A cat with cold eyes

She spent her Sunday moving furniture around the room. At the end of the day, when the two couched stood on top of each other and the bookcase was prostrated on the floor face down, she went out to a diner for a burger and a milkshake.

A bar in El Cerrito

His belly does not allow him to swing as he used to.. but he's still very quick on his feet. I myself am a little arthritic and have trouble twirling and twizzling -- at least, I can't do it very fast, but other than that we can dance the night away with all these young people here. It's really too bad they don't teach young people to dance these days: none of them seem to know what to do on the dance floor. Yet they always seem interested and try to pick up a thing or two from Joe and me. We've given a number of impromptu dance lessons right here at this bar. We really enjoy coming down here on Saturday nights. It's not as crowded as you'd think it might be, and there's this back room with the dance floor. Sometimes, they'll have somebody playing the piano, that's always pleasant. They play music for younger people, too. They even got a disco ball! And a couple of times a months -- like tonight -- they'll take out a karaoke machine: that's our favorite. I love it when Joe sings Elvis songs. You know, Joe and he were born the same year. If Elvis didn't die, he would've been 73 today. "Are you lonesome tonight?" -- that's my favorite. Joe sang it during our wedding, it was quite memorable.

My body as a battleground

I have sipped the water, I have smelled the flowers
and now a slithering worm has seized my intestines
and demands nourishment, and desires power.
I want more! much more!

Petite Basque

She loved to shop for cheese. There were three select little stores within ten block radius from each other -- each with an overwhelming cheese presence -- where she did a bulk of her shopping. Perhaps, the opening of that third shop, just three blocks south down Market Street from her apartment building, triggered the onset of her passion. Their cheese section was located in the front of the store and included three separate refrigerating displays and plenty of samples. It is also possible that her love affair with cheese was accidentally brokered by a newspaper one day when she was taking the MUNI to her dentist appointment downtown and picked up a Wine and Cheese section a kind soul had left behind. Cheese was a weekly feature: a new volunteer described in minute detail from rind to aftertaste every Friday. She would always remember the name of the hero who compromised her cheese virginity: Petite Basque. At $17 a pound, it was not a cheese she could easily afford. It took her almost three weeks to find it in the neighborhood stores and then another two to build up the courage to buy. The world had never held so much potential for her until that moment.

Rooftop garden

Somebody had a brilliant idea of remodelling the roof of our office building to house a deck and a community garden of sorts. No sunbathing at the office of course, but the whole building dreamt of taking their lunches underneath the shady lemon trees in the summer. So the management company went for it. Spent a few million dollars. Invested in the land, so to speak. And at the end of the day leased the place to an overpriced restaurant with a horrible kitchen that installed five tables between three cacti and dressed up the waiters in penguin suits. The executives lunched there three or four times before it went out of business and got boarded up and sealed off for months. Literally: there is a wax seal on the door. Who knows, maybe somebody got brutally murdered up there or something. Not like I've ever set eyes on the place, and I've been at the company for 12 years this month.

Help!

Mrs. Fish was going to report dangerous levels of carbon monoxide emanating from the burst pipe in the kitchen, but she did not get a chance to voice her concerns. Mrs. Fish's landlady was away on vacation and her roommate Eva hung up the phone. Mrs. Fish took a deep breath and prepared to die.

At the gym

And what's up with these women who come to the gym to chat? Blah-blah-blah is all they do here! Yelling at the top of their voices, as if they are on the beach or something. "Have you seen Pan's Labyrinth?" "Yes, didn't you just hate the end?" Assholes. I couldn't just take their selfish behavior anymore, so I went over there and told them to shut up. I mean, I had just rented this movie and was planning to watch it in the evening. But what do they care? "It's the saddest thing I've ever seen," she said. I guess I gotta go by the video store again on my way home.

True story

The fish jumped out of the water and hit the woman on the head. The woman fell down on the bottom of the boat and died at impact. At the very same time her ex-husband, his second wife, and their two fat little children were at Target buying 4 boxes of Chocolate-Covered Cherry Diet Dr. Pepper and stealing plastic bags by the dozen. The fish died too.

Ironing

She believed that ironing was an important job that had to be done every day, rain or shine. Every article of clothing on her own body, from underwear to hair ribbons was adeptly pressed the night before. Indeed, standing in front of her tall board and gliding the steaming machine over the obedient cloth, she pretended doing the same to the tissues of her very body -- and by the sheer power of imagination, her skin remained smooth and wrinkle free deep into her old age.

Lightning

I have read once about a man who got struck by lightning and subsequently developed a preference for piano music. Today something very similar happened to me. I suffered through a terrible nightmare in the night and then woke up with an insatiable craving for boiled carrots.

391

Having spent two hours on the bus, we were completely exhausted. We had been driven past the candy factory, the golf course, Joy's old high school, and the badminton club. Altogether we had traversed eleven towns, of which seven greeted us with the ever so yellow McDonald's arches and five welcomed with the open doors of the shopping malls. Having survived this educational experience, we were determined to find Ricky at all costs. First we went to his father's house, then to his mother's, then we stopped by his mother's mother's house next door, then we went to his gym, then we went to Sven's diner. When we didn't find him there, we ordered a couple of burgers and quizzed Sven as to when he had seen Ricky last. Sven thought Ricky went to the city earlier in the afternoon, after work. Was he driving? No, he took the bus. What happened to his car? Ricky's got a car? Joy turned to me. No car? No car, nodded Sven. A busboy can't afford a car. A busboy? Joy raised her eyebrows. He's your friend! I reminded her. So we went back to the city. On the long ride home, we sat in the jolty back of the deserted bus, Joy sleeping on my lap, while I leaned on her shoulder. I watched her sleep and played Solitaire. Later she discovered that she had lost her cellphone to this adventure. She swears that the bus driver stole it while we slept.

Minimum of nine people and a horse

The German-language books on the sidewalk were infested with slugs -- the same ones that had eaten my dill and parsley plants earlier in the winter. The slugs crawled all over the ancient typeface in which "S" and "f" indistinguishably from each other form fences of lances and flags. Still, I was able to read the remains traced by the slug: "Die Stadt mit ihren Türmen . . . Wo ich das Liebste verlor." I knew the poem by heart. So I reached into my back pocket for a box of matches, and set the whole thing on fire, the slug, the city, and all.

Smoker

I was sitting outside with the smokers. My eyes were watering and my throat was itching because of the cat I had stroked earlier that evening. "Kiss me" she said flicking the ash off her cigarette. We were all drunk and I knew she was joking. She stared at me but my eyes were full of tears.

***

She wasn't even sure if he was a good actor. In fact, she was quite sure he wasn't. Yet, every night he had a show, she'd take the bus to the little dingy theatre downtown, get a cheap seat somewhere in the back and watch him be somebody else for an hour or two through her ivory opera glass. After every show, she wrote him a letter. He usually got these letters within a day or two. The plain envelopes came accompanied by elaborate bouquets of yellow and orange flowers through the usher ladies or through the ticket office or even with the help of his sister who was a friend of her friend. The letters were very kind and contained keen analysis of his every move, and he actually relied on them heavily when learning a new role.

Eyelash work

To anybody who complemented her on her eyelashes, she would always explain that they weren't real (as if anybody could ever doubt the origin of those yard-long blue and purple creations); she freely gave out the address of the studio where she got hers done, always adding a disclaimer: pricey lash creations came with a daily maintenance routine, which didn't prevent them from falling out like bandits. She had to sleep with a special lash-pillow every night, and sex was made complicated by two related circumstances: the tender hairs could not withstand contact with any human flesh, and any sweating ruined their texture not unlike that of the expensive sweaters. Was it worth it? She didn't doubt it. At least not out loud. One does not get her eyelashes done and then cry over it. The one immediate benefit, she felt, was having a great excuse for not wearing the ugly salad-green blouse her sister gave her for Christmas. "It simply doesn't match my lashes right now," she sighed opening and closing her eyes for better viewing. Her sister was very interested and wrote down the address of the studio.

Lamptingtones

Sometimes, the most desperately needed stories are the ones that have already been written. It's healthy to know, for example, about that restaurant at the edge of the universe. I wonder if they serve Lamingtones there? I also wonder why I keep wanting to call them Lampingtones.

Dandelions

There was a particular tree on the side of road, and every time they passed it, he thought, the summer starts here. It stood alone, in the middle of an open space that stretched into some distance all around it, but the dark blue line of forest lined the horizon. The open wilderness was overgrown with grass and sprinkled with dandelions. And the dandelions were summer.

Tragedy

She offered; I refused. More so, she was available -- I didn't offer.

An actress

She is a breathtaking actress; she can live any role she chooses. Today, she is a laydee: right pinky upturned as she picks up her cup of tea; small gesture to straighten the hem of her skirt over her knees; a slight wave of the hair indicating impatience: her date is obviously late. I watch her from behind the counter and make impossible mistakes counting change. Perhaps, tonight her date won't show up. What is she gonna do then? She throws a barely perceptible glance toward the clock on the side wall: if I had as much as blinked, I would've missed it. A customer wants pie, a piece of cherry pie and don't forget the whip cream, what a nuisance. It's 7:07 pm already. What is gonna do if he doesn't show? Most of the time, they show. She -- what an actress. In just the time it takes to squirt out a whip cream cloud (Hey, Stop, That's Enough!), she has transformed herself into a student. She is not waiting around for anybody -- she's got books piled up on the table, pencil in hand, strand of hair in her mouth; she is studying. Even her skirt somehow has lost its luster once she tucks one foot underneath her butt and sits on it: uncomfortable but attentive.

Space sickness

The man lifted the hem of his left pant leg a few inches up and scratched his ankle right above the bunched up top of his plain white sock. I was sitting so close I could see the goosebumps on the skin of his hairy ankle; I watched his nails leave the deep white tracks behind them; I observed that the color of the skin at the tips of his fingers flattened by the nails was pinkish-brown. I wished I were in space again: nothing could disturb me there so much. Sitting on the floor of this tiny windowless room, behind this man with stubby fingers and a meaty ankle, I wanted to cry out with my longing for space. "The ultimate cure for space disease," the doctor was saying into her microphone, "is relaxation. Finding as much space within one's own self as there is out there." She made a vague gesture towards the low hanging ceiling of the basement cubicle. I felt tears running down my cheeks. I did not want to be cured. I wanted to be in space again.

Keyhole

When Guy returned after work on Tuesday night to the apartment he had been sharing with his sister Elle and inserted his key into the hole of the deadbolt, the door cried out in pain. Remaining calm despite the alarming sound, Guy opened the door and found his sister wrapped up in green and orange shawl sitting on the floor of the hallway in front of him. "Quickly, lock the door," she demanded; and as soon as he complied, she motioned him to move away and leaned forward to place her left eye over the hole. "What are you staring at?" Guy inquired but received only an impatient shrug of the shoulders in lieu of an answer. "Can you just tell me what you're staring at?" he asked again. "Go away, go away, I can't talk right now," she said without moving her head an inch and waved him off with the back of her hand. Guy dropped off his briefcase in their shared office, and then went on to the kitchen to fix himself dinner. "Are you hungry?" he yelled into the hall with an effort of good humor but received no answer. The kitchen was in complete disarray. All the drawers were open, pots and pans piled up on the floor, silverware all over the counters and the sink. Elle's camera stood on the stove, on top of the front right burner, as if preparing for a ritual burning and at the same time observing the mess. Guy rescued it from the stove and, after a brief hesitation, proceeded to put away everything else, too. When he was done, he put together a peanut butter sandwich and went to check on Elle again. "Do you want dinner?" he asked again entering the dark hall. There was no answer, and in another moment he saw that she was gone. The crazy floral shawl she had been wearing was lying in front of the door, right were she had been sitting, but there was no body inside. "Elle, Elle!" he cried. But the house was empty. She was gone, as if had seeped through the keyhole.

Fish telephone

The fish swam up to the glass and then turned, sharply. Another endless ring in the loudspeaker of Eva's telephone hung despairingly in the air. The fish swam to the other end of her bowl, then came back, button eyes magnified by the optics of the glass and water. The phone rang again. The fish made a U-turn. Eva noticed that a reflection of the telephone lived in the fishbowl. As if the fish was swimming around the telephone, listening to the rings and expecting an answer. "Speaking. Who is this?" "This is Mrs. Fish. We haven't actually met, but a friend of mine is a great admirer.." "Do you know what time it is, Mrs. Fish?" "Time?" "It's half past 2 am! People are generally asleep at this hour." "Are they? Well, I'm sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to tell you that --" "You'll have to excuse me. Please call back another time, Mrs. Fish." "Call back? That would be extremely difficult." "Good night, Mrs. Fish." "Fine. Good night. Thanks for nothing. Anyway, I don't see what she finds in you. Toodooloo!" Fish bubbled away again. What an entirely ridiculous conversation. They didn't have anything to say to each other. Eva stared into her eyes in the bowl. "Toodooloo."

Silence

The middle of the night crept in quietly and settled on the couch beside me. I had some cheese and ham sandwiches, so I shared. We sat side by side chewing in silence and waited to see what happened.

The promise

There was no innocence in nature but such an open and aggressive seductiveness that I shied away with a blush and a giggle. The smooth sandy beech on the foreground radiated well-being, invited me to strip and to partake of the light it reflected so efficiently; the wet, dark forest of the background lured me to get lost -- to lose myself -- in its depths, to forget that I had ever existed elsewhere -- else where? There were berries and mushrooms, nuts and fruit; the lake was full of fish, and the beach complete with firewood. And there was I -- pink, naked, infatuated, on the threshold of -- no, I would never leave. Oh yes, I would never leave. Never leave.

Shopping

How do girls pick out their clothes? she wondered. She had a pair of jeans that she would wear for weeks on end, washing them once in a while, but even so eventually they sprung holes here and there, which she patched faithfully for a while until they weren't jeans anymore, and then once she fell down on the street and tore a huge gap at the knee, and when she tried to repair it -- well, the pants became shorts and then she had to go out and look for the new something to wear on the foggy days. She had to go out and look -- but the weather took a turn for the better, it was sunny and warm most of the time, and she was really getting used to feeling the breeze around her ankles. So the trip to the store got postponed and delayed and the more she thought about it the less urgent it seemed. She did ask one girl for advice -- a clerk at a doctor's office -- and the girl was friendly and everything but she herself was wearing a skirt, and wasn't a skirt such a good idea? Not to be melodramatic, but that's the way it went. She talked to a couple of random people, did a lot of shop-window gazing, and then picked up a new pair "on the street" -- whatever that means. Hopefully, it means a garage sale, but knowing her it might just as well be a pair of pants left behind by some homeless dude. Those brown baggy corduroy pants definitely look like they've been around the block any number of times, that's for sure.