But all he said was, “It’s got a nice ring when you laugh.”
“You got any extra guitars we could borrow?” one of the guys from the corner table who looked vaguely familiar to Joseph, tall and lean, asked the bartender. The answer was an emphatic “yes.” Soon open mic night was over, transformed into a surprise mini-concert seen and heard through a haze of smoke and booze fueled giddiness.
Joseph awoke the next day unsure of whether it had all been a dream, but Annabeth reassured him.
(Click here for a song; you may even hear a line from the story.)
She’ll either come or she won’t, he thought. It’s open mic night and people will play music and either she’ll be here or she won’t. I’ll be on this barstool or in the bathroom but I won’t be anywhere else until I’m in bed and that’s all there is to it.
“Another?”
“Huh?”
“Another Maker’s?”
Joseph raised his head, squinted, made a fist and stuck up his thumb and then lowered it toward his empty glass, as if his hand were a bottle.
The bartender poured and he eyed his drink as some guys breezed in and sat at a corner table. A new, buzzing undercurrent began to flow throughout the bar, a sort of lo-fi hum of blended conversations rising in volume. Joseph felt it hypnotize him.
“I think they opened for Radiohead in Camden tonight,” he overheard the young lady to his left try to whisper.
“They know one of the guys who cooks here,” someone else mumbled.
“Hi there!” It was Annabeth’s voice, she came after all. How much time had passed?
“Hi,” he said, expressionless, suddenly at ease.
“Did you get my texts?”
“Oh, sorry, no. Drink?”
“Sure.”
“How was your evening?”
Annabeth laughed, shook her head.
He thought of asking what she’d been doing, why she didn’t come sooner. But all he said was, “It’s got a nice ring when you laugh.”
“You got any extra guitars we could borrow?” one of the guys from the corner table who looked vaguely familiar to Joseph, tall and lean, asked the bartender. The answer was an emphatic “yes.” Soon open mic night was over, transformed into a surprise mini-concert seen and heard through a haze of smoke and booze fueled giddiness.
Joseph awoke the next day unsure of whether it had all been a dream, but Annabeth reassured him.
(Click here for a song; you may even hear a line from the story.)
Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice
He descends down the stairwell like a dumbwaiter down its chute. Having taken rest in his small box of a hotel room, the bed barely fitting within its walls, he’s thirsty and eager to explore.
People speaking on cellular phones make faces. On bicycles they grimace. On the tram they smile. Expressionless while walking.
The man moves without any sense of direction, observing everyone and everything he sees. Individuals draw him toward their space: musicians to their sound, merchants to their wares, beggars to their cups.
A boat floats beneath crooked buildings:
His thirst reaching unbearable levels, he chooses a random shop. A quick peek at the menu. “Orange juice, please.”
A barista nods and turns around and makes it fresh on a small machine. He gulps it all down without stopping for breath, pays and goes on his way.
For a while all he notices are Asian and Argentine restaurants:
A man approaches him with arm extended. “Excuse me, are you on facebook?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“No, excuse me, please, are you on facebook?”
“Do you mean right now?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” the man hands him a card, “please ‘like’ our page when you have time.”
He accepts the card and continues roaming the streets. They have everything here, he thinks. Every culture, every virtue, every vice. Some of it’s free, some of it’s for sale, but it’s all here and available. We can take it or leave it.
People speaking on cellular phones make faces. On bicycles they grimace. On the tram they smile. Expressionless while walking.
The man moves without any sense of direction, observing everyone and everything he sees. Individuals draw him toward their space: musicians to their sound, merchants to their wares, beggars to their cups.
A boat floats beneath crooked buildings:
His thirst reaching unbearable levels, he chooses a random shop. A quick peek at the menu. “Orange juice, please.”
A barista nods and turns around and makes it fresh on a small machine. He gulps it all down without stopping for breath, pays and goes on his way.
For a while all he notices are Asian and Argentine restaurants:
A man approaches him with arm extended. “Excuse me, are you on facebook?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“No, excuse me, please, are you on facebook?”
“Do you mean right now?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” the man hands him a card, “please ‘like’ our page when you have time.”
He accepts the card and continues roaming the streets. They have everything here, he thinks. Every culture, every virtue, every vice. Some of it’s free, some of it’s for sale, but it’s all here and available. We can take it or leave it.
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