and dreaming eyes of wonder! [mina]

[Noir City]

The cat is pure swank, the embodied river that slides between unopened bills against a vase and a mug full of loose change. She blinks with sleepy ease at Mina, a lukewarm beam between her fingertips, fur lost in the war of affection. Baby's purr is an announcement, whiskers twitching, like a calm bedtime story across her palm. This exchange of unspoken words, this simple communication between owner and cat goes on for some time. It's the best ten minutes of Mina's day, when she gets home from work a little after five, forgetting all about her car keys balled up in a sweaty right fist.

She sighs, partially unaffected by the ring of the phone, and pats Baby on the head before sliding her pumps off, massaging her heel while the machine picks up. Probably just a telemarketer, those bastards call until nine-thirty at night. They call at eight o'clock on Sunday morning, for fuck's sake. And on top of that, the blisters never subside. Her feet are like lead on the staircase, slow like a Portishead electronic beat, and she's sure that she ate every trace of lipstick on her drive home as she catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror. The rail is just a prop in her step, and as she makes it to the top, she hears the last of her husband's voice in the machine before he hangs up.

She pours herself a generous glass of wine before pressing play. Baby is rubbing her cheekbones against Mina's ankles, her purring becoming more insistent, desperate. Baby immediately disappeared underneath the tablecloth as his voice rings in the clean air. "Don't bother making dinner, I've got somewhere to go. Work-related." An arrogant pause. "You don't have to stay up." She's once again unaffected, pulling the defrosted chicken out of the sink and it's plastic wrap. She decides to cook dinner even though she really only cooks for him. Cutting strips of rawness into thirds, too exhausted to think about salmonella, preheating the pan.

This is life. Pouring herself a second glass over the disappearing first, wondering if there is half a yellow onion in the refrigerator. Coaxed the light on to a romantic dimness for no better of a reason than that she felt a migraine coming on. Stirring long grain rice with olive oil. This is life. Making a mental note to dust the blinds as she draws them up, barely having any time to soak up twilight as it inches it's way down the horizon before having to pour a quart of chicken stock and the roar of rice consumes the kitchen. This is life as Mina Andreis.

<center></center>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ August 23, 2006 04:42 PM: Message edited by: a xxxholic's affair. ]</font>

[Noir City]

We're lost in the separation of blacks and white and colors, in emptying the dishwasher, in the mundane things we do on Saturday mornings. But today is different. I run, run as far as I can down narrow path that traces the shadows of a reservoir, and I try to remain blank. But there's always that point -- that horrifying breaking of truth -- and I know it, I can feel it in the uncried tears, I'm more than this. I'm more than his wife, more than an accountant, more than this nearly thirty year old body spent on his sucker love. I'm a blur of shattered atoms through pine trees, and I am spinning under blue blotted skies. The other runners have passed me, palms on my knees, and I vomit and I cry, because I can't help but get emotional when my insides are hitting oxygen.

He finds me. He always finds me. And this time it's in the backyard, in the space behind the fence where the trash bins sleep. "I thought you quit," he says it without a judgment. I shrug, standing in this awkward standstill, the windless wisps of smoke swaying around me. He's got a sorry look on his face, and he kisses my cheek, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. It's damp, and I don't want to soften out of stubbornness. He begins to walk away, and his head turns enough for me to see his profile. I don't examine it for long, my hand resting against where my kidney is. And he says something that he thinks I want to hear, but the truth is, I want to slap him across the face. Hard.

I fish the invitations out from the trash under the sink, apparently one of his more insensitive reactions to one of my suggestions. He's talking quietly in the den, and I catch "--throwing Mina a birthday bash at --" in Spanish, and I shake my head, and I wonder if it had been really his idea, whether I would have still been thinking about how much of my life I could fit in one suitcase, how much of me I could manage to slip away in the middle of the night. There's no point in getting too excited as I fold the clean laundry, piling it back in the basket, feeling unsolved and blank.

[Noir City]

Every thread of gardenia and leaf had a purpose before it dreamt against her body, these wondrous sheets that are her synthetic drug. They don't sleep angry on the third floor. She's quiet, in the crook of his arm. He's turning the television on sleep for sixty, and ultimately settles for ninety minutes; she was reading before the pages began to unwind into themselves like broken seams. Her wings shimmer stuck from humid exhaustion, the clock's hands almost aligned at it's most ominous northern point. They will sleep the first cold rhythmic hours of this day away.

"Ramses the second," she murmurs in a lengthy yawn, a declaration for Thursday nights. Before the book's jaw snaps closed, Alejandro takes it from her, lets it retire on his bedside table. He holds her close, and he knows this isn't a good time to bring up anything as serious as an inquiry about her father who is in the hospital, or the job offer he got this morning that would relocate them to Los Angeles. But all of this comes with a heavy price.

"Who else." He's gentle with his little bird, cradling her until she voluntarily cuddles her pillow, eyes so beautifully shut. She's like water washing up on the shore, at the edge of the mattress, drawn back into the sea of his empty arms. Baby is nestled in the pile of clothing on a chair, purring like static.

"Marilyn Monroe." Sometimes it's like this; lukewarm affection peeking out from the tired folds of marriage, a small window where you can see the entire city's lights hum through the fog. Sometimes it's there, when they aren't looking for it.

"Another." He wants to move the hair that's creeping across her cheek, and he wishes she still believed in him. Still looked at him like he was someone. But it's worthless dreaming, and he'll think differently when he's had his cup of coffee.

"Jack the Ripper." They're discussing famous left-handers again, a particular interest for the two who love that quality in each other.

"Good one."

The grooved knob snaps left, and light bulb gives without a warning, and there isn't much of a struggle before both of them are gone to the one place they peacefully share together.

[Noir City]

"Have you forgotten how to smile?"

"I only know how to hold it long enough for a photograph."

"There was a time when--"

"When you actually cared long enough to ask how my day was?"

"That wasn't what I was trying--"

"No. What you're trying to say is something I'm not interested in hearing."

"You're so damn quick at--"

"Cutting you off?"

"Yes. When all I'm trying to ask is for a little cooperation. It's our fifth year anniversary. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" She almost has the nerve to mock him like a five year old, but suppresses it for the sake of the concern on their waiter's face as he's bringing over the bottle of champagne that Alejandro requested. Luckily, he didn't take long to part.

"If you've been expecting normalcy tonight, you're mistaken." She's almost frighteningly calm, blotting her pucker. A passing couple catches her eye before she lets that icy gaze sit on Alejandro again.

"Mina, please." He's exasperated. Another anniversary marked in the calendar, another dozen of red roses sent to her office as some sort of sick front for the world to see.

She drops the napkin in her lap, fakes a perfect five-second smile, and it's so convincing, Alejandro relaxes, the lines in his face become slacken, and for one moment they've completely fooled each other.

Typical.

She's dreaming about the sea scallops that should be arriving any moment. When all else has failed in a relationship, you can always expect the food to at least satiate some part of you. And for Mina and Alejandro, it meant that all the focus could be on the gobbling and gabbing about various cuisines, instead of wasting energy on arguing (or in a mina specific case, boring and predictable sex).

"So. What dessert are you going to order?"

"Most likely the bread pudding, it was so--"

"Delicious last time? I know. And the raspberries were so sweet."

"And finished off with the white chocolate art on the plate? Sensational."

It was no wonder that both of them had packed on ten pounds in the past year.

[Noir City]

Thank God there wasn't any cheese (i.e. multicolored happy birthday garnish strung on the walls, noisemakers and other ridiculous birthday paraphernalia) at Muse; just Mina, the sweet pollen in the blossom of what seemed like a hundred or two patrons, only a third of who Mina was somewhat familiar with, and less than one percent in which she was willing to carry on a three minute plus conversation with. Take Lucas Cortez, for instance. Complete ideal conversationalist if you happen to get stuck in a bathroom traffic jam or something equally as undesirable. He also happens to be her best gay friend (doesn't every American woman deserve one? They're like the timeless Birkin bag), the beautiful man caught between a transsexual and a drunk redneck.

Mina, on the other hand, was sitting on a stool, sipping up a Mai Tai through a straw, looking almost too delicious to be alone and bored. She's pink, she's midnight, she's spaceship out of this world lovely, she's heartbeat sorrow, she's satin silk bloody Egyptian cotton sweet. She's got a pin drop of subtle animosity, skeleton key complication, and she is a trumpet of grief, of wonder. No one loves Tylenol PM like she does, loves magnolias like she does.

And above all else, Mina happened to be the least of worries for Alejandro who was talking business with a couple colleagues at the southern end of the bar, or the couple unknown to Mina. Although she lacked the knowledge that they had names, they were introduced to Alejandro a couple years ago as Darlene and Frederico Portillo. Mid-thirties, both with Gin and Tonics in their hands, intoxicated by conversation.

"Have you met her before?" Darlene is chirping about Mina, of course. Darlene has been revived by taffeta, bronze eyeshadow, and a water bra. She has awkward bottle black locks tied up in a knot, and she had already gotten a half dozen or so compliments on the diamond earrings that Frederico bought her from Tiffany's. Surely she was a woman who took compliments very well.

"Not formally." Frederico didn't seem too interested, except for maybe to see what was under Mina's dress. He was tall and looked older than his age by at least ten years due his premature balding. He was a well-known pervert, voicing inappropriate opinions to various women at his work place, at restaurants, really just about anywhere and everywhere he could get away with.

"Poor thing. And to think we were invited to her party." Faux sympathy. Darlene cocked her head to the side, allowing Frederico to light her cigarette. A nod of appreciation.

"I don't think she really has any friends. Maybe you should go over there and introduce yourself." And if she wasn't, Frederico was willing to go over there and greet the Birthday girl properly (with a cheap feel).

"I'm not drunk enough. And besides, I don't need another girlfriend. I can barely keep track of ones I've got. Did I tell you how Jennifer and Bill got into this huge fight over waffles?"

"I think so." They both nodded to each other, in silent agreement about the outcome of Jennifer and Bill's argument. Frederico returned back to their previous discussion. "You know, Andreis himself told me she wanted to have this... soir?e." It was assumed that Alejandro had gone through his Rolodex and invited all of his colleagues for the sake of pleasing his wife with a party.

"I can't imagine why. I've never seen a birthday girl look so miserable."

And right then, Frederico's strawberry blonde buxom coworker, joined in our their conversation. "Girl? She's hit the big devastating three-oh." Mindy Stone was pushing thirty-six, and had already been married twice (both to respectable lawyers). Nursing her sneer with a margarita, she kissed Darlene on both cheeks.

"That's right." Darlene thoughtfully bit down on her lower lip while scanning Mina up and down. "She better hurry up and start popping out the kids." According to her, women were waiting too long to start a family. Why, Frederico and her had Frederico Jr. when she was twenty-four.

Her husband was waving some colleagues over, obviously pushed out of this conversation by two gossiping females.

"I heard she's barren," murmured Mindy through a smile directed at some passing acquaintances. Mindy sure loved sharing a big secret.

A mild gasp. "No! ... Who told you that?"

"Do you remember Portia?"

"Sure."

"Well, her sister works at the fertility clinic on the corner of Jackson and Forty-fifth."

"Really..."

"And according to her, which this is a hugely confidential issue..."

"Of course."

"She won't be having any of his kids anytime soon."

"Alejandro must be devastated."

"Well, if he needs to have a love child, I'm available. I love Argentines."

They both laughed.

<center>

Well, birthdays are merely symbolic of how another year
has gone by and how little we've grown. No matter how desperate
we are that someday a better self will emerge, with each
flicker of the candles on the cake, we know it's not to be,
that for the rest of our sad, wretched pathetic lives,
this is who we are to the bitter end, inevitably, irrevocably;
happy birthday? No such thing.

</center>

[ j. seinfeld ]

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ September 12, 2006 03:01 PM: Message edited by: the xxxholic's affair. ]</font>

[Noir City]

"He's a Colombiano," he whispers hotly into her ear.

Mina twists her head slightly, eyes never leaving Valen in song. "Who?"

"Your friend."

Her arms cross over her chest, not trusting where this is going. "We just met."

"Where did you two go?"

"What?"

"I'm not blind."

"Really, Ale..."

"Don't think that just because it's your birthday, that I'll overlook it."

Surprise. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Threat. "Just don't forget what that ring on your finger symbolizes."

"Yeah, it's one big beware of husband sign. Warning! Psycho husband will hunt you down will every hello." Mina gravitates closer to the bar, a favorable six inches away from him. It seemed like most of her party had either disappeared or magnetized toward the stage. "How could I ever forget." Mina was drunk. Brave and animated. On the verge of throwing her head back, peeling out hollow laughter. But she didn't. No. She smirked. Challenging. Stubborn. Pissed off.

Underestimated. "Is that what you really think."

Careless. "It doesn't matter."

"I love you."

"Don't just say it to say it."

"I'm not."

"If you loved me, you would've come over here and said 'Happy Birthday, Mina, I hope today was all you could have ever wanted'. That would've been more appropriate."

Apologetic. "Happy Bir--"

Seething. "Fuck off."

Alejandro's fingerprints hissed against her forearm, sweaty digits clamped, forceful through the dizzy crowd and this was all a dream. She could barely squeeze out "Let go. It hurts." Her last glance of Valen, his eyes closed, strumming, singing, the most beautiful silhouette of her birthday fading fading quickly. Her head hung low, her husband making all the necessary and perfect excuses, and she was nearly thrown off her balance as she was urged into the passenger seat of his Mercedes. Tinted windows blocked her slow tears. Alejandro threw her purse and coat in the backseat, and started the engine.

Gray. "I didn't even blow out any candles."

"What?"

"My cake."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"But that one was a mango--"

Rabid. "I'll buy you a fucking new one. Now shut up, you're giving me a headache."


Eight days later.

It's a cool evening for September as she clutches the mail, thinks about leaving her bag at the foot of the staircase but takes it along for the ride anyway, wondering what hour it was. Six, seven, maybe seven-thirty. The daylight is heavy, a wintry shade that only makes her sigh as she makes the climb. The click of the answering machine, she's got two messages.

"Mina! It's Lucas. So Cameron calls me with some absurd allegations. And I was thinking... we should go to Muse again. It appears they're going to have a great lineup this Friday." She's pouring her early evening glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, not even inhaling it's vibrant redness before it bleeds down her throat.

She kicks off her pumps by a wooden chair. Rubs the faded bruise on her wrist.

Beep.

"It's me." And by me, he means her husband. She's emotionless, digging into her bag for the three envelopes of Birthday pictures she had picked up at the twenty-four hour photo shop two blocks away from her work.

"I've got a really important client that is demanding we meet for dinner." She quickly flips through several photos before she draws back to the previous.

"I won't be home until late. Don't stay up." She isn't even bothered by his estranged message, the one that practically a tenant in her answering machine. No. She's not bothered, staring closer at the photo of Alejandro, his sister Maria, and herself. Closer, until their false grins are irrelevant, and she can see the iridescent blur of Valen's profile, the spotlight casting it's love against his working fingertips.

She polishes off her wine with a secret smile, and then it disappears as it's lost once again in the folds of photographs, and she retrieves the defrosted chicken from the refrigerator.

[Noir City]

Her fingers shiver over the ridge, reading him like Chuck Palaniuk,

like Kurt Vonnegut (downright wolfish for the adjectives,

the venom and laughter of sentence structure panned out

like Miles Davis and Massanez Calvados Vieux)

in Braille, slowwww.... caustically painfully slow, melting over the grace

of his collarbone.

He whispers in her ear, and her teeth sink into the lifeline

of his neck. A throb, a sighhhh.

Riding backwards, forwards, sideways. It's after-hours.

They're in an orchard

of manila folders, crunched numbers, and he draws her

wrist over her head, and you can't call something this

good anything but... "Fuck me, fuck me." Her moan, her

desire a mere spell, and he covers her mouth with his hand,

and it only takes her deeper into the rabbit hole.

Rapture, Gratification, Intoxication --- No, fucking exponentially electric,

licked, whipped, minted, makes them unravel, blood surfacing quicker

than when to drown out papercuts.

A hot flux of longing and lust in the stench of

sweet meat, and he's nearly torn her apart.

It's sloppy, two hips colliding, uneven and raw,

and his phone rings.

And rings. And rings in his pocket.

He wants to cum, pushing harder, hammering into her,

until it nearly sounds like he's a murderer,

but even then, the phone rings.

And rings. And rings in his goddamn pocket.

"Sorry, sweetheart."

He flips the phone open, and he's still inside her,

like honey dripping from bark like sweet heroin like...

"What?"

slivers of a dream, inch by inch....

"Mister Andreis, I have your wife--"

She's a velvet nightmare, and...

"Mina? What about--"

he stops.

"It's important that you come to St. Luke's Hospital
as soon as possible, Mister Andreis. Mina was attacked
while driving home, and has suffered from--"

He pulls out, snaps the empty condom off.

"I'll be right there."

The phone flipped closed and he can't even think.

"Honey. Sorry, I've got to go."

He kisses Hazelle on the forehead and grabs his blazer.

"I'll send you the paperwork tomorrow morning. Believe me,
you and your husband and kids are going to love the new home!"