The Rejectee is More Often Than Not the Rejector

Throughout the night I try to forget I was ever kissed, delicately against the nape of neck like I was something delicate to be kissed. Or that beneath flecks of dead flesh something foreign and soft bloomed—that inclined the orchids on my bedside to cling and bow, like I was something to bask in.

I close my eyes and drift away from the way my name was whispered in my ear, over and over again, like a promise assured and a desire confided.  I ignore the smiles exchanged, throw away maps traced, recant afternoons fermented by the buoyancy of your laugh because you asked questions.  About the scars that peeked out from the breaths of fabric I did not always cover because you made me forget. 

I rather call down the Sun, shut the blinds, and eliminate exposure so I can cradle myself in expensive linen...I rather push you aside, tell you to stay and paralyze you with my isolation...I rather bury it in the back of my mind—that you ever knew my story or that there was ever one to tell.  I rather watch the orchids wither and brown, suffocate beneath the weight of a shadow I cast on all things, than hear you when you tell me every scar is known, every mar beautiful.  Because I cannot stand the terrible lightness of Love.

We’re Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner

It was one of those places with a rotating pie display. Triple pane thermal glass, fluorescent interior lighting…but the bathrooms were always out of soap. You’d have to order a slice of pie ‘cause it’d be the only thing that was safe—coffee was always burnt, eggs were always runny, and the milk I had reason to suspect was really water and half-‘n-half. But the pie lived up to its claim.
A faded billboard stood erect in the parking lot pronouncing “Best Pie in New Mexico”, not something that seemed to attract a lot of folks, but the way the crust crumbled we knew it must be true.
She said it felt like a country song. And with her hair pinned up in curls and her summer dress tied taut round her hips, I was fine with living my life caught somewhere between a Johnny Cash and Springsteen song.
Every Sunday I’d give her a dollar. She’d get up and saunter real slow to the jukebox—prop herself against its neon lights and flip through every song, tapping her fingers lightly against its aluminum sides, weighing her options. But she always settled on E-04, “Atlantic City.” I figured she had an affinity for The Boss. She called me her Johnny 99. So every Sunday I’d take her hand, pull her close to me and sway with her. I couldn’t two-step, four-step, or waltz so we just swayed. …But I’d always make sure to dip her real low at the end.

Then, one night I gave her a dollar and she clicked J-11. Nancy Sinatra came on and she told me she was seeing someone else—like the ring on her finger didn’t mean a damn thing.
Behind her I saw the waitress break down a Smith’s Marketplace pastry box for a Dutch Apple Crumb.

I don’t know what I was more upset about.

* * *

We saw it off the highway while heading to Albuquerque—wait, were we heading to or from Albuquerque? —I think we were heading from actually because I remember the stars being out and getting real tired, but not in need of coffee tired…more like…like a lonesome that’s exhausted its stay tired—tired in the soul—do you ever get that? Regardless, I was looking out the window and I saw a big ol’ piece of cardboard pie in the sky claiming to be ‘the world’s best’—or was it ‘Albuquerque’s Best’? Shit, I don’t know, but I thought to myself I want a piece of that. I guess I might have said it, too ‘cause next thing I know we were sitting in a booth.
The place was rundown and trashy, or maybe just trashed? I could never decide. The first time we went in the bell kept ringing till someone got up and closed the door all the way. There was a ketchup bottle in the ladies room labeled ‘soap’ with black sharpie, part of it washed off already. Scuffmarks from boots littered the floors. Everything else was so shitty the pie had to taste good.

…But I think the pie probably really did taste good, too—not just in comparison good, but good-good. Must have actually. Sometimes I’d wake up Sunday morning before him and I’d just lie in bed and wonder what would be tonight’s special—lemon meringue? Sour cream and apple? Pecan? Key-lime? Pumpkin Spice? French Silk? Strawberry Rhubarb? There were so many flavors with different notes; different textures satisfying the palette in different ways. I could lie there for hours thinking about the choices. Sometimes I’d be so focused on pie I wouldn’t see him wake. He’d ask me what I was thinking about—what man actually asks you what you’re thinking about? I’d turn to him real serious, look him in the eyes, and say ‘pie.’ He’d just laugh and kiss my forehead.

But that’s just the way things are I guess. Some things matter and some things don’t; but you never knew which is which till they’re both gone.