the strut strut
1. I strut around in my head each time it's refreshed like this, like I've pushed the reset button, a mental version of scrubbing grime from the floors of all the kitchens I've ever lived in. The kitchens, where we exchange our final words for the day, where we wait to say good-bye. The kitchen is always next to an exit. My kitchen door was cracked open--though locked--when I arrived home this evening. Perhaps some 9-5 phantom snuck in and relaxed on the couch for a bit, eyeing my bookcase, flipping through my stack of finished translations, glancing over the scribbled notes that only I understand.
2. I was a moderate mess today internally, wrestling hormones, nothing new. And now I'm here, a home of some sort, letting the cd player create some fantasy world where I live with everybody else in transparent structures.
Dear Period,
You wreck me.
Hate,
J.
3. I went to leave & steal a lunch break only to be instantly interrupted by a flat tire. These small tragedies don't wreck me. It's the fact that I scarcely find time to take care of them during the 45 or 50 hour work week. Not to mention the fact that putting the car in the shop during the work week implies that you have some reliable alternative. And nothing--nobody--is reliable. So I said, fuck it, I'll fucking change my tire & ride the spare through the week. Twenty degree dusk--ideal conditions under which to change a tire. I fucking hate doing that shit in the winter. But whatever. So naturally this guy appears out of the shadows of the parking lot, "You need some help?" I told him, "Nah, I'll be okay. I've done this before." He hovered a sec before telling me "It really doesn't look good for a woman to be changing her tire. You sure you don't want any help?" So I told him he could help if it would make him feel better. He told me it would. So I fucking made friends with Bobby. I won't take the time to provide an abstract of his biography here, but before he left and after I experienced that moment of remembering that his intentions may have been much worse than trying to sex me up as he stood with the jack in his hand, he didn't shake my hand to bid me farewell. He inched in close for a sideways hug, kind of tried to kiss my cheek, and asked how many boyfriends I have, asked me to consider him when the fact changes. And then he walked off, telling me that Tennessee men are the best, disappearing not into the parking lot to find a car, but into the shadows of the street. Like that. Bye bye blue eyed man. Thanks for the help & please don't visit me at work tomorrow.
2. I was a moderate mess today internally, wrestling hormones, nothing new. And now I'm here, a home of some sort, letting the cd player create some fantasy world where I live with everybody else in transparent structures.
Dear Period,
You wreck me.
Hate,
J.
3. I went to leave & steal a lunch break only to be instantly interrupted by a flat tire. These small tragedies don't wreck me. It's the fact that I scarcely find time to take care of them during the 45 or 50 hour work week. Not to mention the fact that putting the car in the shop during the work week implies that you have some reliable alternative. And nothing--nobody--is reliable. So I said, fuck it, I'll fucking change my tire & ride the spare through the week. Twenty degree dusk--ideal conditions under which to change a tire. I fucking hate doing that shit in the winter. But whatever. So naturally this guy appears out of the shadows of the parking lot, "You need some help?" I told him, "Nah, I'll be okay. I've done this before." He hovered a sec before telling me "It really doesn't look good for a woman to be changing her tire. You sure you don't want any help?" So I told him he could help if it would make him feel better. He told me it would. So I fucking made friends with Bobby. I won't take the time to provide an abstract of his biography here, but before he left and after I experienced that moment of remembering that his intentions may have been much worse than trying to sex me up as he stood with the jack in his hand, he didn't shake my hand to bid me farewell. He inched in close for a sideways hug, kind of tried to kiss my cheek, and asked how many boyfriends I have, asked me to consider him when the fact changes. And then he walked off, telling me that Tennessee men are the best, disappearing not into the parking lot to find a car, but into the shadows of the street. Like that. Bye bye blue eyed man. Thanks for the help & please don't visit me at work tomorrow.