REM Cycle.

It was late, and the air was thick with nostalgia.  A single light dangling above the sink highlighted the otherwise dark room.  She sat on a stool while he stood on the other side of the island.  They talked softly as not to wake the others living in the house.

“I never stood a chance with you,” she said, smiling.  He took a sip from a cup that his little sister made him, and she watched his mouth turn up at either side.

“Sure you did.”

“Ha!  You knew you had me from the beginning,” she accused.

“Why are you so sure?”

“Don’t you remember our first dinner together?” 
He laughed at the memory.  “You hardly ate.  It could have been worse, though.”

“How so?”

“You could have ordered a salad.”  They were both laughing now.

“I couldn’t help it. I still thought everything you did or said was charming,” she said.  He was grinning again.  “Even now, sometimes when you talk the words come out in cursive.  I didn’t even know you and you were already something to me.  That sort of thing made my stomach turn.” 

He looked in her eyes for a moment.  “I didn’t know I had you,” he confessed.

“I didn’t make that clear?” she asked.

“No.  I don’t know.  Maybe you did and I didn’t understand at the time.  Maybe I still don’t.  You just always seemed so…white.  It didn’t make sense for you to come around.”

“White?”

“Yeah.”

“Making you…?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Shaded.” 

She wondered why it always came down to this, and why he continued to question it. 

“Let’s go up,” he said.

He poured the watered-down whiskey into the sink.  She waited for him, hoping he’d write about her someday.  The kind of writing that would lead to people asking him how he made love last for so long, or if he really knew a girl like the one he talked about in his stories.  Allowing the previous conversation to saturate, he followed her up the stairs in silence.  They crept into his bed, where they spent most of their nights, and she wrapped herself in his old, cool sheets.  She reached to pull the curtain closed in hopes that morning would delay. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

“We should talk like this more often,” he said.

“I know, dear.” She traced his face, her favorite picture, and put it in her pocket.  Though she had spent most of her summer with him, she still couldn’t quite describe the color of his eyes. 

“I was thinking about rules today,” she said.

“Rules?”

“Yeah.” She was looking away from him now. “The biggest ones are always broken at night.”

“Like?”

“Like midnight snacks.”  He laughed under his breath, this being the perfect illustration of the way she saw the world. 

“I think it’s the moon,” she said.

“Of course it’s the moon,” he agreed.  She was staring again as she pulled the covers over her shoulders, noting his ability to always have the unexpected yet perfectly appropriate response.  She kept going. 

“So, I’m going to asking for your permission now,” she said, picking at her cuticles. 

“My permission?”

“Yes. To love you,” she said, her voice quieting. 

“That’s the rule?”

“It’s the one I’m breaking.  I thought I’d give it a try.  Rebellion, I mean.”

“Is this about summer ending?”

She looked down and replayed the last three months in her mind. The countless cloudless days and a scene much like this one and the one before that she could never quite hold on to.  She swam through his head like a child who was never taught to swim.

“You love me now,” he said. She wasn’t sure if it was an insult or not, so her rebuttal came quickly. 

“That’s the sad part.” Her voice was shaking. “I keep trying to. You won’t let me.  You fight it every time.”

He stared up at the ceiling with one hand folded behind his head. She was looking at his bedroom door, gathering the location of her belongings in her mind in case she had to leave. It was an empty threat.  She knew she wouldn’t go, so did he, but she had to give herself the chance.

“You still have a lot to learn. Maybe you’d be better off without me,” he said.  He turned toward the wall so his back was facing her.

“I wouldn’t leave unless you made me.  I’ll stay until you tell me to go.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, darling,” he said.

“Because you haven’t told me.”

“I wasn’t just talking about myself.”

“Alright, then.  What do I need to know about the world?”

He sighed.  “That it’s been pissed on.”  The way he said it

made her feel like he had been wanting to tell her for a long time, but that he didn’t want to be the one to contaminate her.  He didn’t require a response, but it came after a minute of silence.
     “Just because I see colors doesn’t mean I don’t know that.

I know the world’s been pissed on.  I also know that that

isn’t what you were speaking of entirely.”  He didn’t move.  “You were talking about your world.  Your world’s been pissed on, and from the little you have told me, I’d guess you had to stand by and watch while it happened.  That’s a tragedy.  And I wish I could have been there to love you then, but you seem to be under the impression that I want to clean it up for you now.”

     “Isn’t that what this is about?”

     She gave a quick laugh, expecting him to believe that she couldn’t love him simply.  “I may not be old enough to buy you a drink, dear, but I’m smart enough to know that to try to clean up a mess of yours would be a losing battle.  It’s a romantic notion that’s been lost in translation.  Love has become associated with the art of fixing, and it’s bullshit.  People seem to think that allowing someone to plug up their empty places for a while will keep them from spewing again, and that’s bullshit, too.  Real love is the exact opposite.  It holds the bucket and catches everything that comes spilling out.”  She wasn’t sure that she was making sense now, so she made her point.  “I don’t want to fix anything of yours.  I wouldn’t be able to if I tried.  That’s your responsibility.  I just want you to let me in the room in case you can’t reach the wrench.”

     He lifted his head as to make sure she heard him.  “You wouldn’t know where to look.”

“What are you so afraid of?” she finally asked, raising her voice and knowing he wouldn’t tell her. He stopped to think, and he turned back toward her.

“If I left, would you call?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, lowering her head.

“Why not?”

“I’ll think it’s because you don’t want me anymore,” she said.  “It doesn’t make sense for you to come around, either.”

“And if I called?”

“I’d answer.”

“Why?”
“I’d want to hear your reasoning.  And because I’d still

want to be the person you’d write about for the right reasons.”

She kissed him, not waiting to hear his response.  That night, she fell asleep to the sound of his breath in her ear, still the prettiest melody. 

Food Diary

     “I would like a human stomach for lunch,” I request.  My subordinates look at me as though I were a lunatic, which always bemuses me.  “Yes.  As you all know, I’ve traveled the world and am somewhat of a food connoisseur, as they say.  I think a human stomach would put my diary in a ‘fully saturated’ sort of place.  I have eaten frog legs, pig intestines, cow tongue, veal, sheep eye, polar bear liver, whatever it is Spam is made of, and all other sorts of animals.  But a human stomach I find would complete the anatomy of my personal diary, don’t you agree, Watson?  I also find that eating it for lunch would make it a more meaningful affair as I would ingest it solitarily.”

I call my assistant, whose name is Frank, Watson, both because I find Frank to be a generic name lacking any sort of charisma and because he helps me solve my own personal mysteries. 

“I suppose that’s true, sir, but the stomach of a human?” Watson asks.  “It can’t be done, sir, and…”

“Can’t!  What have I told you about using that word with me, Watson?  It is never a matter of whether something that I wish can or cannot be done.  The matter at hand is that I want it, and I ask that you exhaust all possible means of attaining of my want before you tell me that it cannot be done.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you in this matter, sir, as my conscience won’t allow it.”

I scan the faces in the room and see that they are all looking down in compliance with Watson.  From the desk in the center of the room, I look out at my view and notice that my office is right in the middle of town, and that it is the tallest building in sight.  Remarkable. 

“Alright, then!  This will be my own venture.  Don’t worry, lads, I won’t hold this against you in the least.  In fact, I imagine that if I succeed in this feat and, at the end of three hours, I find myself putting someone else’s stomach into my own…well, it will be something like that of poetry!  Now, continue with your tasks for the rest of the day.  Watson will direct you in my absence.  Wish me luck!”

I exit my skyscraper and look left, right, left again, knowing both ways are paved for my success.  Left it is!  I walk swiftly and smile at those who pass me.  I’m also enthralled to feel the sun beating down on the top of my head as I rarely get to enjoy the outdoors.  I make a mental note to relieve Watson of taking my mail to the post office every day because it is just the perfect distance to enjoy a brisk walk.  As a businessman, I am no stranger to suits.  Today I chose my best grey one, complete with my favorite purple shirt and a tie that pulls it all together.  Nothing lies in my pockets but six hundred dollar bills and a matchbox, which I take out to light the cigar I snatched from my office.  I decide it’s best to go door-to-door with my request. 

I walk toward the nearest neighborhood and notice something else: a billboard displaying my face next to a caption that reads, “Meet the heir of the Duerny fortune.” 

“Thank you, billboard!” I exclaim aloud.  Now, people will recognize me and my hope is they will take my personal visit as an honor and aid in my quest.  I knock on the first door, a meager house.  A woman of short stature, around my own age, answers and gives me an honest smile.

“Hello, miss, how are you doing today?  I myself am swell and I first would like to thank you for opening your door on such a beautiful morning.”

“Of course, Mr. Duerny!  So unexpected to see you standing in my doorway as I’ve seen your face on that poster downtown,” she replies.

“Yes, I do seem to be more recognizable!  Now I won’t waste your time so I’ll cut straight to it.  You see, I wish to have a human stomach for lunch this afternoon and I have come into town and to your door to see if you could help me.  Do you know anyone who is scheduled to die this morning?” 

Just as soon as I ask her an earnest question she slaps me in the face and slams the door.  Truly puzzled, I persevere and decide that the hospital is the best place to find my main lunch course.  I walk the mile or so to the hospital and make my way to the morgue, which was conveniently located one floor below.  The key is to act like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing.  I have proven several times that people are much less likely to question my presence if I carry myself in this way, as I will prove again today.  I rehearse my speech on the way to the hospital and it really is admirable. 

I throw open the swaying doors of the morgue to find a young doctor removing various body parts from a carcass, taking notice of the pure magic of it all.  Just as she begins to say, “Excuse me, sir!” I start my speech, which goes like this:

“Mam, I would first like to tell you that I think you are really very pretty and whether you can help me or not I will still believe this to be true.  Before you have the chance to remove me from this room I ask that you let me give you my reasoning on my coming down to your morgue and a request that I deem simple and I hope you will agree.  I woke up this morning thinking about all the wonderful foods I have had the pleasure of eating throughout my life.  I have eaten every animal imaginable, except for one.  I have yet to eat any part of a human other than my own fingernails.  As I discovered this a few hours ago, I knew that I needed to discover the taste of my own kind.  So I request that you remove the stomach of the character that you are elbow-deep in, and donate it to my lunch for today.  If you were to ask me why I would like the stomach out of all the organs, I would tell you that the stomach seems to me like the gas tank of a car, the ink in a pen, and other kinds of fuel holders.”

Ten minutes later I am a half-mile away from the hospital carrying a human stomach!  As it turns out, organs that cannot be donated are simply thrown away after careful analysis.  My speech was unnecessary, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

I was correct about the experience equating with poetry.  As for the stomach, I found it bland.  

Spring Semester.

          Five hundred square feet, if that.  You can’t be picky about arm space living in Greenwich Village.  Toward the left of the studio apartment is a shining stovetop.  Next to it a bottle of cleaner and a spotless, crumpled-but-not-thrown-away paper towel, like the stove didn’t need cleaning to begin with.  Two eggplant purple plates, two pigeon grey cups (coffee cups, not glasses), one pan, one pot, and an ancient meat cleaver, all hoisted by hooks that would give the Lost Boys night terrors and maybe even unnerve Peter Pan himself.  No cabinets.  Instead, the naked hinges lie fixed and useless on the cave-colored wood.  The storage space has been transformed into a personal library, hand-crafted like an artist molds a piece of clay.  Textbooks and novels.  Though, just like the tenant, the fiction (science-fiction, specifically…other dimensions with eight-eyed aliens and world peace) is losing the war on room to breathe.  The books are all bound and in alphabetical order.  Looking closely, the textbooks are worn and tattered, beaten by piercing eyes and violent memorization.  They are separate from the novels, who occupy exactly ten and a half inches of one of the four shelves.  The rest are some books on business basics but mostly books on stocks, economics, and also a documentary on the New York Stock Exchange, which isn’t too far of a walk from here. 

            The calendar on the chest-high refrigerator tells an evolving biography of a person who must work at “The Club” from eleven p.m. to five a.m. every night but Sunday.   Yes, “The Club” is a place of work because it ‘s written in black and there’s a color-coordination chart to the right.  Every box is decorated with at least three colors, except for Sundays because they’re blank (invisible ink?).   At the center of the room lies the body-molded bed just big enough for one, ironed and tucked to perfection.  No throw pillows or fuss.  Blue sheet, blue comforter, folded down at the top to look like a hotel room bed, just cleaner.  On the bed lies what appears to be a costume only it’s nowhere near Halloween.  Sequined, jet black thong.  Next to it, a black, full-length cape, facedown, closely resembles the cape that Batman wears except across the back it reads “Lapman.”  Ha. Leather boots breathe on the unpolished wood floor. 

            Further to the right stands the doorless bathroom.  Not a splash of color but the stained-yellow glass covering the light bulb, and nothing on the sink but a toothbrush and a razor.  A yellow Post-It sticks to the mirror, displaying an upright equal sign and a “C” that’s been knocked over: a smiley face. 

            As I begin to move to the also doorless closet (where I expect to find hidden treasure), I start to wonder if this man is as put out with his front door as he is the rest of them.  Just as I reach for the doorknob, I’m haunted by footsteps and nowhere to run.

“You lost?” he asks.  He has an NYU I.D. card around his neck, and another stack of textbooks in his arms.

Still enthralled by my thorough yet unfinished analysis of the studio, and taking note of my most recent observations, I reply, “You’re the ‘Lapman?’”

“From eleven to five, Monday through Saturday,” he says without hesitation.

I know. 

“School isn’t cheap.  Neither is rent, even when you don’t have arm space.  You probably noticed the bathroom and the closet.”

“And the cabinets,” I add.

“They came like that, actually.” 

“You could wait tables or something,” I suggest.

“I could, but I’ve always wanted to live downtown…”