smudged

They walked into their bedroom, red faced and smiling. He crumpled up the cab receipt in his left hand, awkwardly tossing the wad of paper into the wicker trash bin by the door. He missed. She didn’t notice. Their friends had hosted a party for the hell of it. ‘Happy Tuesday!’ read the banner hanging on their living room wall. The sign was printed on sheets of copy paper taped together down the middle — an art project one of the roommates took on while at work. As the evening wore on, and the body heat and humidity rose, the edges of each sheet began to slacken until the sign finally freed itself from the wall and relaxed, draped over the brown corduroy couch. The evening news was on in the background and it seemed to serve more as lighting than anything else. Everyone who had shown up was just as anxious for an early-week escape. A reason to be happy on a Tuesday. His other hand was pressed gently against her lower back, guiding her through the room. ‘Why do you do that,’ she asked him once. ‘What?’ ‘Put your hand there,’ she said, twisting slightly to glance over her shoulder at his hand. He followed her gaze. ‘I dunno, protective, I guess.’ ‘Oh,’ she said, turning away and smiling — in part because it was ridiculous, in part because she liked it, or, at least, the idea of it. She breaks away from him and goes into the bathroom to remove her makeup. She hears the rough tinkering of his belt buckle, the slap of the strap against his skin and then a sharp inhale in response to the pain. She hears the sound of his zipper come down. She rubs a remover-soaked cotton pad along her right eye, repeating the motion a few times until smudges of violet are replaced by splotchy redness. ‘I…think I’m drunk,’ he says, flopping down on the bed. She blinks a few times to get rid of the colored spots that appear whenever she rubs her eyes too hard. ‘You’re fun.’ ‘You are.’ ‘Good one.’ ‘You’re a good one.’ ‘Thanks.’ She looked back.

One minute with Crispy

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sticky

They didn’t know how it had come to this but there he was, haphazardly pushing tape into the carpet.  It was pitiful to watch. The tape kept sticking to his fingers then pulling out the carpet fibers so it’d lose its stickiness. He’d rip off the parts that got too fuzzy and reapplied fresh tape. In the end the line was a messy patchwork that widened and narrowed randomly, but he had successfully created a border to separate her from him.

A scented candle, juniper–her favorite, had been thrown, shattering a porcelain mask from Venice. It wasn’t until the flight home, when, bored, she took it out of her carry-on to examine its craft and discovered it was made in China. Only later did she realize traditional masks were supposed to be made of paper mâché. Hearing the mask shatter was oddly gratifying but she wouldn’t admit that. She was intent on staying fucking pissed.

He had dodged the candle only to stumble into the table.  She was yelling something about not fulfilling his end of the bargain and he couldn’t remember when his relationship turned into a business transaction. All he had was a feeling to go off of and apparently what she wanted was tangible proof. But he was never one to keep receipts. He made decisions and never looked back. She, it seemed, suffered buyers remorse at least every other day.

They lived in a small apartment in Brooklyn. She had wanted it because the only window had a ledge just wide enough for her African Violets. Four hundred square feet, the apartment measured 20 by 20 with a door directly in the center of one wall. The tape split the door down the middle. He got the side with the couch–he was angry, but still a gentleman–and she had the bed. They had nowhere else to go and so attempted to create separate worlds with paper and adhesive.

That would be their only rule for now–he would stay on his side, she on hers.

I have a few rules, so does Crispy.

find me here.

old spice

ryan has a tube of deodorant in his desk drawer. i caught him using it one time and he got embarrassed, then annoyed that i had caught him. then, on one rather rare occasion, i found myself in need of a little refreshening and borrowed said deodorant and proceeded to smell like a high school dude for the rest of that day.

anyway, that was just an excuse to lead into this:

homonym

today, ‘bang’ was used in one sense of the word and i got offended [flashback: 13-year-old self and my quasi-boyfriend-slash-not-really-boyfriend-so-i-call-him-my-close-encounter-with-a-jesus-lover]. but now i’ve got my hair pinned in multiple places as i try to muster the courage to give myself some bangs…all while hair is covering my eyes and i think that this may compromise the end result.

[update: i’ve given myself bangs and overlooking the fact that i nicked my lower eyelid, they don’t look too shabby — or rather, just shabby enough!]

ineffable

someone recently asked me what type of guys i liked. i said i liked jews [note: not exclusively. just that past trends have pointed to this conclusion, and my old boss has always said you need three to establish a trend, and well, there have been four.], a response that unexpectedly sparked a series of follow-up questions i couldn’t really articulate adequate responses to — disregarding the fact that i’ve never really been all that articulate and disregarding the notion that i’m pretty sure jewish and asian pheromones [it’s science!] are somehow more magnetically [or just end up in similar places? law of proximity?] drawn than other interracial couples…or maybe it’s cultural [$$$$$] similarities? who knows. who ever really knows. i’ve spent so much time trying to articulate why asian festishizers are wack, but little to no time examining my own preferences–or rather, excusing slash dismissing my own [hippo-crit]. to that end, i’m going to further complicate attempts at rationalizing this by citing an emotional response i had to this scene i was recently reminded of and it made me feel kinda nice on a monday morning, you know? i don’t.

badrap

Holland: gotcha
how was spain
Terry: amazing!
Holland: did tooms go too
Terry: nope just me and jess
Holland: just the two of you? but who makes sure you guys dont die of alcohol poisoning?