Resolution

They sat in a dim coffee shop. She stared at the floor, caressing a mug of tea.

"What's on your mind?" Sheila asked.

She looked up and smiled. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Weight of the world, then?" Sheila smiled and sipped her martini.

She chuckled so light it came out as just a breath. "You could say that." She stared out at the other patrons milling about the shop, or sitting typing at tables, or sipping bowls of milky coffee with members of the opposite sex. "I just want to write. I need to slow down. It's all just going so fast. There's always something standing in the way. I feel like I'm in a moment, then something always stands in the way."

Sheila nodded slowly. "Life comes at you fast. But you can't let it pass you by."

"I just keep getting hit with everything."

"I know." Sheila leaned in and whispered, "Try to catch some of them."

She smiled the slanted smirk she saved for flirting, when the guy said something unwittingly clever. "I have so much peace when I write," she said. "I miss it. I remember loving it. But it's gotten lost...in all this... in meetings, in studying, in budgets--"

"In worrying? In lack of control?"

Her eyes snapped up. For a moment, Sheila looked just like her mother, though she'd always reminded her of her mother: so strong and wise, with eyes that speak of her life's joys and sorrows before her mouth opens to tell you about them.

"Stop worrying."

She knew Sheila was thinking more. But she was holding back. Like her mother would.

"It's easier said than done, though," Sheila continued. She perched her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist.

She nodded. "I'm just scared I'll lose my craft."

"Have you ever?"

"...No. But that's not to say it can't happen."

"That's true, too," Sheila said without actually believing it. "Then make time. You prioritize your work; prioritize life so as not to make you insane."

She nodded and looked into her tea.

"Look at me."

She rose her eyes."You are who you are. Sure, life happens and you adapt, but nothing is going to change who you are. This is who you are," she tapped her sternum, nowhere near her heart, but she got the picture. "Don't lose sight of who that is."

She nodded in agreement. "I won't," she declared to herself.

"Good," she said. She drank the rest of her martini like a shot and collected her bags. "My work here is done. I'll see you next week. Call me if you need anything."

She stood and left the table, nearly bumping into a man as she turned. He glowed, it seemed, showing white teeth in a debonair smile before drawing away. Sheila threw her a wink and a smile over shoulder.

She giggled and watched Sheila walk out the door. She picked up her book, removed the mark, and, gently biting her lip, resumed where she'd left off.

Her Italy

"John and Susan got in the car. They sat in silence. John didn't start the ignition. Susan stared out the windshield, avoiding John's eyes; avoiding every part of him. John did the same, staring down at the keys laying slack in his hand. He sighed. 'You know,' he started, 'You can't go forever without speaking to me.' Try me, Susan thought. She blinked and her dark curls shifted across the fur of her coat as she turned her neck, looking out the window. 'Okay, maybe you can,' John said. He sighed and finally inserted the key. He revved the engine over his thoughts."

I don't think this is going anywhere, Jordanna typed.

What are you talking about? Charlie replied.

This story, my story. What am I doing? Charlie, do you like your job?

I do. The people are cool and the work is really easy.

That's nice. I'm bored as hell.

The boss could be better, but what can you expect

As always

And they give a Christmas bonus

oh shut up, I'm not getting one

Oh. Sorry.

"Now that the car was moving, Susan's eyes drifted about the cityscape, which slowly melted into country on either side of the highway, reminding her of train rides through Tuscany with John. But that was when he was an artist. It was Their Italy."

You could always talk about Italy.

That's what I was doing, Charles.

k.

"You know, he started suddenly."

No.

"You know, he started suddenly, exasperated."

Emotion. Good.

"It was Their Italy, with food that made her tongue glisten."

Hey, can your tongue glisten?

Sounds dangerous. And kinda kinky.

I'll take that as a no.

"She thought of Their Italy: the food that melted on her tongue"

Already used 'melted'.

"She thought of Their Italy: the food that sang ballads to her senses and the men that did the same, before she met John, of course. Like Vittorio. At least she thought his name was Vittorio. At least she thought he was Italian. He was an actor. She didn't trust actors, but he kissed like a prince. He was probably an American named Kyle, but she still fell into his kisses like an autumn leaf."

Hehehe.

What?

What I just wrote.

What did you just write?

I can't tell you.

So what was the point of you telling me it was something you just wrote?

I don't know. Thought you mighta wanted to know.

"They met on the Spanish Steps. Susan had spent the day shopping and sightseeing. She plopped down on a step, letting her bags flail on either side of her in her desperation to get off her feet. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, where the sun was setting behind Via Condotti. She exhaled, smiling. When she opened them, he stood before her."

"She exhaled, smiling. When she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of the young man sitting a few steps below her. His body was turned away, but his face, toward her. Sunglasses perched on his dark-coiffed head, leather jacket; so Roman. She smiled again, bold and purposeful, like many a smile she'd given before. He smiled back, lips smooth across his face and the fading sunlight catching his"

"He smiled back, lips smooth across his face and his brown eyes catching the fading sunlight. She watched as he stood and ascended to her. He invited himself to sit next to her, though she would have done so if her Italian were a little more than 'tourist.'"

Jordanna blinked at her computer screen. She tilted her head, hoping it would shift something in her brain.

What happened next in the story escaped her, perhaps willingly. In that instance, her own memories of Italia slipped from her memory.

Or did she leave them, knowing they would never happen again?

She clicked the X at the corner of the screen of the document.

Well, I should get back to work now...on something.

Okay, ttyl.

Bye.

Bye.

Solitude

Eryn held the pencil loosely between three fingers. The lead pressed the paper, indenting a small black hole in the blue line. She stared into the blank spaces on the page. She tapped the pencil on the sheet until a constellation of dots made a circle at the top of the page.

She sighed and set the pencil down. She cleared her throat and reached for the glass of water on the edge of the table. She swallowed and looked up at the kitchen light, inspecting it for bugs and the like until her retinas shrieked for mercy. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, afraid to open them to a blank page.

She belched and sighed again, finally opening her eyes. She set the glass down, smacked her idle hands together, and licked her lips. Page still blank.

Eryn slid out from the table, given the lack of space between it and the wall behind her. She made careful notes about the motion of her body as she walked a few steps, from the curl of her bare toes on the floor, to the tensing of her leg muscles, to the length her arm extended toward her computer on the opposite side of the table. Under her finger, her mouse screen was slick but tract. She rubbed the edges of the little square, still fresh after four years, unlike the middle that had worn smooth from oil and sweat from her fingers. Her joints popped quietly as she clicked the music player icon and selected a song.

She walked to the downbeat of the song, back to her side of the table, and retook her place in front of the paper. She picked up the pencil and tilted the page, ready, in case a musical note struck her the right way and words began to fall involuntarily from her hands. She struck the side of the pencil, ticking the lead inside to the beat of the high-hat drum in the music. She closed her eyes again, hoping to see the music dance as her ears swallowed it.

The scene behind her lids was fuzzy, like that of a snow globe with too much snow.

In the fog, she could make out the forms of a man, a woman, and a dance floor. The male and female shadows danced together in the dust. Gradually, silhouettes of other people appeared, lingering around the edges of the floor, their faces blotted out like on a crime show.

A shimmer of red flashed across Eryn’s vision. As the song ended, her imagination faded to black before she could question it.

Her eyes opened to the page where, now, one word sat, perched innocuously on a blue line.

Distance.

She peered at the word as if it’d appeared by magic. She inhaled. Underneath it, she added, “solitude.”

She tossed down the pencil and her shoulders relaxed, as if the pencil had weighed 10 pounds. Her eyes wandered about her kitchen as she thought.

She closed her eyes again suddenly, trying to strike the same match twice. But she still couldn’t make out the figures.

She stood up quickly, slamming the chair against the wall. She marched to the fridge and yanked the door open. She snatched up a bottle of American ale and popped off the top with the can opener. Down the hall, in the living room, she fell into the soft pillows of the couch, reached for the remote, and turned on the TV.

Digging

Tap. Tap. Click.

No.

She cranks the wheel and slams it to its original position on the left side of the page. The blank paper stares back at her. She wonders why a blank page haunts more than anything else in the world.

She wraps her arms around her middle, her chemise clinging to her softened skin. She turns in her chair and looks over her shoulder. He slept so sweetly in the lamplight, undisturbed, with his arms still out, cradling her outline in the sheets.

She turns back to the typewriter slowly. The blank paper looms over her head now, darkening her aura. She stands from the oak desk, glowering at the typewriter through misty eyes as she backs away. She tiptoes around the bed. He doesn’t stir.

She takes the lift down and walks outside, ignoring the midnight guard’s wanton stares at her silk chemise. She wanders out the door.

The air is cold tonight. She embraces herself against the breeze as the hair on her arms begins to rise. She floats into the garden. The grass is damp and spiky on her bare feet. She steps around slowly, humming no tune in particular, something she made up. She glances up at the sky, squinting past the feathery clouds, wishing she could see just one star through the city’s lights.

She looks down at the foliage. The flowers are tucked in for the night, she thinks, but they’ll blossom in the morning.

Biting her lip gently, she raises her gown, as if it’s long enough to brush the dirt that now collects on her calloused heels. She steps in the middle of the vegetation. The soil is cool on her soles, soft between her curled toes. Like a grape harvester, she walks around the garden, planting herself wherever she’ll fit. She stops in a pleasant spot by a rose bush.

The metal gate to the garden squeals open. She looks up.

He smiles, more concerned than charmed when he’d awakened and found her here.

“What are you doing out here?”

She looks back down at the soil, deepening herself in it, sowing her talent.

“Digging.”

You Write About Leaves

You’ve found the perfect corner, the perfect chair that swallows your curves in its ample crevices. You look down at your notebook. The blank page looks back at you, sticking out its tongue, taunting you. You flick your pencil, rattling the lead inside. You make up a song because you can’t make up a story.

You’d really like a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Coffee that sends balmy kisses down your throat, to the space between your breasts. You’d send the fag’s smoke to lilt in the air, swirling as hearts or circles.

You laugh at yourself. You’re so silly.

He heard you laugh. You feel him staring at you; not like a pork chop, but a chocolate cupcake, with wonder, delight, and distance. You look up in time to miss his glance. He’s back in his book, slim chance of returning.

You decide that you have to get his attention. You will get his attention.

You cough.

You clear your throat.

You sneeze. Loud.

You sigh.

You gaze out the window, hoping to appear unconcerned and hard to get, but you become entranced by the sight of autumn’s leaves skipping across the pavement and encircling one another in a ritual mating dance.

You write about leaves. Leaves, leaving, what’s left.

Your page is almost full. You stick your tongue out at it; revenge, ha ha.

You look up, wondering if he’ll laugh again. But he’s left. Just something else to write about, you think.