Do you need help? She asked. North entirely sure what type of help she could offer. The man looked up at her from the sidewalk, where he lay splayed out, arms to the sudds, legs apart, as if he were attempting to make a snow angel on the hot July concrete. What does it look like? He said. She thought for a minute but her thoughts we’re hard to focus on, soft around the edges, squiggly in the middle, blending one to the next,

She waited for him. And waited for him. And waited for him. Taking her time with her cocktail till all the ice melted and it barely resembled what had been hand written on the chalkboard as that nights signature libation. She asked for more time twice before ordering the appetizer size grilled octopus, cause he may just be behind she thought. Cause their might be an incident on the subway, Cause the battery in his car may have, without any recent provocation m, died. She cut the octopus and chewed slowly, knowing without doubt, that none of this things were true. And when the last bite of the octopus was gone and the plate had been cleared, although she knew it would only be her, and though she could barely understand the rest of the entrees on the board, much less afford them, against all her better judgement she ordered the venison chops, blueberry jus. Not entirely sure what venison is, not particularly liking blueberries and having entirely no idea what jus consists of. She smiled at the waitress when she holaced her order. Sure that if she just brought her lunch to work for all of next week she could find the $65 for the chops of deer. “Deer?” She said tot the waitress when she sought clarification after her first magnificent bite that was savory, and Smokey and that was so how at the back of her palate like black earth. Undercut by the subtle sweetness of the blueberries. “”Like Deer in the woods? Like the cute deer?” She asked. “ yes, sorry?”said the waitress, unsure as to exactly what she was apologizing for. “Is it not to your satisfaction?”

Bare feet. That’s what he liked best about working from home. No socks. No shoes. Just soft carpet, cold hardwood and hard tile underfoot. Nothing but heels and ties, arches and insteps, that flat of the foot, and the outside edge that takes all the pressure. He had always been a go to the office guy. A guy who rise early to shave and shower and dress, to have a proper breakfast before walking to the bus stop. He knew, however, from that first day at home that things had changed. knew from the moment his alarm rang and the thought of socks never once entered his mind – never once. What are doing? His wife would ask upon seeing him enter the kitchen. What do you mean? You know what I mean! I don’t I truly have no idea. It’s a little early fir gdmes.

Games? Yes, games. I am not playing this mornin

She liked the dark. Always had. She knew she wasn’t suppose to. Knew from such an early age that it wasn’t to be dwelled upon, wasn’t to be lost in, wasn’t to be compensated. But it just didn’t work that way for her. For years she tried to hide it, quickly closing her eyes when her parents would come in to turn off the light. Draw the blinds when she would lie on her soft bed in hers dark room so no one could see her body languid on the bed, enveloped, the heavy curtains drawn, the light kept on the other side of glass panes. She always let her mind run free. Nothing to look at, nothing to see, e

Because it scares the fuck out of me. The pall that is always there. The shadow that never leaves. The ever present core of it the you carry every day. The fragility, the mark. The thin skin and bruised veins. The slow everything. The whittling away. the vacumnof breadth, and strength and flexibility and endurance. The cage that cannot be unlocked. The wounds that cannot be healed. And you can’t smell it, not yet, but it’s there.

I sleep on the couch, in the front room, where nobody ever sits. The large window looks out on to the drive and the houses across the road, which leads to the golf course where you have never played, behind them, the mountain, where you have never hiked or skied.

In the Pantry, jars of maraschino cherries you will never eat, racks of spices you will never use, but never throw out

Then he said you wanna dance?

c’mon

no, really he did. Do you wanna dance.

So did you, dance?

no, man. The guy was like a Neanderthal. Had muscles that started at his ears. Jesus, he would have stomped me all over

so what did you do

what could I do? Doors closed and the train started moving.

So?

So I tried moving up the car. But it was crowded so I couldn’t get far. He was just a few feet behind me and closing, no one was standing in his way.

Fuck man.

no kidding. So he says it again much louder this time. Hey sweetheart are you fucking deaf? I’m fucking talking to you!

this time people look up. But nobody does anything.

maybe they were scared. Maybe they didn’t want any trouble. Maybe they didn’t know what to do.

maybe. But maybe they glad as hell he was yelling at somebody else and not them. I mean, no one even pressed the panic bar.

fuck

so I inch up. Far as I could go, hoping maybe he wouldn’t see me. Hoping maybe he’d get bored.

It may well be the thing I have been hiding. The thing I have never let the world see. That I keep under a blanket in the far corner of the attic or in the back of the room in the basement where no one ever goes. And it’s not out of spite or revenge or rebelliousness, but rather out of fear. The fear that i may live. Me breath and cast light into shadow. The fear that it many work, that it may be that thing thsyt happens for and because of joy. That’s it, the thing that will never make you any money,. The thing that ever one public ally admires and privately shuns. The thing that happens in sad fits and spurts, like an engine trying to start, like an engine trying to die. I mean fuck, seen fifty New Years. Walked a million miles. Read a shit ton of books, and yet written nothing. Not a godamn thing. Like I said, sad as shit. This will change. Need to write everyday. Except use, breath , write, not a fucking complicated formula. But, yet, one I have never done. Maybe I should choose to start, short fiction, long, poetry, creative non/fiction, non/ fiction. Ai yi yi my head hurts thinking about it. Yet, I will have to pick one. I don’t have the faintest clue how to write a novel. Perhaps I will consult the untraweb

It cam fast. Faster than she expected. Bang – there it was. Blinding. Searing her insides. She doubled over on her stoop. Her dropped her keys. Reached for her phone. But she couldn’t find it. She leaned against the wall in her fight to stay upright. Bang Bang – there it was again. Like a giant hand inside her. Squeezing her organs through it’s dark scaly fingers. She tried her other pocket. Found her phone. She pulled it out as her vision blurred. And lost sight in her left eye.

He cried for a long time. That’s what he remembered most. The tears. Something he had never seen his father do. Ever. Under any circumstance. Yet, here he is. His large shoulders heVing under his suitcost, one size too small, one shade too bright. The only one he had ever seen his father wear, He stood hunched and bowed as if someone had let all his air out. As bd anty minute he would deflate, flat on the grass, a shape barely recognizable, like a balloon, popped, that people step over, and without realizing it, remembering the joy it once held, that feels so far away.

It’s how we start. The first inkling of thought. The first twitch toward movement. The synapse fire. Hot and blinding as lightening. Automatic as breath. White as ash. Over before you had realized it had begun. And blood racing to muscles. And ligaments stretching over bone. And tendons pulling over bone. And sweat puddling the crevices if your body, rolling off your head like rain. Lungs taking air. The drum of your heart inside your chest, weight shifting. Body soaring sliding through the air. Motion. One step. One neuron. One synapse at a time.