Wearing black in Bermuda sets a fast impression that you might be on your way to a funeral. Unless it’s accompanied with a tie or stockings. In that case, tourists and locals alike can tell. You’re in town on business. You’ve hopped the short flight from New York to Hamilton to speak in numbers. Talk in terms of billions.
Terms you never imagined engaging in.
When you drink two Bloody Marys with your toast for breakfast at a local cafe, before the morning’s board meeting, the waitstaff knows you better than you think you know yourself.
“Politics or insurance?” a waiter asks his colleague about you. You don’t notice. You focus on alternating. Toast, coffee, cocktail. Toast, coffee, cocktail. Black coffee. No sugar. Continue reading
When I first saw you, you were standing in Tullamarine airport, holding a two pound hunk of rose quartz. Prior to my focus landing on your salt water locks and rainforest stare, the stranger I flew 10,000 miles to familiarize with, to remember, a school of other thoughts raced through my mind.
Tullamarine? Really? I’m from New York… we only speak Kennedy.
My head hurts. Is it from 23 hours with flight attendants? Or 23 hours without narcotics?
No one knows where I am right now. And I’m never going back. Not ever.
Southern hemisphere atmosphere sticks to your skin differently than being up north. Hot Christmases and summer vacations in February. I felt claustrophobic, like I wanted to wipe it off. I felt lost without the perpetual prickle of skyscraper shade. I never left New York City before.
What was I doing in Australia? Continue reading
My body is healed, my spirit is mended.
In the waiting room, at the appointment, there are five framed photographs hanging on the wall. Four are bright and colorful. Farms, a field, a tropical waterfall. Each spilling azure skies and multi-hued shocks of green into the white room.
None of these capture my interest, really. The fifth one does. Continue reading
I am sitting across from a girl who is the sister of a man I used to fuck a number of years ago, long before my second marriage. She was in eighth grade back then, her clothes were too big and her thoughts too small. She would spy on us having sex in their parents’ pool. I caught her once. We made eye contact.
My husband knows he has no reason for jealousy. If ever we are apart, we miss each other in desperate ways. Like looking for candles during a blackout; the need for a spark on a freezing cold night.
Her name is Natalie. Her boyfriend’s name is Neil. I did not invite them to my house. They are passing through with a neighbor. My husband and I moved away as far as we could. Continue reading
My husband and I tell people about how we usually have vodka at nine and laugh to each other regarding PM assumptions. We live in a world parallel to many. Many of my own lives anyway. He’s better at fitting all of his into one theme.
I tend to be so scattered. Continue reading