Rolling My Eyes

She opened the crumpled paper carefully. It was more than just another oddity spring cleaning turned up, though it was found buried in the corner with a heap of credit card receipts and discarded napkins. The letters were scrawled in a familiar hand. It was only the ink she didn’t recognize. She slouched down into the kitchen-table chair that resided next to a clutter she called affectionately, “computer desk.” The kids were screaming about something in the backroom. Sometimes sound has no meaning. Bills were pushed aside. The computer bleeped to say that Tom had just signed in. She laid the paper down in the small clearing in front of the keyboard. She didn’t like the strange silence of this new one as her fingers flew across its keys. Her eyes lingered over the paper, then she got up to find her cup of coffee. Then she sat back down. Then she got up again as there was no lighter to spark her cigarette into a flame. Before calling in the kids to find it, she looked at the words ...

Forty-five miles and forty-five miles and then I'm gone forty-five miles and forty-five more. Add a few and I'll be there and it'll be done and the wheels will stop rolling and my heart will stop racing and my life will keep going but the engine stops turning and the engine will stop and I'll be there and so will she. She will be there and she is. And I have to stop, to catch my breath, to breathe. Because she can't. Not on her own, not with out them. It's the last round of a knockout, a boa constrictor is wrapped around my spine. It's cold in here. It's the middle of July.

I took two breaths and was out the door. I left it open. The church bell was caving in like wind blown down through a chasm, leaves sweeping across the floor while the flag hangs, lifeless. I've heard the same four sentence story now more times than I can count. What the nurse said, what he said. There's no telling really. I'm dead these last four years and she has been too. There's nothing changing. There's nothing going on. The only difference is that she always did the talking. I just listened and waited for the end. What difference do the words make anyway? They just float off like smoke when it's all said and done. The bubbling noise though, the gurgling, that said something louder. Those two pieces in my ears, that round circle on her chest. It must be cold, she wants it off, wants the people to stop listening for a change. She'd rather the warm embrace of a darkness, the eerie silence of a bell...

"Bisakah anda bicara... english?" The words slow and broken as they were read. She saw kind eyes pleading towards her and somewhat desperate. "I speak inglis little," she replied. She saw relief flow into this bright haired and blue eyed mystery. She let her eyes drop down then traced them up slowly over the sandled feet, on past the curve of hips in the soiled kakis and up to the roundness of her breasts. At last, it was the cool white V of flesh peaking from the unbuttoned collar of her shirt that held them. A hand was placed on her shoulder. "Today, you will be my saviour." Her eyes looked up into the blue. "My name Onahjay," and she placed her fingers on top of the hand. The blue eyes looked over her new friends dirty rags and swollen belly, wondering why in the streets so late. "Can I call you Jay?" The two stood looking at each other for a while. There was nothing else really to say.

This morning my alarm clock did not want to wake up. Instead of beeping, it said softly, "It is cold, you should go and fix the heater." I did not want to. "Stop being lazy," I told it. "You should get up and take a shower." But my alarm clock ignored me, and sat there glaring with red, tired eyes. I pulled the covers up close around my neck. I considered ducking my head under them, and tried it for a minute. It felt wonderful. I determined to stay there for hours.

It was an off grey over most, such that you would almost think brown on a cloudy evening. The sort of evening though where the clouds gave way to the moon. The eyes were blue. On the second day, I named her Sam, just in case. As a rule, Cats are Girls, and I figured Sam was, too. But you can never be too sure and have to watch them a bit before you decide. She had looked up at me from my blue cloth chair on that second day the same as the first. I looked back down at her on the first day the same as I had on the second, and locked my door. I did not kick her though. Or say, 'shoo cat' as I might normally. She seemed to belong there, on the porch, on the blue fold-out chair. On the night of the second day, it was canned chicken that had to do. She still looked off grey rather than brown. Sam didn't seem to mind that it was not tuna. She apparently hadn't eaten for a while. After several mouthfulls and rapid chewing, she stepped away and put her back too it. Then ...

Their lips touched for the first time, delicate, hungry. The air was too hot for the evening breeze. A black cat sat on a rafter licking its summer coat, and watching as little bits of hay danced over the edge of the loft. Benson knew he was supposed to do something now. He didn't know what, so he placed his hand on her neck, just below and slightly behind her ear. Betty smiled warm so he figured that must have been right. He liked the feel of her cool hands on his chest. They slid effortlessly under his shirt and then slowly down. Betty was just as scared. Outside of the barn two men, exhausted from the day leaned on a post. Gabriel, the taller of the two, was smoking a pipe. He didn’t remember too much about satisfaction. He only knew how to appreciate what he had. He liked his straw hat, the way it sat on his head. He liked the way the sky still held some light after the sun sank down below the horizon. Neither of the men said much. They talked so...

It was Monday on the plantation and sometime in the middle of August. Benson leaned back and slowly packed the pipe his father had made for him. He watched the dark, erect mounds slowly heave up and down, rising slower with each breath. Their bodies were soaked in the same sweat. “Do you love me like you wanna marry me?” Betty said. She felt her self and felt her insides still quiver. “You know, I was almost there.” Benson looked over towards the barn. “I reckon you oughta put your clothes back on.” he said, tapping the last pinch of tobacco down with a careful delicacy. He made a cup with his hand around the bulb of the pipe, struck a match against a rock and took a few draws. Betty watched as his cheeks hollowed with each puff. There was always something about that pipe that held her when it was in his hands. It was the way they seemed to love cradling it. The way it rested between his forefinger and thumb, the mouth of the pipe jutting out towar...

It seems like it was yesterday when I first met him. The shades of his hair blended, dissolved into that curl. We talked for hours over the things most people don’t seem to mind. The cup of coffee held our lulls. “Have you ever noticed how ‘cow’ is such a funny word?” he said to me. “Go ahead, say it five times.” I did. And the world lost its meaning in my voice, in those eyes. I missed his point though, I could tell. He looked at me waiting for the revelation. So I tried again. “Cow, cow, cow, cow.” And I fell to giggles after the fourth try. Blushing I ducked my eyes down. “CowcowCOWCOWcow!” he responded with big eyes, his hands dramatically up in the air. He looked stupider than I felt. It was good to know the world doesn’t have to feel serious all the time. We walked from the small café. It was much later than morning time. We took a right turn down an alley. Then across someone’s yard. The sun seemed to hold the growling dog in a light that was almost magical. I wonder if it held ...

I have no eyebrows. But it is not my fault. Well, I should be correct and say that I have half, more or less, of one eyebrow. The smaller half. My eyelashes are still lovely though. And I do enjoy their long thickness. I have become more comfortable through the years with missing eyebrows since, after all, it’s the heart of a person that matters. And sometimes it’s fun too, to put on a sock cap and play tricks on people. Tell them I am going through Chemo. I watch their eyes get big and wide. “"REALLY?"” they say. “"Yah, but not really though,"” I say as I shake my head up and down. Then they get mad and smack me, but it’s still grand fun. It stopped being fun as soon as I actually had to go through Chemo. I did not think I was quite as cute then. Though it still seemed only fair to play a trick since it was a dirty trick that generally has them missing in the first place. I have this thought see, that people in manufacturing, bored as they might be, like to do thin...

It was the green circle of trees that caught your eye, the white fog covering them. There was room in the midst. You stood and danced like a fleet nymph on my eyes, legs stomping over the under haze golden leaves that burned like a fire. We laughed at turning back. We felt the skin being pealed away, one layer, one piece at a time— and how we danced! to the songs that were never before sung, to the rhythms of a heart beat, to the cool mist of an overflowing love. There was nothing but a green circle of trees and a white fog and the whole world watching as we lay in the shade of the sun. Little circles of leaves covered us, dust swirling above. Do you remember that sunrise? That cool lavender youth?

I am telling myself that I am not an idiot when Frank comes over. If I could find my keys I would already be gone. Frank though, he just walks in and heads directly to test the fridge, feeling at home. I think somehow it must be my fault he feels that way. At some point, I'll have to correct that, but for now the crevices of the couch look like they might be a good hiding place. I eye Frank wondering if he might be strong enough to turn it over and shake-- I'm not about to put my hand down there. “Why is the pint of milk in your microwave?” Frank asks looking at me like I might have lost my mind. I try to think if I had, in truth, misplaced it. Maybe left it on the porch? The birds would no doubt be pecking at it, taking little nibbles of my precious thoughts. I made a mental note to check there later, and gave Frank one of those looks that said he was a moron for even asking why. “Because my cup of coffee is in the refrigerator,” I said mater of factly. He went back over t...

Today’s room was the worst possible room to give a test. The seats, they stretched up like ones you might find in a theater, only closer front-to-back. Paul walked in with a goofy, innocent grin on his face. He turned towards me and smiled. He was the first one there. “Hi, I’m Paul,” he said. I stared at him briefly, wondering. “Hi Paul,” I told him. “Have a seat and we’ll start soon.” The rest came in slow, and without introductions. The last girl had to labor to reach the remaining empty seat. It was the one halfway up and in the center. I was sorry she had to squeeze. At last though, they were all settled, cozy, and desperate. As a student myself, I knew how they feel. It was nice for a change, to watch them cringe and see them looking up at me, hoping one day they would be there. It was nice, too, knowing that tomorrow I wouldn’t have to be. “Turn your tests over and begin,” I announced. The first question was easy. And it came quick. “On number one, the fist choice, ‘a,’ says...