Chocolate and Firewood

That morning had been a blur. He barely remembered getting on the train. The whole week, in fact, had felt like a fever or one of those slow, suffocating summer colds.

But here he was, climbing out of a dirty subway tunnel surrounded by steel and fluorescent lights. He could still smell her perfume on his lapel from when she had buried her head in his chest and cried.

That was eight days ago.

There had been a lunar eclipse since then. He loved how entranced she was by the moon. He felt her absence the most at night and also during the days. He felt her absence in everything but mostly in the hollowed out parts that now existed in his chest.

He realized they’d never gotten to use the camping equipment he bought her last Christmas. Never seen all the old movies on their cinefile list.

Did she know she was the most important thing in his life? Had he ever said thank you? There were so many things he had wanted to say to her, so many things they were supposed to do. But that night, all he could do was watch her cry.

And now it was Thursday.

He stepped off the escalator onto the sidewalk and crossed the street towards his office building. The city pulsed around him—people rushing to work, starting their days, living their lives.

He pulled his coat up to his face to have her next to him one last time. Chocolate and firewood.

The Desert Star

Palm Springs, 1960. We had come out for Frank’s birthday, but the boys were still high off the release of Ocean’s 11 and the stories had gotten old.

We decided to head over to The Desert Star where my ex-husband kept a bungalow for the season. Amanda made Mai Tai’s and then watched me drink them all as she floated in the pool, her fingers trailing lazy circles in the water. Sometimes I felt like she was nostalgic for a time that hadn’t happened yet.

Marilyn was laying low in #6 but we couldn’t coax her out. “Too sunny,” she cooed.

Beverly Hills Hotel

The palm tree overhead offered a sliver of shade from the July heat.

From behind oversized white sunglasses, she watched the hotel guests tan themselves as they took meetings and answered emails. She ordered a tap water, held her phone to her ear, and threw her head back in laughter.

There was no one on the other line.

She had arrived in LA that morning, taking the bus straight from Union Station to the hotel. She snuck in through the side, between the cabanas, and snagged a lounge chair.

She knew she didn’t belong.

But what if, just for a moment, someone thought she did?

This was a city built on dreams.

Maybe hers could start poolside, in a $12 bathing suit she bought at Ross.

The Reception

He didn’t understand why he could only have one slice of cake. After all, it was a special occasion.

Favorite Mornings

These were his favorite mornings—the kind where the sun stayed hidden and the marine layer cooled the air.

He kissed her neck, took her hand. They were late, so he grabbed a scooter, and they tore down the sandy bike path, double Dutch style.

He picked up speed, launching off a curb. She made that little noise—the one that slipped out when she wasn’t sure whether to be nervous or excited.

Flying past the morning joggers, he smiled, watching her perfect little hands grip the bars, her head tipping back against his chest.

She trusted him. He knew that.

Her hair whipped across his face in the wind.

“I love you,” he whispered—just quietly enough that she wouldn’t hear.

The Desert

There was nothing around him but lizards and dirt. Stars had replaced the traffic lights and neon signs. It had been over six hours since he’d heard a car.

His heartbeat echoed between his ears—slow, like a boozy bossa nova, every third note skipping. An irregularity that used to comfort him when he was a kid, hiding in his closet, buried under winter coats.

Maybe he’d stay out here amongst the cacti for a while. He never understood why so many people moved to L.A. Envy’s a dangerous drug, and that city was hooked.

He kicked a rock into the night and felt, for a moment, like the last living person on earth. Maybe it would never be safe to go back. Seemed as good an excuse as any to start over. He hoped she’d come find him once everything settled. It was her calm he’d miss the most. And the way her skin tasted.

At least she was safe.

He didn’t think anyone had seen him turn off the main road. She had begged him to be careful.

The moon stayed hidden behind a cloud.

He wondered if he’d buried the body deep enough.

Gone

Sometimes she would float for hours, as if time wasn’t important. Her skin loved the sensation of the hot sun and the cool water. Looking up into the sky, a palm tree swayed in the breeze as a squirrel scurried down its trunk.

She smiled, remembering their honeymoon. Remembering Eddie. And the fat little squirrel that would scamper onto their balcony every morning as they ate breakfast.

Eddie would tear off the corners of his waffle and leave them on the railing. The squirrel ate contentedly, nestled between their coffee cups and newspapers. The morning they checked out, Eddie ordered an extra plate of waffles, setting it out one last time for their little friend.

Animals loved him. Everyone loved him.

For three months after, whenever they sat outside, Eddie would tilt his face to the sky, point at the clouds, and swear one looked like a squirrel.

She only had the heart to agree.

Somewhere between the blue above her and the blue below, there was a world she belonged to, a life that still needed her. But today, she let herself drift—staring at the puffy white clouds and dreaming of someone too far away to ever come back.

The Muse

He wasn’t in a rush. Inspiration was dragging its feet this morning, just like it had yesterday. And the day before that.

He took his time setting up, adjusting the paint box, straightening the legs, making sure they were sturdy. He reorganized his colors, then put them right back the way they were. Maybe he’d just stand there for a while, brushes in hand, watching the paddle boats drift across the lake.

He wondered if he should have gone to law school.

The sun was overhead now. His mouth was dry.

A duck swam up to the edge of the lake looking for crumbs. He had nothing to give it today. He could sense the animal’s disappointment.

The clouds looked like whispers and dreams.

For Sale

Tara finally just put it on the street. She couldn’t understand why no one responded to her Craigslist ad...

For Sale: Oversized upholstered chair perfect for sitting and watching T.V. while your wife cleans up around you or for having sex with the neighbor while your wife is at work. $5 if you can come pick it up immediately. Serious offers only.

June 2020

There was nothing left to do.

Every inch of the house had already been turned into a lava field, a fort, or a speedway. The science kit had been blown to hell, and Dad had broken the left Joy-Con last week in a misguided game of Mario Kart.

Jack wandered outside, looking for his brothers. They’d ditched a half-hearted game of soccer and were now scaling the old oak at the far end of the yard.

When Jack was three, Peter told him he couldn’t play in the tree with them—there was an ogre in it who ate little boys. But Jack was seven now.

Big enough.

He followed them up, gripping the trunk, calling out their names—tightly holding on to both the bark and the secret that he was still terrified of heights.

The Steakout

He knew they were watching.

So he killed the light.

Now all they had was the reflection of their own hiding place—trapped in the glass where he used to be.

He wasn’t doing anything illicit. Hell, he wasn’t even doing anything interesting.

But if they wanted to play this game, he might as well let them think he was up to something.

He flossed his teeth in the dark. Found his way to bed.

Tomorrow would be chaos.

Wanted

Wanted: Circus Performers. No experience? No problem. No last name? Even better. Inquire within.

Time Zones

She looked up. 1:35 AM.

"If I’m three hours ahead," she said, "does that mean I’m calling you from the future?"

He laughed. "Time doesn’t work like that."

But wouldn’t it be cool if it did?

They stayed on the line until she got home. Then a little longer. Until her breath slowed, her words slurred, and sleep took over.

She woke up with her phone still in her hand. The past waiting on the other end.

It was too early to call back.

Signs

It was too late.

The city had us now, pulling us forward, faster, tumbling toward the night.

The streets blurred—headlights, taillights, neon bleeding into the rising steam. The past stretched behind us in red and white streaks, the future just a flicker in the distance.

Somewhere behind us, a street cart was shutting down for the night, the last burnt pretzel still smoldering on the grill.

Don't Walk flashing. Beckoning us forward. It was always the same story.

The Lineup

“You’re overthinking it.” She passed him his coffee. “Just go. You know you’ll be happy you did.”

He sighed, grabbed the board, and shuffled his feet through the sand. He looked back, half-expecting her to be standing by the van, offering an encouraging smile—but she was already halfway down the beach, chasing their dog, a kite trailing behind her. Even over the crash of the waves, he could hear her laugh.

The tide hit his foot. Fuck, that’s cold.

It had been a year since he was last in the water, but he felt its pull immediately. This was hard—like the first few strides of an overdue workout. He paddled, breathing heavy, muscles protesting, until finally, he caught his rhythm.

A dolphin leapt ahead of him. He thought of the documentary they watched last week—how scientists couldn’t explain why dolphins surf. No reason. Just joy.

He held his breath and ducked. When he surfaced, he was past the swell.

He sat up, waiting. Thinking of everything and nothing. The horizon stretched out endlessly, and for a moment, he drifted, weightless.

He loved how insignificant he felt in the ocean.

Time had no destination.

Before he knew it, the sky had softened to pink and orange. Nature’s alarm clock. He got in the lineup for one last run. The surf had been good to him today.

He wasn’t sure why he resisted the things he loved.

Scanning the shore, he found the kite—and beneath it, her long hair whipping in the wind.

He hated when she was right.

Nightfall

She waited for nightfall—for that moment when the day disappeared into silhouettes, leaving behind a footprint of chaos in the streets. Everyone had somewhere to be, but nobody knew where to go.

Night had a vagueness to it. Streetlights out of sync. Bars spilling out the post-Happy Hour crowd. Soon, the shadows would have shadows, and the city’s orchestral din would fade to a distant decrescendo.

Her heels echoed against the pavement. She slowed her steps to match the beat of a paint bucket drum.

She loved to linger in these hours—between dusk and sleep—when the world blurred, and she could still remember her dreams.

The Beach

Breakfast had come back up twice already. Nothing left in him but dread.

The Atlantic tossed them side to side as he clutched his rifle. 400 feet to shore.

He’d seen battle before. He was trained for this. But training didn’t prepare you for the bow door groaning open or for the cold slap of salt water as you jumped into the Atlantic, 3,500 miles from the boardwalk where he’d held his wife’s hand and eaten cotton candy last summer.

Now, the ocean was in his mouth, in his eyes. He blinked and saw the sky explode over the dunes.

There was a letter tucked inside his chest. It had arrived a few days ago. His wife wrote to tell him their daughter had learned to say “da-da.”

His boot caught on something—a body, maybe a helmet, maybe just the earth fighting back. A bullet ripped past his ear.

She would be eight months old next week.

The Wanderer

He woke up one morning and headed west.

Past Essex Street and Broadway, over the Hudson, into Jersey. He ate something called city chicken in Cleveland. Bought a fur-lined denim jacket in Steamboat Springs that smelled like cedar and got him through the chill of the Rockies.

San Francisco wasn’t the plan, but it seemed as good a place as any to start over.

When he met her, he said his name was Tyler. They walked all night through the empty streets of Chinatown.

He ran his fingers through her hair, the streetlamps turning each strand to gold. They ate dim sum at 3 a.m. He told her he’d been waiting his whole life to find her.

He liked the way she smiled when she believed him.

Last Call

The music had stopped. The players had packed up their instruments.

In the corner, a couple lingered, finishing their drinks, kissing goodnight. A tired old man pushed a broom twice his size, dragging it across the confetti-laden floor.

He started to sweep.

But in the middle of the empty room, a woman kept dancing.

Unaware of the hour. Unbothered by the silence. She moved only for herself.

The stillness closed in, but she didn’t take the hint.

Petit Foxes Part 3

It was 9pm and, as she so often found to be the case, there was nothing on t.v.