And now a magic trick entitled: memories = book

I'm starting to think it's an alchemical task, this attempt to turn five years of excerpts into worthy, readable prose.

Spotlight on Laura's frustration: 

I am 22 now.  The $200,000 piece of paper Vassar gave me is 3,500 miles away, forgotten in a pile of bent photographs and stapled pages that are all marked with red and double-spaced.  He is 19.  He was a famed ballroom dancer.  I am certain by now he is a drug lord in the Latvian mafia.  But none of this matters. Nothing can matter on the faux patio of a pub on the third floor of Victoria station.  Even the drinks here lack the familiar taste of denial.  

There is a board listing today's specials in chalk, I stare at it without reading. I wonder if Eddy’s already at work, and what our soup of the day is.

                                                                                     ***

Airport blue. There it was.  And the flight attendant’s voice as we navigated to the gate, “Welcome to John F Kennedy International Airport, the time here is approximately 10:34pm.”...

 It was the second time I had heard this in the past month.  It was the second time I had endured an eight hour flight from London. I sat next to a man from Texas this time- we did not have a window. I was looking forward, instead - through the haunting stretch of Belgrave Avenue's white Victorian facades, to the red-suited flight attendants.  The blonde one was strapping on a purple hat and gushing over the possibility of chocolate chip pancakes.   

I am in New York City now. 

 I whispered,

"I am in New York City now."

                                                             ***

It was mother’s day.   My eye caught the shadow of another body at the bar where I sat, had sat, alone. A 6’7 motionless frame had suddenly materialized a few chairs down.  His posture was unwelcoming, like a friend who never greets you at the door.  He sat clasping his beer, hunched forward with a stillness that betrayed his taciturn demeanor.   He wore the rare look of a man who could drink alone.  I recognized it instantly, because it belonged to me, although I had yet to earn it.  The look, so strong on his face, revealed every weakness in mine as we sat at the bar, drinking alone on mother’s day. 

                                                             ***

I am sitting here now trying not to run out of the house screaming.  I stare at the Sudoku puzzle I took from the airplane magazine wide eyed and unblinking, pen shaking in hand, wondering if I can collect myself long enough to creep downstairs.  I look up as a test of my ability to feign control of the simple motor skills that will be necessary if I happen to encounter another human being on the ten minute walk to the kitchen.

  “Hi” I practice.  I focus on the outside world, normalizing my gaze.

I notice there is a painting of random flowers with their identities written beneath.  This makes me wonder if there is a guest room store.  The perfect guest room art, even with descriptions that politely spare the non flower expert the humiliation of flower genus ignorance. 

                                                            ***

There were grasshoppers everywhere - dead grasshoppers.  Their large black bodies on the white sidewalks and glaring pavement  were more than a small contrast to the little green musicians I had known, but rarely seen, in Connecticut.   They decorated storefronts and left a blackened outline along the roads and sidewalks of Austin, Texas every spring.

I stumbled out of my car with a feigned nonchalance that I managed to retain as I sashayed up his driveway.   My freshly lipsticked mouth wore a well-rehearsed grin that never made it to the front door.

As I start towards the house my glance falls on the dark front window with its curtains still drawn and I am struck by the possibility that he is watching me.  The echo from the car door is still fading behind me as I feel a nervous heat crimsoning my cheeks. No, it was probably more an effrontuously revealing fire-engine red.

 I jerk my head down and away from the window, my gaze sweeping over the driveway.  I feel my head unexpectedly twitch upright, and my eyes dart back to the strip of white where the black pavement meets the garage.  An army of black carcasses awaits me at the top of the drive and along the sidewalk.  They lay still all along the front of the house forming a barrier between me and the man inside. 

ugh