With the River

The heartache lived within her for over ten years. She did the math after her fourth psychiatrist discussed her medical history on an early October morning. She was nine or ten or eleven, and thought, what was so bad then. Thought what was so bad now.

Months went by as she slowly stopped seeing that fourth psychiatrist. On a recruiting assignment with a small temporary agency she worked at, her boss asked her if she had been keeping up with her shrink appointments. She stared at the resumes on the desk in front of her and promised she’d start a new search in the morning.

She spent her days enjoying what she could. A comforting cup of coffee, emails from crazed men, a new foundation she’d pick up to cover up the stress that shown on her face. She enjoyed bookstores with a rare Americana section, giving up her seat on the train to people with crutches, bad songs about good sex, and counting the broken light bulbs on Boston’s Citgo sign. After hours in a café with free wifi, she’d found a psychiatrist, a private practice in Beacon Hill. The doctor accepted her insurance, she’d go in, say she couldn’t wait a month for an initial visit, and make her boss happy.

The day of her forced appointment she wore brown leather boots that she laced to the top, a colorful floral shirt and a black sweater. The receptionist called her name. “The doctor will see you now.”

He opened the door.

She walked behind him.

In his office, he closed the door after she took a seat. She looked up from her boots to his face. He had subtle freckles on his cheeks that you could notice only if you looked hard enough. Like the beauty mark she knew of somewhere on her face. The green of his eyes looked at her. He asked about her morning.

“I actually have to go to work,” she said.

Before he could react she got up and left. Out of the main entrance. And on to the street. Sitting at a café two blocks from the doctor’s office, she created a message to her boss, said she’ll be in late. She wanted to get a manicure or a massage before going in to look at resumes and her boss’ eager disappointed face.

“That was the quickest session I’ve had in years,” the doctor said standing across from her table.

Startled, she closed her laptop and grabbed her purse from the chair he stood behind. He sat down.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“There’s no book in front of me.”

“I read your file last night, said you like to read.”

“Is that how you spend your nights, reading about lost people?”

He slid a cup of coffee, and three packets of sugar next to her laptop. She looked at the coffee. Wanting to say thank you. Black coffee. She needed milk and more sugar. But there was no way her body would allow her to step away from this odd encounter.

“Why did you leave? Is it because I’m good looking?”

Her eyes glowed, and laughter escaped from the depths of her heart.

“Yes. Exactly. You’re too good looking for your profession.” She poured the packets of sugar into the coffee. “Can’t you get in trouble for this?”

“You’re no patient of mine, you left. There’s a bookstore a block from here, let’s take a walk.”

She grabbed her purse and followed him out, the black coffee staying behind.

“How do you think things would have turned out, had you stayed and talked to me?”

“First meetings are always hard. I usually feel fine. So I’m not inclined to talk about what I see, as my horrible life. I would have told you that I walked across a river yesterday, stopped, stared at the water. I cried until my contacts got really dry. I started to rub my eyes. Then I looked at my fingers. They were black from mascara. I reached in my gym bag for makeup remover pads. And though it was dark I could see my little face in my little mirror. I wiped the black away from my face, but left it on my hands. It’s okay for my hands to be dirty. But not my face. Oh, I also would have asked you if you watched the football game last night. There was a fan in the crowd crying. Tears just falling down his face.”

“Was he really crying?”

“No, it was probably just the wind.”

“Let’s go in,” he turned his head to the bookstore.

“I have to get to work. I’ll see you next week. Same time, but your office. There’s a lot of wind out here.”

Notes in the Square

He is standing on a street in Harvard Square waiting for the signal to cross
She is standing on the opposite side. Waiting. Pretending not to see him
He looks at his phone
She walks away, sits on a bench
Signal. He crosses
Approaches her on the bench. She is reading a book
They walk to the theater
She forgets why she came
An okay movie about fashion
They talk
She gets upset
There is emotion in his face. Lines of frustration
Forgets why she came
They kiss
His hand. Clasps on her back
Like a winter coat
She remembers why she came

From Jump

For Everyone.
Thank you to Bob Morales and Laura Checkoway.
Thank you for reading and downloading.
Thank you to men.
Thank you to women.
Take. Your. Time.
Tell me how you feel when you’re done.
Download From Jump

September 22nd

The second she closed her eyes she heard the front door unlock. This was the Bronx: There was the main lock, two dead bolts, and a chain she managed to nail on herself when she moved in–her mother always put the chain on the door growing up. She was used to chains and locks and being careful. She’d lay in bed for two hours without closing her eyes until she decided to count to sixty then try to get some sleep. Hungover from the night before. It had been a long time since she drank hard liquor. That was Brooklyn, a brownstone party. Made her rounds smiling with different pretty drinks in hand each time. A man in a button-down Polo asked what she was drinking. “I don’t know. But it’s pretty and it’s strong,” she said. She thought her answer was off-putting, but he seemed even more interested as he smiled and asked about her day.

She had spent that day at her apartment with a man she met a year ago. They stayed in bed for most of the sunlight. She did not like this part of making love. Staying in bed and asking questions, recounting fond childhood memories. Though it was nice, outside was where the world existed. Her apartment, just a resting stop. They met in Manhattan inside the subway station on 63rd Street. For a year they made love–good love, she thought. His scent, his controlling nature. The text messages. Emails. Flowers. Sounds of love. When she gave him the key to the apartment, she said it didn’t mean anything other than convenience. In bed he gently touched her stomach as she stared out the window. Thoughts dancing around about things to come. Things changing. She was growing. She knew she would be a woman one day. Comfortable living wouldn’t last. She knew there would be a moment. There would be a chance. In one heartbeat, she’d grow up.

After countless pretty drinks, a handsome taxi driver made a fuss about driving to the Bronx. The gentleman in the button-down Polo handed the driver a stack of cash and told her to call him when she got home. Maybe she said thank you.

The last dead bolt unlocked. She rose from the bed. Maybe it was a friend. Or the architect she spent the day with. Or perhaps she left her keys in Brooklyn. She couldn’t think safe. Could not play this moment with caution. Someone knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”

“If you have no intention to hurt me.”

The door opened, more quietly than she had ever opened or closed it on a lover. She didn’t recognize the grey shirt. The dark bluejeans, the sneakers. Sleepy eyes made way to his face. He was not her lover from the day before or the gentleman who put her in a taxi from Brooklyn. She looked at him. Her eyes tracing his frame. His lips. His fingers. The grip he had on her keys. Her Barnes and Noble rewards card dangling from the key ring. Thoughts dancing again. She spent the last two years silently in love with this man who stood before her. A quiet torture. Every time her legs were apart it was his face she traced as she did now standing in her bedroom. Quieting her heart, her face full of questions.

“You left your keys in Brooklyn. I thought I’d drop them off. You weren’t answering your phone.”

“You could have left them. Why come all the way here?”

“I always wondered what it would be like to have you.”

The window again. She stared out. This was the moment. He was already in; she would not have to open her doors for him. Her heart she would. Her legs she could.

She stood close, in front of him. “This is unsafe,” she said as her fingers locked in his with her keys between their palms.

From Jump. September 22nd.

from The Vision Board Monologue

The Vision Board Monologue, From Jump, September 22nd.

Maria

I’ve had a lot of sex this year. Good morning sex. Good afternoon sex. Goodnight my love sex. Half-sleep sex. Sympathy sex. Comfortable with you sex. This is all we have sex. Hurry please sex. Forget the wrong I did sex. I don’t really like your scent sex. Take me sex. Anywhere sex. Came. The passionate sex. Danced around calling it love sex. Warm sex. Big sex. Stay here sex. You can sleep inside me sex. I enjoy your time-taking, kissing, sucking, feeling right before it fits like a puzzle sex.

She lit her cigarette and said: Challenge yourself to a year of celibacy and achievement. My immediate response was: This year has been good.

on women’s [mental] health.

Did I ever tell you reading Women’s Health makes me feel skinny? Like last month’s issue. I read it for the little facts. Like hummus being a natural abdomen tightener or how green tea helps you burn calories. I prefer men’s magazines to stay away from countless pieces on love and relationships and sex and how to improve yourself for men or the nice shoes and bags for fall. Fuck that. What about how to get my life together? How about some fucking reporter explain to me what it means when I feel this intangible sadness so powerful it feels tangible will not pass? Do you know any mags with that kind of information? You keep a lot of magazines in your bathroom. I’m running out of time and I know, jumping around. Back to WH. I did read an article on love and crushes. Don’t judge me. I didn’t say I didn’t read these kinds of pieces, I said I like to stay away. The article listed the reasons you like someone. Closed the book at – you want to be like him.

Of course I didn’t know that was the reason why I avoid his existence. Out of sight out of mind, right? No. I wouldn’t be writing. I need your help. You’re the doctor here. Do shock treatments make you forget heartache? Heartbreak? Bad sex? A sad childhood? Can you keep some stuff in? Like your goals or your siblings? You’re the doctor and my friend. Can you get me out of here? I want the same meds when I leave. And shock treatment. Or shock therapy? What is it called? Does it only happen on TV? All the women in my unit need it. Ah, that was a joke. I like being really quiet when we have social events. Because the ladies here, they’re much sadder than me.

Purple

I hope I look better than you tonight, she said as I stood in front of her in a short Grecian designer dress. I took it as a compliment. Her envy eyes glared at me with a smile, as she helped with one last curl that needed some pinning up. You won’t, I whispered. After an hour of standing in the mirror, curling hair and applying makeup, we were anxious to get to this birthday party.

My older sister and I haven’t partied together before. I’ve been partying for almost eight years, with friends, family, wealthy and poor – but never my sister. Took great pride in touching her breasts, moving them around for the perfect fit in a black strapless dress I picked out. Against my desire to drive to the party, she insisted we ride with a couple of guys.

I’ve worn this dress before, but everything feels new. Ex lovers everywhere. A whisper in my ear, a touch of my hips. Some angered, others understanding. After several drinks, it’s starting to feel like Manhattan. Gracefully making my way across the room, across the dance floor. They’re all watching. They’re always watching. The women, the men. I should keep my drinking at minimum.

I meet up with my sister after the party in front of the driver’s house. She told me about him days ago. Said I need to meet him, said he’s nice. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink. He signals for me to get out the car and accompany him inside.

Nice room. Did you paint yourself? I asked.
No my brother remodeled the entire house.
Are these all your sneakers?
I have more downstairs.
Do you mind if I sit on your bed?
Of course you can sit on my bed. He smiled.

I’m watching him, he’s careful. Zip loc bag here. Zip loc bag there. Reminds me of relatives. Of all the boys growing up. I want to go to sleep. I want the company of hard working creative men. I want the company of hard working creative women. I want to go back to the place that made me forget what home was like.

Other Stories

Champagne glasses shattered across the floor.

Valet sensed the urgency.

Began to think about the ocean. You on the beach. The sounds, the waves, the cries of joy. Your forearm. Strength. Grip.

Where’s the car?

Are you happy now? You asked. You’ve used what you think love is. And you turned it into a self-portrait. Are you happy? All the success. You. Your words. You and your words. Before you go, tell me. Are you happy?

I take in the ocean when I can. Aren’t people always searching for more?

You can read Other Stories here.

***

It’s usually the Brooklyn basements or Recita rooftops that make me realize I hate this earth. It’s waking up at 6am, while you lay sleeping, wondering how, physically, my body managed to make it to you, to here. And it all comes together, at different times, in pieces, like a foreign family to the free land. The earth is giving up on me. There is no feeling of joy, no height of climax, no – connecting. But there is you. There is this earth. This basement. That rooftop. Your words. Your time. The earth is going to have my soul. I cannot move. My hands. They’re moving. I am touching everything.

You want to know. More and more. You know so much, know so little. There are questions. There are your eyes. I am sitting, watching your eyes and your hands. And I’m starting to think about writing. There is no feeling but there are words. The words of sleepless nights, the stolen, the deceit, the bags, love, hate, lies, drugs, alcohol, parents, moms, dads, sisters, brothers, enemies, envy, hair, cheese, there is wine. You begin to drink. There are questions. You ask. Where is the happiness? What about the sex, the love, the passion, hugs, rain in the height of summer, the sun, smiles, sons, daughters, children. I am in a basement. And it’s usually the basements or rooftops that make realize there is – this earth.

You can read Allure here.

“if i write about my ‘feelings’ for him, do u think they will die?” editor: “nah”

I cannot wait to see you
keep thinking about what you’ll say
what I’ll say
been hoping you’d stop dancing
around
what we could be
yes
to what you want
I picture us
us here
us there
lighting
blowing
your candle
my flame
and suddenly I am scared
of what we may not be
you’re like success
like happiness
to me
Here
Gone
Here and
Gone
but stay
or kill me dead
my flame
like before prom
before wedding
unease
I’ll close you like a book
if you’re feet continue to dance
around this beat
unparallel and hot
praying this goes away
sign sending to the universe
in secret
wanting you to stay.

blow

She had her mother’s t-shirt on and her sister’s jeans. She wasn’t embarrassed nor did she apologize. I watched her walk down the hall, the jeans form fitting her thighs, her hips. Inside of her mother, inside of her sister, she was – herself. She looked at me a lot, laughed and smiled each time the light touched her eyes. There was a long hallway, stairs. Her head remained up the entire time. I wanted to ask so many questions. How does a Goddess live on earth? I wanted to know what she sees, if that makes sense. I asked after I noticed her looking back over her shoulder, it was dark, she was careful. When I walk I hear the wind in my ears as if I’m by the water. I see myself far from here. Smiling, my tongue licks the sweet taste of success and desire. There I am, surrounded by love. A man, a child, art. I see my purse, but the pills have vanished. The doctors paid off. Someone will ask if it’s true. And then I’ll start smiling again. When the sound of the wind ceases, I see right now – me, washing clothes.

Nose Bleed

My best friend asked what I look for in a man. I looked to the right at the graffiti-covered door, then left at the back of my ex-boyfriend’s head (he’d just walked by us). I told him I hate this question. My last two relationships, they weren’t my “type.” I closed my eyes and felt my stomach rush. Honestly, it’s Him, I said. My friend knew the man I was talking about. He makes me feel. Inspires me on a warm night when it seems nothing is left. Killing me softly. I said he gives me hope and happiness, mixed with a slight feeling of fear. Fear because the days are changing, but my lessons stay the same. Fear because I can’t feel the hope and the happiness right there. I pointed to Him. But from here. And this feels too far.

tap water

I missed my flight to Los Angeles because I got stuck in the bathroom. There was no line. Yet I managed to massage my hands under warm water for twenty minutes. Glancing in the mirror only when I could bear the sight of my face. Yes it was beautiful. Yes it was firm. The water had become hot, hotter than I’d expect for a public restroom.

Hands pleaded for a new beginning with each motion. It was my mother. It was my father. It was me. In the mirror.

What was your last relationship like? The panel moderator asked.

I’d been invited to this panel at a college about love and relationships and sex. Slid my suitcase out of sight. It was a test I failed over and over.

A blonde girl who said she had read my work asked me to explain.

You can pass any test. When you’re ready. When you want to. The universe was testing me, asking me if I was ready for happiness. Ready for greatness. I cried and said yes. But I’d end up in this dirty dark place. Usually my boyfriend’s apartment. I’d cry in his bed and felt like my life wasn’t worth living. I wanted to be as casual and calm as I could. Say I felt so low that I wept in that same bed for years. One night after crying, I went to the bathroom. Started to feel the warmth from the water. Walking up steps, I looked down at my feet. I knew I’d be happy one day. I just didn’t know when. I imagined a man. Imagined his face. Looking at me. Smiling. I was smiling. I had running sneakers on. My legs stood close to his. I can see glances. Pictures of content. Pictures of admiration. Pictures of inspiration.

When I arrived back upstairs, he finally asked me why I was crying. What was wrong? Looked for his eyes and said: Nothing, I’m fine.