self-taught poet
flexing the muscles in your tongue
suppressing the gag
the toothbrush grinds away the malodorous coffee stain
a necessary affliction
the price of an existence between
the quiet hour, stinging-eye, sticky-palm, poetic creationism
and university business
as if what you do isn’t business
let them keep their busyness, anyway
No Stress
I stare at my computer with a blank face. i-tunes is open; I can’t find a song I want to listen to. Ten seconds into one and I’m already dissatisfied. I click another and the process repeats. My phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi Shanon, it’s Cecelia.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Not much. I called to see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” I find a smudge of lead on my desk to rub at with my thumb, waiting for her to say something.
“Well how are you feeling? I mean, doing alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell her for the second time today. I called her earlier and complained that James, a close friend since high school, hit on me this afternoon. He wouldn’t accept “no”; I wouldn’t say “yes.”
The sun’s low in the sky and at just the right angle to shine through my window. I reach for the cord. Blinds closed, the room’s irritatingly dark. I pull them up a little way: no good. The sun’s right at the bottom of the window. I turn the pole adjusting their angle. Either the sun’s in my eyes or the room’s too dark. I yank on the cord and the blinds wiz up to the top. Disappointed by how sturdy the fixtures are, I try and ignore the sun.
“Look, Cecelia, I appreciate the call. But I’ve got a calc test to study for. Talk to you later? Great.” I hit End and drop the phone on my desk. I spin three times in my chair, get up, and look in the mirror. There’s a zit high on my forehead. It’s one of those annoying ones that’s going to hurt like a bitch to pop. I crawl onto my bed and lie face down for a few minutes. I turn over and stare at the ceiling: nothing’s interesting. I notice my watch ticking away. TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK. I take it off and push it under my pillow. From beneath my pillow the ticking seems to grow louder. With each tick I can feel the veins in my temples throb. I touch my throbbing temple with a finger. TICK, THROB, TICK, THROB. The air seems thicker as though I’m developing a stuffy nose at an alarming rate. I nibble my lip and close my eyes.
The phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Hi Shanon. Do you have a moment?”
Still staring at the ceiling I listen to thee more ticks rattle out from the watch. “Yes.”
“What are you doing this weekend?”
“Why?” So far it’s the same conversation as the one with James. Word for word Thomas is saying what James said as if they were both reading from the same script for a part in a B movie.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me.”
I play dumb. Maybe he’ll lose heart and shut up. “Out where?”
“Well, on a date.”
“What? With you?”
“…Yeah. Like something romantic.”
I don’t say anything. Maybe he’ll hang-up.
“Are you not feeling it,” he says. “If you aren’t that’s fine.”
Good boy. “I’m really flattered Thomas, but I like being friends. We have such fun together. Why did this have to happen,” I ask as if some unavoidable act of God had befallen the two of us. “Are boys ever friends with girls?”
“No, they are. I am. Look, I don’t want you to doubt our friendship.” He’s trying hard to be nice, he must really like me. “But you’re sure? You don’t even want to try?”
I sigh; the poor bastard’s going to take this really hard. I let him down real easy. “I like you Thomas, I really do. It’s just that I was in this situation earlier. I don’t want to lose another friend. You’re such a nice guy. You can do better than me anyway. Really, I’m not that special. I just want things to stay the same.”
“Sorry about your friend. Things will stay normal between us. Though I wish you’d consider it.”
“I have,” I lie, “I’d make you miserable.”
“Alright. I’ll see you later.”
I thank him and say goodbye. Odd enough, some of the tension I felt building earlier seems to have retreated.
I go out to the parking lot next to my dorm and get in my car. It’s an ’87 El Camino with black primer and the left side mirror missing. A song plays on the radio. I don’t remember the name, but it used to play when I was in middle school. I can’t think of anywhere to go, so I get out. A skinny guy comes out of the dorm. He’s wearing a fedora and vest. Hipster. I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him on the second floor of my dorm. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. Typical. I ready a response in case he talks to me. He’ll probably just sneer at my clothes. Jerk. I step up the curb. We’re right next to each other. I look over; he’s looking at me. Asshole, I should punch him.
“You okay,” he asks.
“What,” I say. I can’t detect any emotion on his face.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Want a smoke?”
“Sure.” I feel compelled to take one: not out of a sense of courtesy, but fate. I take the cigarette. He hands me the lighter saving me the trouble of asking. We smoke in silence, looking at nothing in particular.
The sun doesn’t reach this side of the dorm. The tops of the buildings across the street are gold with light. The sky is a gentle blue-grey. It doesn’t choose which. We don’t see the need either. We’re all tired. Day’s almost over. I finish my cigarette and look at him once more. He’s already started a second. I bend down and stab the butt on the cement.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. No more stress, ‘kay?”
He looks at me with an eyebrow raised. Under normal circumstances I would hate him for being so ironic about everything, but I can’t seem to find the emotion. “Okay.”
“Good.” He looks back at the sky and blows out a stream of white smoke that quickly dissipates into the ever cooling evening. “No stress.” He says it to himself, as if I’m already gone. I leave.
When I get back into my room I find my cell phone waiting for me on my desk. It’s crossing its arms and sticking a hip out, judging me, pretending to be my conscience. I pick it up and press Send.
“Hi, Thomas. One date, okay? That’s all.”
