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<center>http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...5494681/995784</center>
The tree branches were brittle, like a bouquet of syringes towering over gloomy crowds. Everyone was moving upstream for the winter, the last of the Christmas lights resigned in their designated cardboard boxes. Red and green cheer discontinued until next year. Generosity held off, her empty face in the rearview mirror. She was real. Nothing that exquisite could be one of my conventional nightmares. A dedicated reflection. I waste time mentally rifling and perusing that face. I waste time. "Fact number one hundred and sixty-three...." She's reading everyone's Snapple cap. "Did you know that?" She asks, but I wasn't paying attention. Her brunette friend who answers with a question, is already shaking a cigarette out from her pack of Pall Malls. Cheap two fifty cigarettes from the corner store. They smell like Jack Daniel's. They all look like they're waiting to get married, except for her. She looks like a high school senior, borrowing some powder for her nose. The third girl, I can't see, stifles a yawn. "I'm going to get lucky tonight." It's New Year's Eve, and they're talkin' about more than a midnight kiss. My wife won't even touch me anymore, and I can feel myself getting hard thinking about all three of their tongues on me. They're better than the Hustler stuffed between the seats, under special number nineteen, minuscule evidence of sweet and sour pork over rice. She's just a carbon copy smile to me, and I realize that she has no clue. The blonde girl laughs, raking her fingers through her hair, singing the verse of a song. The meter is running, we're at seventeen seventy-five, and she has no clue. She's beautiful. She should have flowers in her hair, like a brand new Go Ask Alice fantasy cut right out of the chic filth of Haight Street. I'd make a pass at her if she was alone. She tips me five bucks, I want to undress her badly, and I don't pull away from the curb until she's a blur. We made eye contact, and I should've said something other than "Be safe, kid."
I wish I knew what she was looking for.
<center>. . . . . </center>
[ rewind : part I ]
[ january, year two thousand and two ]
The city played her like a violin; the effete sun dripping buttercup over pages and pages of another sad song. A two hour gin-induced dream faded, and it was night. He gave her bus fare, the bastard with too many crowns in his mouth, with dancing sky eyes. He was an epidemic and when he closed in on her, blood cells quivered. She wants to forget the way he tastes. Forget the smell of burning vanilla wax and lubricated condoms. Forget what he told her. Everyone has a mistake they'll never forgive, a judgment in question.
The bored engine growled from the back of the bus, a rotten cough of pollution left on fourteenth street. She could see her reflection in the filth of window -- a girl who was reinventing herself with illusions of grandeur and anti-depressants. She had been in need of fine tuning and Doctor Schelley scribbled something really pretty, something that made her glow bright. It was a struggle now, a walk on slippery rocks. The serrated edge of twenty (years young) right there, right against her pulmonary vein. The valveless vein wheezing for something real. The street was a blur of ice, plains of white, sheets of snow. Midnight-blue illuminating her cheek, soft skin like rice paper. It's never graveyard quiet in this part of town, no sir.
Nausea nestled in twine like turtle doves, she felt her stomach lurch, scalding vomit ten seconds away. She shouldn't of taken the last two shots. She could still hear the sloppy way he grinded, football scores called out on the radio.
Nine. A cracker-jack-sweet kiss away.
Eight. Derailed fingerprints, stop requested. STOP.
Seven. Sweat on the nap of the neck, her tongue sticky against the pink crackle(snap.pop) of her lips. We think the worse at times like these.
Six. No one talks about her (with a doll-like smile identical to Killian's). The dead sister. The 1911 stiff in a paper bag -- you don't put bloody instruments in plastic. Good cops know better. A cold metal blast straight through the skull, the shadow of scattered shells.
Five. Victimized and assaulted. Blood pumping unreasonably, choking on the wine of life.
Four. Lung capacity collapsing, foundation giving into rubbing plates, earthquake (we can't breathe when you're around).
Three. He's a carnivore. Overweight. Half-clothed. Mid-forties. He's the sickness between her thighs. He's the sickness.
Two. The final blow, switchblade sharp.
One.
"Don't tell your mother, you hear me, Killian? With your sister gone, you don't want her stressin' out anymore than she already is. We've all got our cross to carry. We've all got a couple sins under our belts. Killian, baby, you know how to keep a secret, don't you?"
-
[ genesis : part I ]
[ november, nineteen ninety-nine, molly's pub ]
"Hey, Sweetheart, bring Frank here another -- whatcha drinkin'?" The voice was gruff, Frank didn't need to look to know who it was. Scott Clark, a banker who came from old money, had tacked him down with dangerous blue eyes like a husky. The bartender, who had very possibly had the best breasts within this zip code, responded with "a Miller comin' up" and a sneer.
"Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, you've been letting him drink that crap? Two Carlbergs." A cheerful wink thrown at the woman he had slept with two weeks prior.
"Thanks, Scott," mumbled Frank, an appreciative bow of his head.
"No problem, man."
"So, uh... I hate to ask you, but you think you can spot me... eight hundred?"
"Well, Frank. I didn't want to say anything, but we got a problem. You owe me almost five grand now, and the interest isn't low, man. By two weeks you're gonna owe somethin' like ten grand. You're becoming too much of a risk."
"Shit. You know the situation. Embezzlement is no joke. I was thinking about opening my own business. You know, work from home. I got all these ideas, an--"
"You're in too deep, man."
"I swear I'll pay you back, Scott. Every fucking penny. I'd sell my soul if I could. I'd do anything to get out of this mess. I've already gone through our savings. All of it. Marilyn doesn't know. She'd flip the fuck out."
There was a faint glint of interest in Scott's cool gaze. "You know what, I got a deal for you. It's your lucky day, buddy. Let me borrow that cute kid of yours, then we'll call it even."
"Who? Anna?"
"No, you idiot. Killian."
He hadn't changed at all. He was the same Scott that Frank knew back in college, back when beer wasn't enough. He always had an appetite for young girls. Hell, he had a reputation for sleeping with blonde jail bait, especially after getting caught fucking young Betty in the backseat of his Lexus.
"Killian? But she gotta--"
"Ass like a goddess?"
"Well, shit, don't talk about Marilyn's kids that way. She's just a little girl."
"She's what? Nineteen, twenty?"
"Just turned Eighteen a few weeks ago. She just graduated high school, remember? You were at the damn graduation, your niece is in the same class."
"Yeah, yeah. That's right. She got a scholarship didn't she?"
"Yeah. For the first year at State."
"Smart girl. I like that."
"What the hell you going to do with a girl half your age?" The coward didn't make eye contact.
"Take her out, that's what. Treat her like a princess. A few dinners, maybe a couple shows. You ever take her to see a musical?"
"Does it look like I got the money to take the family to Cats?"
"We got a deal? Hell, I'll even throw in some extra Benjamins, like an allowance everytime you bring her by."
"How am I supposed to get her to go out with you?"
"I don't care how. I ain't a monster. Tell her Uncle Scott wants to show her the finer things in life, things her Pops can't show her."
<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 22, 2006 12:58 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>
-
[ rewind : part II ]
"Here, you might as well give this to your father." Scott handed her a white envelope, zipping up his trousers and snapping his watch on.
"What's this?" Killian had just pulled her shirt over her head, puzzled. The envelope was purposely unsealed. Benjamins.
"Don't tell your mother, you hear me, Killian? With your sister gone, you don't want her stressin' out anymore than she already is. We've all got our cross to carry. We've all got a couple sins under our belts. Killian, baby, you know how to keep a secret, don't you?"
"What's going on, Scott?"
"It's about father's debt. It's about you paying for Anna's funeral. You paid for your mother's chemotherapy and her new... accessories -- yeah, that's what we'll call 'em. You paid for everything that Frank couldn't, your idiot stepfather who works at that produce market, bringing home discount carrots after every shift. Or was it asparagus? Well, whatever you said. It's about our whole relationship being built on lies. You're one hundred and fifty a date, three hundred if you spend the night. You're a whore in the dark. We all used you, Killian, and you didn't even know it."
She refused eye contact.
"Oh, honey, wait 'til you leave to cry." Motherfucker. The alcohol was like lightning through her system, quick surges of dizziness. "You better go home now, and tell Frank I don't want you anymore."
"Did you ever love me?" Their whole relationship seemed to be built on cliche lines, but what else could you expect from a two year lie?
"Were you listening at all? What's with you kids? Your whole generation was born without ears. Get the fuck out of my house and don't ever come back."
"I don't understand..."
"Don't understand what? I called you over to fuck. You got some free booze out of it, didn't you? Well, you bore me, Killian. You and your fake smiles. You really should get off that crap the doctors are giving you. They make you empty."
She found her voice. "No, I don't understand you. You've been stringing me along for your own sick pleasure, yet that's not what I've seen in your eyes. No. I think you're in love with me. You're scared. You're shaking. Forty-five and completely disconnected. You're brutal. You're a--"
"Now you listen, girl, you go home and ask your daddy for an explanation. He'll sit you right on his lap, and spell it the fuck out for you. Now, can you leave from the back? I don't want my neighbors to see an upset drunk girl out on the sidewalk."
-
[ elliston and majeski, llp. ]
[ file clerk conversations : killian & patrice. ]
"You met a boy!"
"Could you say it any louder?"
"Tell me he's not forty-five."
"Remember that day I got a parking ticket?"
"You're dating the meter maid? Isn't that unprofessional?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd never date a man who gave me a forty dollar ticket."
"Wysteria?"
"He knows my real name."
"What's in the briefcase?"
"Don't know yet. He picks me dandelions."
"Is he homeless?"
"No. He has a legitimate address."
"So why the weed?"
"I'd take them over roses any day."
"I happen to think that roses are classic and romantic, especially the red ones."
"Boring."
"One boyfriend and you're already jaded."
"Two boyfriends, thank you."
"String bean was just a prom date."
"We were together for six months. And his name was Kyle."
"So, what's this guy's name?"
"Burkehay."
"Who?"
"Burke."
"You already have pet names? What does he call you?"
"Killian Smith."
"That's not cute."
"What do you know about cute pet names? You call your boyfriend Bean."
"There's a good story behind that!"
"Yeah. Anyway, it's not a pet name. He wanted to know my la--"
"You used a condom right?"
"Christ, who said anything about sex?"
"Well, it's been so long, I just--"
"Assumed I jumped his bones the first chance I got? We haven't even held hands yet."
"What are you? Thirteen?"
"No. I don't want to fuck this up."
"You don't have to. Eventually Burkehay will."
"Why do you say that?"
"Out of all people I thought you knew that all men are pieces of shit."
"Yeah, but is it so wrong to be optimistic?"
"Not if you want to be disappointed. Do you have the file for Griffin?"
"Yeah, here."
"So, what's going on? You think Burke could be the one?"
"The one? Don't ever say that to me again. I don't want to be one of those stupid women waiting around for 'the one.' It's a waste of time."
"Glad to hear. I'm going to go get some coffee. You want any?"
"You know I don't drink coffee."
"Tea?"
"English breakfast."
"You got it."
"Patrice?"
"What?"
"I think I really like him."
-
[ file clerk conversations ]
"It was just a kiss."
"Whatever you say."
"You never believe me."
"You've been humming that Mazzy Star song. I know what that means."
"He tastes like sunshine."
"You're sick. I hope you didn't tell him that. Oh. God. You did!"
"I blame the oxytocin for my moment of weakness."
"You poured your little heart out."
"Fuck no I didn't. Don't start thinking I'm a fool for him. It's been like.. a week."
"So? I've seen girls fall harder in less than forty-eight hours."
"Yeah, because they're on smack."
"Junkies have feelings too, you know."
"Bean isn't still messing around with that shit, is he?"
"You said you really liked him."
"Don't change the subject. And yes, I said I liked him, not that I wanted to have his children."
"Does he have blue eyes?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"We could ditch this filing shit and make a punnett square."
"You're joking."
"C'mon. I haven't made one since a biology exam when I was fifteen."
"You're not funny."
"What does that matter? I'm cute and I give good head."
"Jesus. I don't want to hear another blowjob story."
"But don't you hate it when it gets all over--"
"Can you please be quiet, someone might hear you."
"And who you think is listening? Elliston himself? He's too busy porking that paralegal slut. She has a nice ass though."
"I'm not contributing my opinion on Robin's ass. Could you please hand me the Massimino file?"
"You're no fun. I should probably go warn Burkehay."
"Yeah, and while you're at it, can you tell him not to wear pants on our next date?"
"I'll tell him to bring a whole box of condoms too. Then maybe when you come back to work the next day, you'll have something interesting to say."
-
[ genesis : part II ]
"Note the extra five hundred. We'll call that a bonus for boning your daughter. She is really something else. Tight as a virgin. You know, I wouldn't doubt that she was one..."
"You said a few harmless dates! A movie, a show, the zoo, for Christ's sake! She's just a little girl, Scott. She doesn't know how to play these kinds of games. Marilyn would kill me. She'd kill me if she ever found out."
"Frank. C'mon, man. What did you think was going to happen after a few weeks of dating? You think we'd still be playing Monopoly and drinking milkshakes? Good wholesome American fun gets dull really fast. Well, you can hate me if you want, but you got Killian to thank for your wife's new pair of tits."
"Great. Look, I think I'm--"
"Having second thoughts? Well, you're too fucking late. She's in love with me, you know. You break the deal, and I think Killian will hate you. She'll tell Marilyn for sure, and well, you know what will happen. You're gonna be out on your ass, Frank. You're gonna be sleeping on someone's couch and it ain't going to be mine."
"Are you kidding me? Are you seriously going to sit there with a straight face and--"
"I'm just telling you how it is, Frank. That's all."
"You son of a--"
"Hey, hey, now. There's no reason for name-calling. Remember I'm doing you a favor? So I suggest you go home, kiss your wife on the cheek, tell her you love her, and drop of Killian at my place on Friday."
"Don't break her--"
"Oh, I'll bring her back home in one piece. Don't you worry."
"She's my daughter."
"I'm really fucking sick of your whining. I'll tell you what -- you're going to buy me another shot before I think of worse ways to fuck you and your shitty life sideways. I'm just full of good ideas, aren't I?"
-
"I knew that eventually you would fly the coop but I didn't think..." Killian's mother was slaving over dishes in the sink, staring out the window, soap bubbles in mass production with each circular movement of the sponge, "I didn't think it'd be now." Anna left the house at age twenty-four. She didn't even need to say it.
"I'm only fifteen minutes away. Six thirty-one Mariposa, between eighteenth and nineteenth street. I'll write it down, leave it on the fridge." She was becoming impatient, chomping down on a bowl of Frosted Flakes, crossing her legs beneath the breakfast table (and bumping her knee against the smooth wood).
Marilyn spun around, dish towel in hand flew to her hip. "Mariposa? It's dangerous for a girl to live downtown all by her--"
"I've got a roommate. His name is Atticus Richard Wagner." Said matter-of-factly mid-bite.
"A boy!" (It might've even be necessary to have two exclamation points). If Killian had listened carefully enough, she would had noticed it rang the same sort of glee from when a doctor has swooped a wailing newborn in his hand, revealing the gender.
"You want his social security number? Or how about I take him over here for spaghetti and meatballs night and you can interrogate him. Give him a polygraph."
"Don't be silly, Killian. I think it's a perfectly good idea as long as you keep your pants on."
"Mom!"
"I don't want you coming home, crying and pregnant. Although... if you were in trouble, you know that you can always come home, don't you Killian, honey?" They were always tagging on terms of endearment, probably for the simple fact that it was difficult to truncate a name like Killian without her sounding like death.
"Yeah yeah yeah."
"I wish Anna had come home--"
"Instead of falling in love with that Kentucky boy. I know, Mom." There was a puddle of milk at the base of the bowl, no more crunching, no more impatience. No one wanted to talk about the dead sister. It grew quiet for a moment before she spoke. "I'll come over at least twice a week. You can call me whenever. It's not like you'll be alone... you've got Frank."
"Yeah, I've got Frank." Marilyn was back to washing the dishes, sounding both rejected and solemn.
"You've got Sean." He was turning twenty-eight this year and had no desire to leave home whatsoever. Marilyn didn't know whether she bred children that were abnormally dependent or if the rent in this city was just too ridiculous. Killian thought the latter.
"Speaking of your brother, have you met his new boyfriend?"
"No! What boyfriend?"
"His name is Javier. I think he's Spanish or Puerto Rican or something."
"Or something?"
"Sean always did like those ethnic boys. I always tell him, why don't you find a nice Italian boy? Then his mother and I could exchange recipes. But Puerto Rican? Don't they eat... tortillas and beans?"
"At least they'll have cute kids," she joked, setting her cereal bowl into the sink, but not before kissing her mom on the cheek.
"So how is Burke?" Marilyn affectionately brushed some hair from the side of Killian's face. They had only shared two brief conversations about him, but Marilyn could see by the way Killian's eyes lit up (just like how they did on Christmas mornings), that she had it bad.
"Things are good." The last she had seen him they were tangled in his sheets, deliciously intimate. She was on cloud nine, although this barely registered in that small smile that first infected the right corner of her mouth before equally spreading.
"Good?"
"I don't want to jinx it, y'know?"
"Okay, honey." Marilyn went back to douse a couple plates in hot water, and Killian went to go grab her red backpack (stuffed with photos and the last knick-knacks from her room) by the stairs. As door slammed behind her, she realized that no one ever says goodbye when they leave this house; not Anna, not even her biological father some twenty-odd years ago.
-
[ one long thought :: stranger in the park ]
You can't get the glass too hot. It's a tightrope you're walking, between high and out of order. Glass a brilliant red and it was all over. Cracked. Got frustrated with holding it together with a wrench. Eventually went downtown, went to go see that kid Mike (everyone's name is Michael), and he wouldn't fix me for free. No. Never. They always want to know what you're willing to give up, what part of yourself you're willing to part with for the night. Went back to that place I call home. That's when I saw her.
That girl is going to get in trouble one day. That girl is going to fall hard.
I bet she smells like Marlboros and soap. You shouldn't come to this park after dark, with needles in the sand and kids with heroin eyes. I usually see her swing under the yellow shine of a forty watt bulb (poor bathroom lighting from a studio apartment on the other side of the fence). She was always alone until she began to wear dandelions behind her ear. She seemed to be different after that day, doused with the glow of infatuation. She reminds me of my daughter in Arizona, with sunshine sewn in her hair.
I watch them from the taupe plastic tunnel, the only sound I make is the grind of the wheel on my child proof lighter. She's a magnet -- I see those men with their Santeria smiles, looking at her like she's Bambi, waiting for the bullet. It's a good thing that guy started to come by, keep the drugged strangers at bay. I used to not be able to sleep here. I used to miss the little things about sobriety like brushing my daughter's hair after a bath, going to her dance recitals when she was a child. She doesn't send me Christmas cards anymore, not since she gave up hope on me.
I can hear them clearly from here -- a rush of voices like the wind through long blades of marshland grass. This must be the beginning, they both look like they're brand new, still somewhat awkward in movement like two rivers branching off into each other -- intertwined into one to the ocean. He looks more refined than her, more aware of the world. She's got her head in the clouds -- like she just found a piece of heaven.
"Burkehay, can I tell you a secret?"
"Hmm?"
"Well... I can't tell you unless I know that I can trust you."
"Who'm I gonna tell?"
"Well, normally I'd ask you to prove it. You know, we'd find a tree and I would fall off it backwards. You'd have to catch my fall, just like how they do at summer camp when you're eleven."
Their conversation is just elevator music while I make sure the glass doesn't get too hot. I had a real home. I had a job teaching at an elementary school. We weaved strips of construction paper together into mats for our Thanksgiving party, we made tissue paper flowers for Mother's Day. I used to be someone, but no one knows me anymore. Usually she just swings under the stars, kicking sand over her cigarette butts, humming songs I've never heard before. It seems like I'm not as perceptive anymore, but that girl has a smile for the boy she calls Burkehay that she's been saving for a night just like this one.
-
She had somehow lured Atticus to watch CSI with her. Thursday nights at nine, shrunken like two kids on the IKEA (cheap fuckin cotton) couch.
"Hold me." She clutched his bicep, jaw clenched as the corpse blankly stared at the ceiling (emotional static on the television screen). This box was from the 80's. When else did wood grain appear on electronic devices?
He laughed. "I can't believe you got me to watch this show. I got a story to write."
"You always gotta story to write. It's really starting to affect our friendship." Her attention was drawn to him like a moth, the slow formation of a toothy grin.
"Shut up." His hand dug into her bag of goldfish, producing a handful before she even managed to swat at him and miss.
"I'm telling mom!"
He stared blankly at her for a long moment, rolling his eyes. He started to push himself up from the couch. "Call Burke. I'm sure he'll do more than hold you."
"I'm sure he would -- but you promised!"
"Did not."
"Well. Okay. But I thought you were going to be my best friend in the whole wide world!"
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in the second grade." Atticus was stirring his mouse around, trying to wake his laptop up.
That brought out a cackle from Killian as her attention poured once again on the tele. "Yeah, whatever. Maybe I will call Burke then."
"This time can you be quiet? I'm sick of hearing you two fuck."
A scowl. "We aren't that loud."
"Who are you kidding? You going to buy me ear plugs to silence the complaints? If you two keep going at it like that I'm going to be out of order by Independence Day."
"I resent you for that comment!" She pointed a finger at him for a moment, almost dropping multiple cheddar fishies that were clenched in her palm.
"I resent you for getting laid more than me."
"I'll buy you ice cream." Eyelashes batted.
"What flavor?"
"Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup!"
"You know me too well." He sighed.
"I know what's good for you... and I say get your ass back on this couch. I need moral support!"
"I should've gotten a male roommate." He plopped back down next to her.
"But then you wouldn't be having as much fun. Besides, would you really be down for seeing your Abercrombie model roommate score all the hot babes while you stay cooped up in your room, writing stories about butterflies and daisies?"
"I'd be living vicariously through him."
Killian paused for an unhealthy moment. "...I know this girl at work. She's about five foot six or seven, really pretty brown hair with--"
"Thanks but no thanks."
"We could double date!"
Atticus fell quiet.
"Well?"
"Don't make me sick."
-
[ year two thousand and one ]
It consumed everyone like a brush fire, voices rising from the crackles and pops, and spread wild until it tore everyone apart. The Funeral. A breaking point -- the crack of the thermometer, mercury splatter, fever induced craze that sent the entire family to church, to bawl, to secretly point fingers at God, to chant how that bastard deserves to get the death penalty. Their family would march right into motherfuckin' Marin County, snarl from the gates of San Quentin on that day of execution (if that day ever comes), and cheer scream sing their little hearts out. They'd watch his head lull to the side after that fifth injection through the glass window, and they'd think "Thank God there is one less asshole strumming the streets, one less predator to prey on our daughters."
Shane Cabriales. Class of 98, son of Peter Cabriales and Susan Mandelstam, high school sweetheart of Anna Priesely. He was there that day, walking with Anna back to their apartment (to hell if mother knew what was really going on in that place on second street) from the University. His recollection of what happened is the heart of the police report. He was the only witness, and a poor one at that. He was held at gunpoint, threatened and even though he complied, he was hit in the back of the head with the laughing metal. Anna wasn't so lucky. The autopsy revealed that she was raped, strangled to unconsciousness (most likely when she fought back; the defensive wounds told their story); ultimately it was the 9 mm lodged in her frontal lobe that did her in. Shane was taken to the hospital first, Anna was found in a dumpster behind a local Italian eatery two days later. The semen collected by a Dr. Griffin had a positive match with Alesandre Mendez. This was his third offense, following the charges of assault and possession of an illegal substance.
No one was strong enough to take this back. Anna was gone. Frank had secretly wished that it had been Killian instead as he looked down at the lifeless perch of her mouth (the funeral was a deafening blur of sobs); no one loved Killian like they loved Anna.
-
[ friday night risotto : part I ]
"You think she's okay, Frank?" Marilyn asked from the kitchen, cleaning the shellfish at the sink.
"She's fine." Her lazy husband was awkwardly sprawled on the couch, mostly channel surfing (lingering on various programs with attractive looking women for longer intervals of time).
"I called her this morning, told her that I'm cooking her favorite risotto."
"That was Anna's favorite."
"No. It was Killian's. You don't think I know my own daughter?"
"I wouldn't dream of it, Marilyn," he muttered, wondering if there was any Bud left in the fridge, "Although I don't have a fuckin' clue why you're making so much damn food when it's us and your fag kid."
"Don't talk about him like that. He's your son too. He might not be of your blood, but you've been the only father he's known since he was six. And anyway, his boyfriend is coming over for dinner."
"Oh great. A whole house of fags."
"You're in no place to judge anyone."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know what I mean." The crab almost cut her deep in the palm.
"Well, if I did, Marilyn, I wouldn't be askin'."
"Scott Clark." She turned the heat down on the stove, making sure it was coming down to a simmer.
Frank turned off the television and stormed right into the kitchen. Marilyn was caught between the stove and her husband's angry snarl. "You listen to me. You never bring up that son of a bitch's name in this house ever again. You don't know what went on. You don't know nothing."
-
[ friday night risotto : part II ]
"Get out of my kitchen, Frank. Get out!" Marilyn defensively (awkwardly) held her forearm up.
"What you think I'm going to do?" He grinned, taking a couple steps backward. He was furious. "You think I'm gonna hit you, woman?"
"It wouldn't be the first time." She carefully said, still pressed against the stove. She wouldn't be making any quick or sudden movements.
He smirked, yanking open the fridge to pull out a Bud. The snap and release of aluminum and carbonation. He gulped down half the can, eyes fixed on her for a long hard moment before he went back to sit on the couch.
Marilyn sighed in her hands, panicked to stir the sizzling contents in the pot. She began to think about the time that Frank and her had an argument about his drinking. The memory was fuzzy somewhere between her falling back into the table, dishes crashing, silverware clattering in a startling song. I fucking raise your children, pay the fucking bills. You have no place woman to -- Killian was screaming from the doorway. She was six, her eyes so glossy with tears it was hard to believe that she could even see. She mouthed something, or maybe she didn't mouth it at all. Marilyn could only hear Frank shouting, Frank cussing, Frank raising his hand up threateningly before following through with the quick strikes. One after the other.
-
She was alone again.
As quick as it came, it was
Gone.
He disappeared. All of them,
like seasons passing,
smearing into one another.
"I'm leaving town."
He said.
To chase a dream.
Burke was the biggest
disappointment,
and as soon as they came,
the dandelions were dead.
And Killian was here to
pick up the pieces.
