Gathering Scraps

She’d always meant to plant a cherry tree. The blooms, a true harbinger of spring, danced in her favorite shade of softest pink, from spindly branches in her neighbor’s yard. Emily sat in her office chair admiring the way the bluest sky separated the twisted branches, and highlighted the flowers.

“Thinking, again?” Troy’s hand slapped the door facing just before his feet came down with a thud against the hardwood floors.

Emily grimaced before spinning the chair in his direction.

“I’ve asked you not to do that.”, she said before turning again, this time in the direction of her desk.

Troy’s arms snaked around her neck as he clumsily placed a kiss on her cheek, displacing the earpiece of her glasses.

“I’m going to shoot hoops!”, he called, already halfway across the room before she successfully resettled her glasses.

“K…” The gaiety she forced into her voice left just a hint of bewilderment as she watched him lope away.

The backdoor slammed, as expected, and she raised her hands above the keyboard and considered the white screen in front of her. Images played inside her head where words should have been, as she replayed the scene in her office the day before.

She never realized desperation had a scent until the last applicant of the day entered timidly to stand before the interview committee she chaired.

“Welcome, Mr…” She had drawn out the title while scanning for the applicant’s name on the list her secretary had prepared. After several seconds, she realized she had expected the man to provide his name, and he hadn’t. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Tom, who sat next to her, for help.

“Wang. I believe this would be Mr. Wang.” Tom stood and offered his hand, sending his reflection streaming across the burnished wood of the table that separated them.

She didn’t know when the blush had begun to color his face, but the sweating had just begun. A single drop snaked down one side of Mr. Wang’s face just in front of his left ear.

She smiled her most welcoming smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wang, please.” And, as he slid into the chair opposite her, “We’re all here to learn a little more about you, so why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?”

As the man stumbled through words he had obviously attempted to memorize, she wondered when. Had he crammed mightily the night before to come up with an impressive speech, only to have his mouth betray him? Or had he simply interviewed so many times that the speech played like a badly prepared regurgitation? When he finished, she realized she’d heard very little of what he had said.

Tom glanced in her direction before pushing the paper in front of him forward and addressing Mr. Wang. He asked the usual questions ending by asking Mr. Wang to predict his future.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mr. Wang?”

The man raised a hand to his chin to catch the drop of moisture that had finally traversed the planes of his tired face before answering.

“I thought I’d be at Bailey’s forever…”, he started. “I would hope I could be here for the rest of my life.” The last sentence was said through an uncomfortable wrenching of his face that never quite became the smile he had hoped for.

Emily felt his expression resonate somewhere deep inside, and a scream began to fill her head, “Noooo…”.

Now, as she sat at home, in front of her computer, the sound of rubber striking concrete punctuated the five words that played again and again inside her head over an image of hopeless desperation, “The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life”.

Her fingers began to move along the keyboard, and she watched disinterestedly as words began to file onto the screen in front of her. It wasn’t what she’d meant to write, but that happened. Often, an idea occurred to her during the day, and she scribbled it on the nearest scrap of paper before she had a chance to forget. Sometimes, as she sat in front of the computer later that evening, the idea actually fleshed out and became something she was proud of. Other times, after several attempts, the story wouldn’t come, and she pulled the chain on the desk lamp with a sigh after giving up.

Her fingers flew, forming two paragraphs through their efforts. After placing the last period, she scrolled up and read before adding, “Sincerely, Emily Walker”.

The next time she approached the keyboard she wouldn’t be pursuing a hobby, she would be embarking on a new career, and the rest of her life.

Kindred Spirits

Kim looked at him in the ambient lighting, over the rim of her wineglass. Sam’s lips parted, slightly, as he arched his neck to emit a sound the others would recognize as laughter. But then, they had probably never actually heard him laugh. How were they to know that the sound they heard was nothing more than a calculated response, meant to endear, to draw close, to inspire comfort; a social necessity practiced by a man dependent on their goodwill for his livelihood, and, thus, his sense of self?
She turned away, noticing the pained expression on a waiter’s face as a demanding diner thrust a wineglass in his direction; soiling white linen before dripping, sanguinely, on the young man’s carefully polished shoes.
He used to laugh. They used to laugh. They used to laugh all the time. She remembered the rumble of his Firebird as he pulled up outside her dorm room, and the way it reverberated in her chest before her heart jumped. She ran for the window, parting the blinds with one hand, while placing the other over her chest to still it. Minutes felt like hours, as she waited for him to emerge. She had memorized each movement he would make, and never tired of watching, as he slung first one, and then the other denim- covered leg behind the yawning car door. As he stood, he turned, taking a quick survey of the parking lot. She used to wonder what he was looking for. Apparently satisfied with his surroundings, he ran one hand through his stylishly shaggy, brown hair as he shoved the door shut with the other. His keys were tossed, just once, into the air in front of him, before he pocketed them, taking the curb with a slight jump, before falling into his usual long strides on the way to her door.

He had convinced her, once again, to skip class for a day at the lake. And, as he neared the door, she left the window and hurriedly gathered her carefully packed bag and a sweater she would need after the sun had fallen. She wouldn’t be back until long after sunset.
She felt Carmen’s fingers on her elbow, breaking her reverie.
“Tell me!”, was all she said.
Kim looked down at the manicure on her arm before looking up at her friend, in question.
“What?”
“You should see the look on your face!” Carmen whispered behind a carefully painted smirk. “Who is he?”
Several conflicting thoughts bounced around inside Kim’s head as she struggled to form an acceptable answer. It wasn’t lost on her that Carmen assumed her preoccupation was with a man other than her husband. She realized, too, that her friend’s attitude was one of acceptance, even delight.
“No…”, she managed as she wondered if her friend was hoping for an opportunity to share her own indiscretions. “I mean…” She stopped, as a linen-swaddled wine bottle split the two women, and raised a grateful smile to the pouring waiter.
Hoping to avoid further conversation with Carmen, she looked across the table at Sam, wishing as she did, that he would feel her gaze, and something more. She studied his face as he inclined his head slightly in the direction of the man sitting beside him. A frown crossed his features as his unseeing eyes studied a spot in the center of the china-strewn table. She willed him to look at her; to see her, to remember the times before she was a necessary business accessory, an ornament. His mouth formed slow, thoughtful words that distance prevented her from hearing, and she turned her gaze to the other man. His eyes, over the slight curve of a knowing smile, bore into hers before moving lower. She instinctively brought one perfectly manicured hand to her neckline, grazing, with one fingernail, the diamond pendant Sam had presented her on their tenth anniversary, and scanned the group, wondering which of the impeccably accessorized women was his wife; her kindred spirit.

My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

Lilly’s litany played as a round, sung in a sing-song voice, inside her head. And where was Lilly now? Lilly was where she always was, in the center of a large crowd of costumed admirers, or sharing gossip behind Jackie O’s white, kid gloves with a friend who had done a pretty good job of impersonating Amy Winehouse, complete with beehive.

Hoping not to appear desperate, she surreptitiously scanned the colorful crowd for her friend’s baby-blue, pillbox hat. There were at least ten Barack Obamas in the mix. Peyton Manning was shooting darts with Pink, and several members of the Fantastic Four had challenged The Justice League to an inebriated limbo contest that threatened to knock an appropriately oblivious Paris Hilton right off her five inch stilettos, and into a bowl of guacamole. Just as she caught sight her friend, Captain Jack Black blocked her vision momentarily in a flurry of ruffles and satin, and as she withdrew her sensible pumps as far under the chair as she could get them, she felt cold moisture begin to spread on her polyester covered leg.

“Dammit!”, she cried before she could stop herself ,as she jumped from her chair while self-consciously pulling down the jacket of Hillary’s sensible pant suit. Jack turned and studied her for a moment before laughing in true pirate style, and maneuvering Lindsey Lohan away from the mess. Looking down, she could see the stain was spreading, and judging by the color, pirates fancied imports. Lilly was, now, nowhere to be seen.

She started out into the crowd in the direction of the bathroom and cold water to stymie the stain. She kept her head down, in hopes no one would notice her, while knowing she really needn’t bother. She had been invisible from the moment she entered the room. Despite what she had judged to be a clever costume choice, no one had connected her drab blonde hairstyle and polyester pantsuit with a former presidential candidate. The few interested looks turned her way were questioning, at best.

“Hey!”, a voice she recognized cried out, just before she slammed into Michael Phelps’ gold-medal bedecked chest. Thickly applied pancake makeup smeared against bare skin as she lost her footing and fell further into the voice.

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

She knew he was saying something in an effort to make her feel better, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her sobs. She felt his arms around her shoulders, and became aware that they were walking, but horror at the thought of many hundreds of pairs of creatively made-up eyes staring at her, in disgust, buoyed the flood of tears, forcing her to keep her head buried in Phelps’ side.

A blast of cold air told her they had left the party, and as she looked up, her hands went immediately to her face, in a fruitless effort to repair the damage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed T.J. jumping up and down in place, in an effort to conjure some warmth against the chill of night air.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“No! It’s ok! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, anyway. Get in the car!” He didn’t ask questions. He made statements and gave orders. He was used to getting what he wanted. Her feet moved before she made a decision, and as he clicked the locks open, her hand was on the door latch.

She slid, silent, into the passenger’s seat without uncrossing her arms. Two doors slammed as the engine roared to life, and T.J. carelessly threw Michael’s medals into the backseat. Settling himself against leather, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, and leaned in her direction.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

She looked at his shadowy features, and wondered how she came to be there. Had he ever spoken to her before? Well, maybe…when they were toddlers, when their mothers’ scheduling of play-dates placed them together on the playground while they, the mothers, sat closely, exchanging stories of women who were not there.

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

One long arm stretched between the bucket seats, as T.J. maneuvered the car into reverse. She squirmed at the thought of that arm around her shoulders. Had it been? Had everyone seen? What had they thought? Had SHE seen?

The car lurched forward against loudly crunching gravel, as T.J. barely missed grazing the halogen head-lights of an oncoming pickup truck. Lowering his window, he stopped, and hung his head out to meet the other driver.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

More laughter accompanied his “See ya, bro!”, as T.J. good naturedly slapped his friend’s hand, again, before withdrawing it to turn up the dial on the stereo, as the car lurched forward again, sending up a wake of randomly shaped gravel.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

There were lights, lots of them, in varying colors, and noises she knew only from television crime dramas; the crackle of two-way radios, passing traffic, sirens, voices giving orders, and moans, incoherent moans in a familiar-sounding voice.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

>My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

>
Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)

The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.

I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”

>Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)

Beach Music

The roads she knew like the back of her hand. The sign post, signalling a necessary turn, blessedly flashed in her consciousness just long enough to inspire action and, just as quickly, her mind returned to her escape.
She had kept her promise to herself. One duffel, three-quarters full of denim capris and cotton t-shirts, 2 pairs of flip-flops, bras, pajamas, and swimsuits sat, solitarily, in the back seat; her only nod towards health and beauty, the twin bottles of shampoo and conditioner, suntan oil, and sunblock. A madonna-like smile of satisfaction flitted across her full lips as she thought of what she had left behind; the jewelry, the make-up, the perfume, the lap top.
Reaching towards the dash, she grasped her cellphone as yellow-painted lines measured her progress.
“Dad? I’m here.”
“Good! Pick me up across from the “Painted Fish.” His words fought for room between ragged breaths that told Randy her father was out for a walk.

The small, red car inched along the beach road as she strained to pick her father’s form out amidst the scantily clad forms filling the sidewalks.
“Hey!” the voice came from the opposite side of the road accompanied by a raised bronzed arm.
Looking for a place to turn around, Randy prepared herself for words of recrimination. Her father had always been a demanding, exacting man, with no tolerance for mistakes, regardless of size.
As she pulled alongside, they shared a smile as a fellow walker congratulated her father for “catching a ride” with a “young chick”. As he folded his large brown frame into her small vehicle, Randy took in the white wisps dancing on top of his still leonine head. His plain white t-shirt, made shapeless by volumes of sweaty moisture, told her he had been walking for some time.
“I told you where I’d be. Didn’t you see me?”
It began.
Randy smiled, inside and out, as she realized she no longer felt the need to be drawn in, and answered “I’ve got you now.”, just before she changed the subject.
As they creeped along the mile between the restaurant and her father’s condominium, they discussed the weather, which threatened rain, and the crowds brought by Spring Break. He asked about her children, her sisters, and their co-workers. Randy was the only one of 4 children who had followed her father into the family business, a fact she knew delighted him.
As they mounted them, she gave thanks, once again for the concrete stairs leading to her father’s home, knowing they would help to keep him young. While he fumbled with his key, she took in the deck chair she had presented him as a birthday present 2 years before. He was a man who had everything, and most presents only made it as far as the top of his over-stuffed closet. Having chosen a gift he actually used, was an accomplishment.
A waft of synthetically cooled air greeted them as her father gained access to his home. Entering the kitchen, Randy, once again, admired the lustrous brown marble countertops, and complementing maple cabinets, chosen by her younger sister as she helped their father redecorate his antiquated kitchen. Stainless appliances completed the make-over, and as she surveyed them, her father reminded her of the travel magazine layout in which his kitchen had been featured. The remainder of the condominium remained as it had when her parents had moved in more than 10 years before.
Randy lugged the duffel towards the spare room as her father went to shower. Throwing the bag upon the cheaply, tropically draped bed she surveyed the room and found it unchanged. A wicker bookshelf tenuously held her mother’s favorite books. As she surveyed the titles, she found several of interest and made a mental note to ask if she could borrow them.
The fax machine in the corner and the open laptop beside it, were the only signs that her father still kept his hand in his business. Randy approached the computer and drug a single red-taloned finger across the mouse pad before deciding to keep her promise.
On the opposite wall a cacophony of photographs and children’s drawings competed with evidence of gambling earnings for her attention. On the far right, 4 quarters taped to a “sticky” note served as evidence that her father had won a golfing bet. Ten feet away, a photograph, tacked low enough to cause her to bend down to study it, portrayed her smiling sportscoat-clad father in a rare display of fashion, as he draped one arm around her nephew while someone captured his image as “Grandparent of the Year”. The wall was evidence of everything that was important to her father, and thus deserved a second glance.
Randy, determined to make the most of her 4 day sojourn, changed into her swimsuit, kissed her still steamy, freshly showered father goodbye, and headed towards the beach.
After an overcast morning, the sun had begun to blaze, making the temperatures more beach-like. Sliding her flip-flops off before reaching the sand, Randy stopped to fill her lungs with uniquely humid air and to listen to the waves that supplied it. Despite her father’s assertions to the contrary, the crowds were minimal and Randy was pleased.
Her feet slid with each step before taking hold in the powdery, white sand which she studied as she passed. Tire tracks told her that lifeguards had recently passed by and the whipping red flag warned of riptides, always plentiful in spring.
Stopping just yards from the surf, Randy peeled the aluminum chair from her back and placed her beach bag carefully on dry ground. As she pushed metal into sand, she quietly surveyed the changing colors of the water in front of her and welcomed the breeze that blew her hair away from her face. Several older couples paraded, in tandem, in front of her chair as she settled into it. Packs of scantily clad, brown-bodied girls walked quickly behind them, soon to overtake, and Randy remembered what is was like to be that young and unsure. She wondered if they had a destination, and remembered what it was like to walk like that. Unsure, yet brave. Feigning carelessness, yet so vulnerable. Careful to fit in, and desperate to stand out.
An hour passed as Randy vascilated between dozing and studying, too tired to think.

>Beach Music

>The roads she knew like the back of her hand. The sign post, signalling a necessary turn, blessedly flashed in her consciousness just long enough to inspire action and, just as quickly, her mind returned to her escape.
She had kept her promise to herself. One duffel, three-quarters full of denim capris and cotton t-shirts, 2 pairs of flip-flops, bras, pajamas, and swimsuits sat, solitarily, in the back seat; her only nod towards health and beauty, the twin bottles of shampoo and conditioner, suntan oil, and sunblock. A madonna-like smile of satisfaction flitted across her full lips as she thought of what she had left behind; the jewelry, the make-up, the perfume, the lap top.
Reaching towards the dash, she grasped her cellphone as yellow-painted lines measured her progress.
“Dad? I’m here.”
“Good! Pick me up across from the “Painted Fish.” His words fought for room between ragged breaths that told Randy her father was out for a walk.