Breadcrumb #302

SAMANTHA SETO

He’s walking, a plaid flannel and blue jeans
and – Oh my Lord – we’re in the middle of nowhere,
close to Phoenix, AZ: home of the desert,
the nation’s cactus, and sequoia trees
that shed light on the rivers or lakes preserving
a resource of nature. I breathe the fresh air.
You send a couple to travel with each other
for days, carrying bags and books and too
much luggage filled with clothes and ivory soap,
their different selves begin to intertwine
a peak or the end of a good relationship –
and essentially the death: we’re both mad.
Who made you the best? I say. He says,
talking may turn around to fire at you,
and then he throws a hard, white pillow at me –
to hit my body. He won’t care for months
after he hurts me, yet in every single case,
it pierces my heavy heart, a thunderbolt
before it drops to my feet on the beige carpet,
that forces our lives to diverge in separate ways.

• • •

Breadcrumb #301

OLIVIA MARDWIG

Because it is in the high 70’s and late in the day, sitting on a bench, sun facing and street side, is the only place to be.

    A young French couple on a seat nearby lets their toddler wander shirtless. The little girl has two balloons- one lavender, one cloudy pink. 

    The parents don’t seem to mind how far she gets away from them, letting her walk the curved path behind a row of carefully planted trees. When she comes back into view her face is changed by the tears on it. She is holding only one balloon.  

    To this her mother laughs, to communicate something about loss being easy perhaps. Or maybe in France, this is a game children play with their parents. 

    I look up from my book and there you are. Both hands in your pockets, gazing downward and coming closer. 

“When she comes back into view her face is changed by the tears on it. She is holding only one balloon.”

    “I got your message.” You say.

    “I’m impressed you found me.”

    “Your instructions were pretty clear.”

    Why, I ask myself, am I always the first one to smile?

     “What were you like as a teenager?” you ask me. We had moved to a blanket on the grass and for a moment I can’t remember if I was asleep or not.

    “As a teenager I was exactly the same.”

    “Meaning?’

    “Meaning I would sit in parks with a stack of books, trying to look interesting, hoping someone would come find me.”

    “When I was a teenager I’d spend a lot of time looking for pretty girls reading in parks.” You say.

    “Too bad we weren’t friends then, you could have been part of one of my childhood fantasies.” 

    “Why do you think girls are always coming up with stories?”

    “I don’t know, because a story makes life more romantic in a way reality isn’t.  Don’t guys like being drawn into a fantasy? All you guys have your fantasies too.”

    “I’m not all guys” you say, “Have you ever heard the saying, beautiful girls are raised to be loved?”

    I hadn’t heard it.

    “What would your fantasy have been about me?” You ask, a little while later.

    “You mean, if we were still in high school and already knew each other, and it was a day like this?” You nod. “Well, first I would tell myself that I was going to your house, but you wouldn’t know that, of course. I would spend a lot of time picking out which clothes to wear. I would walk to where you live, even if it was far, listening to music, songs that I would later associate with this walk. They might even have been decided ahead of time. I would stop somewhere on the way just to wait, to build up desire and frustration. But I couldn’t take it. I’d have waited too long. So I’d run, I’d run the rest of the way. You’d see me from the window and wave. You’d come meet me at the door and offer me a glass of water. Since I’d been running, I’d ask to use your shower. You would be in your bedroom waiting, and I’d come in, wrapped in a towel. Silently you’d come toward me, or you’d just stand up not moving at all and I’d come toward you. When I got close, I’d let the towel fall, everything I was holding too, and I’d lift your shirt over your head. Then I’d press my body onto your chest, into your chest. I’d say, ‘let me make you feel so good.’ With the back of your hand you’d sweep the hair away from my shoulders and you’d kiss me and kiss me and kiss me.”

    I must have been picking at the grass while I was talking because a pile of lawn tips is in a heap on my lap. I look at your face, looking away and I cannot tell if you are afraid or very, very sad.

• • •

Breadcrumb #299

KIM DIETZ

She moves to the rhythm of the flames, flickering,
nearly disappearing into the darkness and shadows
as her arms stretch upward
and blend within the tree tops.

I can feel the movement of her hips,
Solemn, unfettered, and unbroken--
longing to find a place within themselves.
She starts to run through the forest,
through the blackness, and brush, and pits of mud
chasing fireflies that light her way to a clearer horizon.

I watch her as she walks her milky body into the lake.
Her thighs part the indigo water
as if her intention is to drown
the opaque pieces she does not want the light to see.

She grasps the darkened water
and cradles it gently to her lips
like a chalice full of thorns and tousled leaves --

Her hands splash blankets of moonlight on her face
And she begs to have just one last chance
One last chance to argue with the sun.

• • •

Breadcrumb #298

CHRISTINA MANOLATOS

Margaret washed herself in the shower at the same time almost every day. Being off work on disability, she had the luxury of sleeping in until noon and then lounging around her apartment for a few hours. When she heard the school bus coming up the street, she would languidly remove her robe and walk into the bathroom. Cracking open the tiny window, she would hoist her naked mass into the shower and turn the water on as hot as it could go. 

    There was a gentleman that watched her from a window in an apartment across the courtyard. He was most likely in his mid-forties with a terrible haircut and thick rimmed glasses. He always appeared at the window shortly after the school bus stopped on the street corner. From this only Margaret could presume he had at least one child – maybe he had multiple children. Though Margaret’s apartment had no view of the street side of the building, even if it had, she would never have cared to see what he was like meeting that school bus every day. All she knew, after she heard it arrive, that was her cue to head toward the bathroom.

“He always appeared at the window shortly after the school bus stopped on the street corner.”

    She always took one cursory glance out the window to ensure he was looking before she began. Once she caught his gaze – and only ever for a moment to confirm his presence – she began her ritual. It was always the same. Her swollen hands lathered the soap and began caressing her body. She always started at her neck and worked downward methodically. She was tender and slow and patient, working her fingers in and around the rolls and curves of her form. This act of bathing herself in view of another person was in no way sexual for Margaret. It was simply the only thing left to do.

    The emotional void a man’s gaze fulfilled for her long surpassed any need for physical affection or sexual attention. She had given up that ghost years prior. Years before her accident, years before the accident rendered her immobile. Years before the lack of movement made her gain more weight that she would have imagined. Years before she regained mobility through torturous physical therapy, but just could not muster the motivation, the desire, the concern with reclaiming her now massive body.

    When she is finished, when she is clean, she never looks to see if he is still watching her from his window. She is unsure how she would react if he saw her in any other way than in those ten minutes. Indeed, she didn’t exist to anyone else in the entire world outside of those ten minutes. When she is finished, when she is clean, she puts her robe back on and crawls into bed.

• • •