010 the juggler | spring 2010
to fill everything in that she needs to know. I was born in Illinois. I went to Mexico in college. I have a Labrador Retriever named Woody. I like horror movies. When I tell her my parents split up when I was younger, she looks sweet and sympathetic and brushes the back of my hand with her fingers. The hair on the back of my arm sticks up. Roses again, and something sugary. I won’t see her again. The phone number she has will never reach me. The website won’t ever be checked again. She lives by herself. It’s a small apartment, filled with books like you would expect a librarian’s home to be. Between deep and feverish kisses I catch a glimpse of her refrigerator, covered with the scrawling of adoring children. Her bed is just as soft as her fingers on my hand in the restaurant.
She’s lost all interest now, just as I knew she would. The last wisps of her perfume smell cheap. Asleep in her bed, she looks as she did in her pictures— blank, not peaceful, not smiling softly. Her hair is duller now. Her skin is pale. Her lips are thin. My clothes are on the floor, right where we left them. I’m silently thankful the floor doesn’t creak, and the front door doesn’t click when I shut it, so she sleeps on. She’ll wake up sometime. The sun is out, and its heat on my face is relaxing as I do my best to get my hair to lie down. I fumble in my pocket for a cigarette and remember that I didn’t bring any with me to the dinner date. She was, after all, looking for a non-smoker. People are just starting their day, just filing into breakfast diners and small shops and newspaper sellers. I head into a shop and buy some cigarettes. With each greedy draw of the smoke, I feel more and more refreshed. And to tell you the truth, as I walk up the street, I don’t even remember her name.
Tomorrow is Saturday. There is no rising early to see to the children.
karen-o oil painting by Colin Hofman
colin hofman
is a senior design major that spends his meager earnings on concert tickets and forties.