Pajamas

Lack of sleep, an odd bed, anticipation, and hunger all conspired against me. Sleep would not come tonight.

I rose from the bed, pulled on the flannel pants, rolled the bottoms up as not to trip on the stairs, and wandered down to the kitchen. The house took on a whole new character with only the moonlight creeping through the windows to illuminate the space.

The kitchen was spotless, not even a water spot in the stainless steel sink. Each of the canisters that sat out on the counter was perfectly spaced from each other. Even the contents of the fridge were perfectly aligned with each other. The apples were sorted by type.

I started opening cabinets in search of some snack food. Chips, cookies, or candy would have worked wonders to calm my nerves. I had just tucked into some tortilla chips when the door swung open, startling me. Jon entered wearing only flannel pants identical to the one I had on. He didn’t look remotely sleepy and his pants were not wrinkled.

Two horny yuppies

We pulled into a huge truckstop just off the interstate. We wandered through the isles of motor oil, Yosemite Sam mud flaps, and adult magazines.

The clerk looked at us like we were little green men with gigantic eyes. I was still slick with sweat under my conservative dress, my messy red hair dark with perspiration. Jon’s tie now hung limply around my neck. His shirt was half untucked with sleeves rolled. We probably looked like we’d been fucking for hours in the back of his car – two horny yuppies with no place else to go.

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Dancing

Jon went in search of liquids to boost his boogie abilities.

Quinn stood behind two turntables manipulating records to fade into one another, alternating between techno favorites and flavors of the early eighties. He bounced to the rhythm, headphones gyrating in time. His waifish frame dancing in a skin tight tee, oversized jeans held up by a studded belt, face painted with stars and glitter.

A familiar song and a nod from Quinn and I found Jon, pulling him onto the dance floor by his tie. I’d been at clubs around the world dancing by myself, content to let men watch from the sidelines. Tonight, however, called for a partner.

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No longer a home

The rambling Victorian sat on the corner in front of the high school like a sentinel to adolescent pain and education. In the decade that had passed some had torn down the large oak in the side yard where kids had once huddled sneaking a few illicit drags of nicotine before class. The lawn boasted new landscaping and the porch swing had received copious layers of new paint.

Aislin recalled the weekend that Gideon had asked her and her mother to stay. It was sort of a trial to see if they could all live together before the vows were final. Gideon had decorated Aislin's room with comic book posters, a mini fridge stocked with Mountain Dew and sweet snacks, a bed laden with downy comforts, and a drafting board with enough supplies to write, draw, and ink ten comic books.

Car Bomb

Duke pulled his driver's license from a ratty brown wallet and slid it across the bar picture side down. Coop furrowed his brow, looked at the ID, and returned it as delivered. Aislin considered grabbing his ID to end the suspense, but felt it might violate some sort of trust.

They sat in silence until the drinks arrived. Aislin squeezed her lemon into the drink with two dainty fingers and patted them on her cocktail napkin. Duke watched this ritual before dropping the Baileys shot into the beer and drinking it in two swallows.

"You drink like my dog."

"Excuse me?"

"Alfred gulps Guinness like a normal dog takes to a bone."

"What does he do with a bone?"

"Sniffs it and walks away wondering why I didn't make him a steak too."

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Affluence

Her dark page boy haircut stood out among the permed and bleached bouffants circling the bar. Crocodile skin heels as opposed to white cross-trainers. Her only ring was a huge turquoise stone ensconced in sterling rather than a small diamond solitare set in cheap gold. The arrogance of having risen above this blue collar town cloyed like the wafting cigarette smoke. Aislin's affluence offended many lining the bar as they turned to watch her and Duke walk in.

Aislin faced the bar, and stared at the neon domestic beer signs, NASCAR plaques, an infamous picture of Babe Ruth, and small placards denoting fried delicasies served in red plastic baskets. Each person's face was cast with an eerie red glow; each one marked by bad marriages and multiple children. Familiar faces from high school telling the familiar stories. The bartender, a large man with COOP tattooed down his forearm, walked up and nodded to her. He looked like an ex-boyfriend and probably was. Aislin had been popular with the opposite sex in the days before college--a lucky combination of running five miles daily and the Irish baby feeding breasts.

Patrick

Patrick pulled off his hat and rumpled his deep auburn hair; slid off his sweatshirt, and shucked two layered tee shirts. Patrick’s shoulders were small, like that of a young boy, and he hunched so that his collarbones seemed the only thing suspending his dirty white undershirt. Wearing layers upon layers of shirts was an attempt to avoid comments about looking sick or like an Auschwitz escapee. The sallow, flickering light only emphasized his concave chest and prominent ribs.

Patrick stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes never left those of his green-eyed reflection as he removed the steely rings piercing his lips, ears, nipples, and septum. The nautical stars inked across his chest seemed to twinkle in the uneven light. Next came the scissors as he cut off large chunks of his hair. Once he’d cut down the longest parts he went over his head several times with electric clippers using a shorter guard each pass until he was satisfied. It wasn’t the jarhead cut his grandfather had given him every summer of his childhood in this dingy bathroom, but it had changed his appearance enough that none of his New York friends would be able to recognize him.

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Campbell

Campbell faced himself in the mirror, checked the dimple in his tie, looked up his nose for stray hairs and boogers. He winked his approval at his reflection and left the bathroom.

Cam’s office was immaculate but he straightened piles of legal pads, fluffed a bouquet of pens, and realigned books lining the walnut shelves. Returning to the bathroom, he again checked his tie and realized fidgeting didn’t suit him.

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Scars

"My younger brother went missing several years ago."

"What happened?"

"Nothing that I discuss. I swallowed that scar many years ago."

"Swallow?"

"Teenagers wear the scars of their parents and familial circumstances in their mouth. They often give voice to the wounds. As we age we try to swallow it down and wash it down with alcohol.

"In the pit of the stomach the scar is easier to hide, but in times of turmoil can dissolve us in acid and bile. We can become washed away."

Photo: FideNullo

Books

Read in 2008
Twilight by Stephanie Meyers
New Moon by Stephanie Meyers
Eclipse by Stephanie Meyers
Breaking Dawn by Stephanie Meyers
Blind Fall by Christopher Rice
Odd Hours by Dean Koontz
The Darkest Evening of the Year by Dean Koontz
The Quilter's Apprentice by Jennifer Chiaverini
The Runaway Quilt by Jennifer Chiaverini
The Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs

Want to read in 2009
Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay
The Host by Stephanie Meyers
Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz
The Memory of Running by Ron McLarty
The Memory Keeper's Daughter

Athletic Guy

His polo shirt, poorly pressed khaki pants, stocky statue marked him as an athletic coach; however, his polished loafers promoted him to the administrative level--perhaps an assistant athletic director.

Photo: Open Shutter