An Eggshell Smile
Some new writing, unfinished, but whatever.
“An eggshell smile”
“I don’t know what to do with my nights” he thinks, as awake and lively now as he wasn’t twelve hours ago. The porch steps, cold and concrete, make him draw his body as tightly as he can into his oversized army coat. Exhaling, he holds his cigarette downwards, and watches the smoke flow over and around his palm like spilling sand. Absorbed by his thoughts, but with nowhere to place them, he wills himself still. Traffic lights beckon and command absent cars, blinking and casting colored light on the blacktop. The moon is high in the sky and confident of it’s soveirgnty. Taking another drag he flicks the cigarette. Strewn onto the sidewalk it rolls a little, adjusting itself before settling into a resting place.
The box is wooden and rectangular with engravings of birds and leopards and a sliding lid. He lifts it from the shelf on the night stand, sliding it open he hesitates. The face in the photo catches him, a dark haired girl with an uncanny smile, broken but limping. “Eggshell smile” he muses, a cautious grin hangs and ruins the illusion of age the three day beard gives to his young face. His room is bright and full of mid-afternoon sun, but nearly empty except for his bed and dresser. The record he left playing is skipping every third syllable, circling the singers words in a tense loop. It annoys him greatly, but the room is cold, so he hesitates to get up, focusing instead on seeing something new in the photo. His knees under the blanket make a tent, and the box rests on these tenous poles. An unspoken conversation flows between his muttering lips and the photo.
The daylight is fading, and the sun frames the steeple of the church in it’s subdued glory. It’s her service, he can remember every detail with painful clarity; the rain, the flowers, the tense air of a suicide’s funeral. He starts to walk up the steps, the carved oak doors open, and she steps out into the sunlight. “Hey, c’mon in.” She says it exactly the way she used to greet him at her front door; cautious about showing him the disfunction inside the doors but pleased to see him nonetheless. “Let’s sit,” at the end right pew she smoothes her dress out underneath her and pats her hand. He can hear bits and pieces of the eulogy mutedly, like a conversation he can’t quite eavesdrop, but her voice is somehow clearer and sharper than it ever was. “I’m happy for you, pleased even. This is all over you know. It already happened.” He starts to speak, but the words have no weight and float around the church. Somehow he knows that these are the rules of the interchange. She continues, able, for once, to say her piece without interruption. “Remember Devon’s house?” This is that party, their Junior year of high school . He’s talking loudly, drunkenly, about her mother, her mother’s drinking, and her death. Watching it all a few feet away he can see himself, talking about things he doesn’t understand yet, but will. He sees himself look up and her standing near, she has heard everything loudly discussed, all her secrets, not his. The look on her face then, that look that only an unhappy girlfriend can properly conjour; hurt, shock, and lack of surprise.
In the middle of the pedestrian bridge a wide space emerges and he stops his speeding bicycle there. The traffic above him rumbles and roars but the water below is calm like the night air. Deftly, he slings his bag off his back, sets it in front of his torso and retrieves an apple from the jumble. The skin of the apple ruptures under his teeth, he chews thoughtfully and carefully, each bite accentuating points and counterpoints. That meeting in the basement, the coffee was bitter, but he couldn’t get enough of it, relishing the harsh, chemical taste. He sat there, head down, swirling the grounds in the bottom of the cup through most of the meeting, hypnotized. He looks side to side before praying outloud to the dark flowing water and the reflection of the moon chopped into slices by the waves as though he was seeing it through venetian blinds.“God grant me…” The apple makes a dent and a splash. After saddling his bike he’s off the bridge in a few quick strides.
His coffee steams gently in the worn, white mug, black and sugarless. The Sun’s rays and heat make him blind and uncomfortable. He retreats to higher ground on the porch, a narrow patch of shade shields him as he crouches in the corner smoking. He falls back into a memory, another sunny day, back when they could still speak, before he understood. She had not wanted to talk about it, annoying him, adding to his headache and seasick stomach. The bandages had made him sick and angry, and he had spoken harshly. Feet tucked under himself, knees bearing his weight he sighs, “God, grant me the serenity to accept…” There are times, like now, when he wishes he could cry, out of grief, and for regret.
“An eggshell smile”
“I don’t know what to do with my nights” he thinks, as awake and lively now as he wasn’t twelve hours ago. The porch steps, cold and concrete, make him draw his body as tightly as he can into his oversized army coat. Exhaling, he holds his cigarette downwards, and watches the smoke flow over and around his palm like spilling sand. Absorbed by his thoughts, but with nowhere to place them, he wills himself still. Traffic lights beckon and command absent cars, blinking and casting colored light on the blacktop. The moon is high in the sky and confident of it’s soveirgnty. Taking another drag he flicks the cigarette. Strewn onto the sidewalk it rolls a little, adjusting itself before settling into a resting place.
The box is wooden and rectangular with engravings of birds and leopards and a sliding lid. He lifts it from the shelf on the night stand, sliding it open he hesitates. The face in the photo catches him, a dark haired girl with an uncanny smile, broken but limping. “Eggshell smile” he muses, a cautious grin hangs and ruins the illusion of age the three day beard gives to his young face. His room is bright and full of mid-afternoon sun, but nearly empty except for his bed and dresser. The record he left playing is skipping every third syllable, circling the singers words in a tense loop. It annoys him greatly, but the room is cold, so he hesitates to get up, focusing instead on seeing something new in the photo. His knees under the blanket make a tent, and the box rests on these tenous poles. An unspoken conversation flows between his muttering lips and the photo.
The daylight is fading, and the sun frames the steeple of the church in it’s subdued glory. It’s her service, he can remember every detail with painful clarity; the rain, the flowers, the tense air of a suicide’s funeral. He starts to walk up the steps, the carved oak doors open, and she steps out into the sunlight. “Hey, c’mon in.” She says it exactly the way she used to greet him at her front door; cautious about showing him the disfunction inside the doors but pleased to see him nonetheless. “Let’s sit,” at the end right pew she smoothes her dress out underneath her and pats her hand. He can hear bits and pieces of the eulogy mutedly, like a conversation he can’t quite eavesdrop, but her voice is somehow clearer and sharper than it ever was. “I’m happy for you, pleased even. This is all over you know. It already happened.” He starts to speak, but the words have no weight and float around the church. Somehow he knows that these are the rules of the interchange. She continues, able, for once, to say her piece without interruption. “Remember Devon’s house?” This is that party, their Junior year of high school . He’s talking loudly, drunkenly, about her mother, her mother’s drinking, and her death. Watching it all a few feet away he can see himself, talking about things he doesn’t understand yet, but will. He sees himself look up and her standing near, she has heard everything loudly discussed, all her secrets, not his. The look on her face then, that look that only an unhappy girlfriend can properly conjour; hurt, shock, and lack of surprise.
In the middle of the pedestrian bridge a wide space emerges and he stops his speeding bicycle there. The traffic above him rumbles and roars but the water below is calm like the night air. Deftly, he slings his bag off his back, sets it in front of his torso and retrieves an apple from the jumble. The skin of the apple ruptures under his teeth, he chews thoughtfully and carefully, each bite accentuating points and counterpoints. That meeting in the basement, the coffee was bitter, but he couldn’t get enough of it, relishing the harsh, chemical taste. He sat there, head down, swirling the grounds in the bottom of the cup through most of the meeting, hypnotized. He looks side to side before praying outloud to the dark flowing water and the reflection of the moon chopped into slices by the waves as though he was seeing it through venetian blinds.“God grant me…” The apple makes a dent and a splash. After saddling his bike he’s off the bridge in a few quick strides.
His coffee steams gently in the worn, white mug, black and sugarless. The Sun’s rays and heat make him blind and uncomfortable. He retreats to higher ground on the porch, a narrow patch of shade shields him as he crouches in the corner smoking. He falls back into a memory, another sunny day, back when they could still speak, before he understood. She had not wanted to talk about it, annoying him, adding to his headache and seasick stomach. The bandages had made him sick and angry, and he had spoken harshly. Feet tucked under himself, knees bearing his weight he sighs, “God, grant me the serenity to accept…” There are times, like now, when he wishes he could cry, out of grief, and for regret.