There is the way I write for work.
There’s how I write for me.
Which is different_
There is the way I write for work.
There’s how I write for me.
Which is different_
He was one of the ones who woke before the sun returned. As he walked to his car, he thought he heard — were those waves? Or a large truck rushing along the side streets? He looked down to where the road ended into the dark expanse where the light left the sky. They were waves. He could hear the rhythm of their whoosh. As he looked down, he saw a runner. Not unusual for this time of day, especially here where every weekend was a 5k or triathlon. But this runner stood out for the hobbled gait. He got in his car and, while it warmed, wrote a text to his still sleeping girlfriend about the waves. After he put his phone, he looked up to drive off and saw the runner pass on the sidewalk to his left. He u-turned the car to turn left on the road behind him but remembered the runner and slowed in case he would cross. But he turned instead. But there was another runner on the opposite corner who did not turn and did not stop but crossed into the street as though unaware of the car that had it not stopped would have run over this runner. How lucky for this runner, he thought, that there were the waves and the other runner that he did not hit this runner. He wondered if this runner knew too.
Return or exchange?
Okay. What seems to be the matter?
Well, there’s just one part that’s broken. So I was hoping to exchange it but keep the rest.
Sir, you can’t do that.
We cannot exchange parts of lives.
He thought of them as resets, moments when his memory flickered. When driving he couldn’t recall whether he had remembered his phone despite the text message he had sent while waiting for the car to warm. At home he wondered whether he had left the oven on or was it today that he had cooked. Other times he thought of times he couldn’t remember and imagined them into memories, filling between the flashes, the strobe lights of a possible past.
She liked how the cold bit at her cheek on nights like this when she could feel its lips. On these nights, the colors contrasted, the yellow of the taxis huddled against the black sky. Everything in lamplight. She wondered if it might snow.
She sucked in as if from a cigarette. “So where to now?” Rachel asked her friends also clad in dark jackets and bright heels.
“Well, do we want to go to another bar, or a club, or– ”
“No,” Nellie said, interrupting Jasmine, who side-eyed to say, “Or weren’t Adam and Elisha having a party?”
“Tomorrow night,” Rachel said.
“Oh yeah, okay,” said Jasmine. “Or we could get food and figure it out?”
Rachel’s mouth tightened. She should have eaten the wings they were offered. But she didn’t like how her fingers still stuck even after wiping them with a napkin, and she didn’t want to deal with waiting in line for the bathroom just to use the sink. At the same time, she was too hungry and it was so early, that she knew she wouldn’t be able to sit down somewhere to eat and not order anything with fries.
“How about Soup ’N Burger?” she offered.
Nellie mmm-ed and Jasmine’s eyes brightened and her hands raised like she had been inflated.
Immediately inside the air warmed like the diner and everyone inside were breathing beneath a heavy blanket. It smelled of noodle soups with celery and coffee, and the lights aged the walls yellow like newspaper.
“I’m definitely getting soup,” said Nellie over the percussion of silverware.
“You have to,” said Jasmine. “It’s in the name.”
“You don’t have to,” said Rachel.
“On your first time, you do,” said Jasmine, in mock offense to Rachel before facing at Nellie.
“Do I have to get a burger too?” said Nellie.
Jasmine gave one of those long, sharp hums like she was deciding. “No,” she said. “The burgers are just okay. They char them too much.”
“Nooo,” Rachel said in gleeful disagreement. “That’s what makes them good.” Turning to Nellie, she said, “it’s like they were cooked in a fireplace. The soup’s really good too. The cheese and broccoli.”
“I might get an omelette,” said Jasmine.
“Oh with the home fries?” said Rachel in approval.
“I’m definitely getting coffee,” said Nellie, her eyes nudging at the wallet-looking flask peeking from her jacket pocket.
They got a booth against the wall. Rachel had always appreciated that the leather seats weren’t vinyl. She also liked the pictures on the wall of people and places she didn’t know.
When her patty melt came, she dug a fry between the cheese and burger and ate it. Nellie noticed and dipped one of her fries into her cheesy soup.
“Oh, I’ve never tried that,” Rachel said, wide-eyed. “Can I have some?”
Swallowing, Nellie nodded and slid her bowl over. Jasmine took one of Rachel’s fries and tried it too.
“We’re gonna need to get more fries,” Jasmine said.
“And soup,” said Rachel over the fries in her mouth.
The soupy fries sharpened the whiskey in their coffees. They had to drink them black because sometimes, if a cup sat too long, the liquor separated from the milk or cream. This being a college part of town, sometimes the servers looked for that, and sometimes they said something.
Their server hadn’t said anything other than “sure” when, while she refilled their coffees, they asked for a basket of fries and another bowl of soup. She wore a bandana over her hair and looked like Frances McDormand. When she leaned down to take Nellie’s empty plate with her free hand, the way she held the coffee pot above and away from the table, with the kitchen and counter behind her, her mouth slightly open and eyes blank with thought — Rachel wanted that picture framed in her future home, to show her kids and their kids where she had lived once, what it was like.
Laura got dirt roads. She wished there were more around, that this were one. She’d love to tear down a dirt road: field of shadows to the left, a veil of moonlight. But the best would be that humble crackle when a car slows on loose land. She turned down the music anyway.
“You don’t like that song?” said Delia.
“What? Oh, no. I wasn’t sure if it was too loud.”
Delia smiled and turned it back up. She needed her music loud, especially at night. Even this song. Arielle loves this song, and it’s so dumb. The words aren’t even trying. They probably wrote it in high school. Like, “what kind of movie would have this soundtrack?”
“What?” shouted Arielle.
Laura turned down the music and said, “What movie would have this soundtrack?”
“Ohh,” Arielle hummed. She loved these questions. She taught Delia this game; well, her dad taught them. He would ask them to title different parts of their life. She would have told him twelfth grade was “The Year of Blankets.” Tonight would be “A Very Special Episode.”
“That’s not a movie,” said Laura. “You’re supposed to pick a movie.”
“Shit, you’re right. Delia you go, and I’ll think.”
Delia leaned back to pinch the hem of Arielle’s dress. “Where’d you get this?”
“It’s nice, right?” said Arielle, turning back to Delia and brightening. “My mom got it for me.”
“Raquel picked this out? Damn. Since when can she shop?”
“I know,” beamed Arielle. “She didn’t even ask for help, she said.”
“She said,” said Delia.
“That’s what I said,” Arielle breathed. “Yeah, I got home, and it was just laying on my bed.”
“Ew, like how she’d lay out your clothes when you were little?”
“She did it for you too.”
Delia grabbed Arielle’s knee. “She got me a dress?”
Arielle laughed. “No, I mean she used to lay out your clothes too.”
“Oh. Only when I’d stay over long enough that she washed my clothes.”
“Which was a lot.”
Laura glanced back at Arielle through the rearview mirror. She had rolled down the window and was leaning her face into the wind. It was too dark for Laura to tell if her eyes were open. In side mirror, she saw Arielle had her hands out the window, holding her palms flat forward like she could slow them.
“It looks like space,” Laura said.
“Huh?” said Arielle. Delia had turned to Laura too, like she had missed something.
“Your dress. When we pass under the streetlights, the sequins flash like space. Like those pictures they show of what space looks like to an astronaut,” said Laura, lifting her chin as if to bounce the words back to Arielle.
“That stuff scares her,” Delia told Laura.
“What are you talking about?” asked Arielle, pulling her arms in.
“You don’t remember that Sandra Bullock movie and how scared you got?”
“At getting stuck in space. Not about being there in the first place.”
Delia wasn’t sure if Arielle’s lip had curled or the shadows were being weird or the tequila. “Yeah, but if you go to space, you have a chance of being lost out there,” she said.
“That’s not the same. Who do you know’s gotten stuck in space?”
“No one knows. The government won’t tell us,” said Laura and laughed and Arielle and Delia laughed too.