weeds, wild weeds massively killing the gentle little flower
garden inside, those pruned and fragile little flowers. This I
conveyed by being quiet and tender and oh so quiet, and I
could see my insides all running with blood, all running with
knife cuts and big fuck bruises, and he saw it too. So he took
me to dinner in the rain.
*
The bathroom was in the back, painted a pink that looked
brown and fungoid, and I got to it by heaving myself over the
wet boots strewn like dead bodies in my way, sliding along the
wet puddles, touching strange shoulders delicately like God
just for a hint of balance. The smoke heralded me, shrouded
me, trailed behind me: in front, around, behind, a column of
fire hiding me. The walls in the little room were mud and the
floor was mud and the seat of the toilet had some bright red
dots and green splotches and the mirror had a face looking
out, destitute. I was bleeding. The rain and bleeding. The
muscles in my back caved in toward each other furiously and
then shot out, repelled. A small island under my stomach beat,
a drum, a pulse, spurting blood. Oh, mother. I took thick paper
towels meant for drying big wet hands and covered the toilet
seat and pushed my old denim down to the slobbering floor. I
93
waited for life to pass, for the man to go away, for the blood
to stop, to grow old and die. Four beige-stained walls, enough
naked flesh hitting the cold edge of the cold air to keep me
awake and alive, and time passing. Then I went out because I
had to, because I wasn’t going to die there, past the kitchen, a
hole in the wall, burning oil hurled in the air by a cook who
bounced from pot to pot, singing, sauteing, stirring, draining,
humming. I walked through all the same tables, this time my
hands straight down by my side like other people, and I sat
down again. The piles of matchbook paper covered the table-
top, and he was slumped and disbelieving.
*
On the right when you enter the coffeehouse there are unappealing tables near the trash, and behind them a counter with cakes under cheap plastic covers but the cakes are good,
not cheap. All the light is on the other side, a solid wall of
glass and light, and all the tables near the glass and light were
always filled with people with notebooks writing notes to themselves on serious subjects as serious people who are also young do. I always looked over their shoulders, glanced sideways,
eavesdropped with my eyes, read whole sentences or paragraphs. Sometimes there were equations and triangles and words printed out with dull blue ballpoint pens, like in the
fifth grade, block lettering. More often there were sentences,
journals, stories, essays, lists of important things to remember
and important books to find. Sometimes there were real books,
and the person never looked up, not wanting to be thought
frivolous. Of course he had gotten a table filled with light,
something I rarely managed to do, next to the glass, and the
