She slid off the counter and in front of her mirror began applying my lip gloss to her beautiful, wide mouth with its curling, upper lip that now looked like a beckoning finger. She wore a sly expression, watching me watch her. She placed the tube of lotion I had given her with her pile of things. I didn’t say anything. I was unsure what tone to take.
Plus, there was something so unexpectedly exciting about being together that we wanted to explore it without everybody watching. So we kept it quiet and, as I say, for two months, we'd been going strong.
'Have you seen a doctor?' I pointed at her hand. Girija shook her head. 'Ratni brought some herb oil from the village. She applies it for me every day.' The thick, green-brown fluid in the re-used Old Monk bottle near the stove looked foul.
The other part is that he’s such a fucking terrible imposter. In life, Ingrid Lynn was a poet, so she thinks in terms of metaphors. She can say that he dances without grace and inflects the letter r in a way that conflates meaning. She says his eyes are dead. She says he gets whole stanzas wrong. She says he’s an automaton.
By protocol, he should have called security. But Andy ran down the utility stairs instead to stop her rattling the door, her feet planted apart. A flash of white showed up her shorts, her legs spread to pull the door handle, before she straightened to wave him down.
Tiny knew lots of people like Francine. Some people could talk forever telling all they knew, trying to get out what was wrong with them. But it wasn’t her problem. The ones that looked vulnerable were everyone else. They all looked like porcelain thems. Like they were fixing to break.
“You want to meet my boys?” said the bearded guy. He turned toward the parking lot. “Peter, Paul, get over here!” he called out. Two doors opened to a maroon minivan with a bumper sticker on the front saying, “I Kick-Box for Jesus.” The heavyset boys stumbled out, soda cans in hand. They pointed and snorted at the Icelanders and their unusual clothing choices.
Chet pulled off in the parking lot of a water filtration plant, or a building that looked like a filtration plant, so that I could pee and so that we could resolve the speakers’ fade issue finally. While I was urinating into a snowbank next to the car, I heard a few enthusiastic “Yeahs” come from the car.
The wind rushing in through the windows blows our long hair into our faces. It’ll be tangled when we get home but we feel too good to care. We’ve been out dancing at a club in Hollywood. Used our fake IDs to get in. Mine says I’m from Florida. The bouncer knows they’re fake but he lets us in anyway.
What could they do but fake submission, returning to their fields, scolding their children’s sloppy arithmetic, scissoring dried squid, fanning themselves under absolute skies while waiting for their husbands to return from the gambling room, all the while trying to ignore the newcomer, her out-of-place face and the shovel like a third leg.
I had no idea what she meant by this. A dim memory of the drunken night in grad school when I asked Whitney to rub my shoulders, eliciting a nervous expression on her face after she squeezed the back of my neck a couple times, flickered at the edges of my mind. Had I creeped her out somehow? “Why was she scared of me?”
The Riviera descended the dark mill hill and in its lights were geese waddling out of the way, some hissing, wings spread, waddling quickly, and we pulled into the mill parking lot. “What the fuck?” said James, stopping the car.
I don’t know if I ever expected them to come back, but the night was long and loud and to this day, let me tell you, I can still see our mother exactly the way she was the next morning as she unfastened our seatbelts: her eyes bloated into garnets as she squeezed us both to her chest, asked if we were hungry—a new shade of lipstick on her that I have never seen since.
Hello. Excuse. Excuse me. Do you have bourbon? I don’t know what kind. What does the bottle look like? Let me see. Let me see. Oh, anything. What is the rocks?
She slid off the counter and in front of her mirror began applying my lip gloss to her beautiful, wide mouth with its curling, upper lip that now looked like a beckoning finger. She wore a sly expression, watching me watch her. She placed the tube of lotion I had given her with her pile of things. I didn’t say anything. I was unsure what tone to take.
Plus, there was something so unexpectedly exciting about being together that we wanted to explore it without everybody watching. So we kept it quiet and, as I say, for two months, we'd been going strong.
'Have you seen a doctor?' I pointed at her hand. Girija shook her head. 'Ratni brought some herb oil from the village. She applies it for me every day.' The thick, green-brown fluid in the re-used Old Monk bottle near the stove looked foul.
The other part is that he’s such a fucking terrible imposter. In life, Ingrid Lynn was a poet, so she thinks in terms of metaphors. She can say that he dances without grace and inflects the letter r in a way that conflates meaning. She says his eyes are dead. She says he gets whole stanzas wrong. She says he’s an automaton.
By protocol, he should have called security. But Andy ran down the utility stairs instead to stop her rattling the door, her feet planted apart. A flash of white showed up her shorts, her legs spread to pull the door handle, before she straightened to wave him down.
Tiny knew lots of people like Francine. Some people could talk forever telling all they knew, trying to get out what was wrong with them. But it wasn’t her problem. The ones that looked vulnerable were everyone else. They all looked like porcelain thems. Like they were fixing to break.
“You want to meet my boys?” said the bearded guy. He turned toward the parking lot. “Peter, Paul, get over here!” he called out. Two doors opened to a maroon minivan with a bumper sticker on the front saying, “I Kick-Box for Jesus.” The heavyset boys stumbled out, soda cans in hand. They pointed and snorted at the Icelanders and their unusual clothing choices.
Chet pulled off in the parking lot of a water filtration plant, or a building that looked like a filtration plant, so that I could pee and so that we could resolve the speakers’ fade issue finally. While I was urinating into a snowbank next to the car, I heard a few enthusiastic “Yeahs” come from the car.
The wind rushing in through the windows blows our long hair into our faces. It’ll be tangled when we get home but we feel too good to care. We’ve been out dancing at a club in Hollywood. Used our fake IDs to get in. Mine says I’m from Florida. The bouncer knows they’re fake but he lets us in anyway.
What could they do but fake submission, returning to their fields, scolding their children’s sloppy arithmetic, scissoring dried squid, fanning themselves under absolute skies while waiting for their husbands to return from the gambling room, all the while trying to ignore the newcomer, her out-of-place face and the shovel like a third leg.
I had no idea what she meant by this. A dim memory of the drunken night in grad school when I asked Whitney to rub my shoulders, eliciting a nervous expression on her face after she squeezed the back of my neck a couple times, flickered at the edges of my mind. Had I creeped her out somehow? “Why was she scared of me?”
The Riviera descended the dark mill hill and in its lights were geese waddling out of the way, some hissing, wings spread, waddling quickly, and we pulled into the mill parking lot. “What the fuck?” said James, stopping the car.
I don’t know if I ever expected them to come back, but the night was long and loud and to this day, let me tell you, I can still see our mother exactly the way she was the next morning as she unfastened our seatbelts: her eyes bloated into garnets as she squeezed us both to her chest, asked if we were hungry—a new shade of lipstick on her that I have never seen since.
Hello. Excuse. Excuse me. Do you have bourbon? I don’t know what kind. What does the bottle look like? Let me see. Let me see. Oh, anything. What is the rocks?