From R8:
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
******
And he quit his job, electing to wait tables at the Cheesecake Factory across the mall.
He wasn't stone. He wasn't hard and impassive, and he couldn't take the story Miriam wanted to tell. So he walked through the bookstore, grabbed his bag and his coat, and walked back out the door. In the parking lot, flecks of snow hit his lashes but failed to reach the ground.
The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
R8: Repetition or Again, Danny Runs Away
From Q8:
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
"Well I ran away, of course" she continued, scuttling her two fingers across the table, "right up to my room. But he won me, over the next few months of parties and the small circuit my parents enjoyed." She looked away, and Danny wished they were on a broad lawn somewhere, in the sunshine with a river running below. "He was subtle, of course - he wasn't a smart match for me, old as I was. Repetition," she added. "Persistence. Yes, he found his ways... until." Her eyes and smile trailed away, and Danny pulled back. It felt as if his Adams apple was pressing into his throat.
"Miriam, I should really-" His eyes skittered over the food court, bouncing of garish neon signs. The big clock glared at him. He didn't need an "until" right now. He was already late for his shift.
"He died, Danny. That summer, and I married my husband that fall."
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
"Well I ran away, of course" she continued, scuttling her two fingers across the table, "right up to my room. But he won me, over the next few months of parties and the small circuit my parents enjoyed." She looked away, and Danny wished they were on a broad lawn somewhere, in the sunshine with a river running below. "He was subtle, of course - he wasn't a smart match for me, old as I was. Repetition," she added. "Persistence. Yes, he found his ways... until." Her eyes and smile trailed away, and Danny pulled back. It felt as if his Adams apple was pressing into his throat.
"Miriam, I should really-" His eyes skittered over the food court, bouncing of garish neon signs. The big clock glared at him. He didn't need an "until" right now. He was already late for his shift.
"He died, Danny. That summer, and I married my husband that fall."
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Q8: Quotable or Trembling with Anticipation
From P8:
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
Pushing the great, white lock back, she leaned in. "Stavros was a waiter who had worked plenty of events at my parent's house, and the parties of their friends. He was quiet, polite, and handsome. His hair was black enough, and his features... strong... enough, that it was easy enough to smile at him and accept a canape." Danny thought of Marina. Quotable, no matter what.
"But to me, he was terrifying." She placed a hand on her chest. "More beautiful than I knew a man could be. More of a man than any of the boys I knew at school. He was my woodcutter." She looked at her lap.
Danny knew the type - that longing. The lifeguards at the pool, impossibly tan and muscular and at ease on foot, in the water, or on their high lifeguard chairs. Their feet gripping the edge of the pool, their bodies knived over the water. He could still name individual coaches and football players. A cop who monitored the school parking lot his senior year. All those men who were the opposite of what Danny was, or knew he was, inside.
"So when he spoke to me, I nearly died."
Danny remembered his first heightened brush against a man in the bathroom on a trip to visit colleges during his senior year.
Miriam was lost in her story now. "It was at the end of the party, and my parents were on the lawn saying a few last goodbyes. I'd stayed inside to help tidy up - unnecessary, really, but I wanted to let the air back into the room - and he'd stepped quietly into the dining room where I was watching my parents through the blinds. 'Beautiful,' he'd said, in his thick accent, and I'd dropped my glass on the floor. His hand touched mine when I stooped to help him rather than let him clean up alone."
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
Pushing the great, white lock back, she leaned in. "Stavros was a waiter who had worked plenty of events at my parent's house, and the parties of their friends. He was quiet, polite, and handsome. His hair was black enough, and his features... strong... enough, that it was easy enough to smile at him and accept a canape." Danny thought of Marina. Quotable, no matter what.
"But to me, he was terrifying." She placed a hand on her chest. "More beautiful than I knew a man could be. More of a man than any of the boys I knew at school. He was my woodcutter." She looked at her lap.
Danny knew the type - that longing. The lifeguards at the pool, impossibly tan and muscular and at ease on foot, in the water, or on their high lifeguard chairs. Their feet gripping the edge of the pool, their bodies knived over the water. He could still name individual coaches and football players. A cop who monitored the school parking lot his senior year. All those men who were the opposite of what Danny was, or knew he was, inside.
"So when he spoke to me, I nearly died."
Danny remembered his first heightened brush against a man in the bathroom on a trip to visit colleges during his senior year.
Miriam was lost in her story now. "It was at the end of the party, and my parents were on the lawn saying a few last goodbyes. I'd stayed inside to help tidy up - unnecessary, really, but I wanted to let the air back into the room - and he'd stepped quietly into the dining room where I was watching my parents through the blinds. 'Beautiful,' he'd said, in his thick accent, and I'd dropped my glass on the floor. His hand touched mine when I stooped to help him rather than let him clean up alone."
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
P8: Pester
From O8:
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
Danny took a closer look. Even hooded, her eyes caught and reflected the lights above and people walking past. Her steel-gray hair had a single, luxurious sweep of white that hung with her bangs over her eye. Her track suit, fitted smartly to her trim, lady's frame, was a soft but electrifying blue.
"I'm laughing," he admitted, keeping his face very serious but hoping his eyes would smile. He could pester her a bit, he thought. She won't leave me alone, let's see how she does when the tables turn. "But just a bit."
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
Danny took a closer look. Even hooded, her eyes caught and reflected the lights above and people walking past. Her steel-gray hair had a single, luxurious sweep of white that hung with her bangs over her eye. Her track suit, fitted smartly to her trim, lady's frame, was a soft but electrifying blue.
"I'm laughing," he admitted, keeping his face very serious but hoping his eyes would smile. He could pester her a bit, he thought. She won't leave me alone, let's see how she does when the tables turn. "But just a bit."
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
Monday, March 15, 2010
O8: Oligarchy or "Oligarchy?" A surprisingly helpful word
From N8:
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
Danny leaned in.
"A Russian no less," she added. "And not. A. Jew." Her voice sang.
Danny laughed. Images of oil-rich oligarchs paraded by in fleets of limousines and fur coats made from snow leopards and Siberian tigers. Gold bars piled at their feet. It made him want a brownie sundae.
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
Danny leaned in.
"A Russian no less," she added. "And not. A. Jew." Her voice sang.
Danny laughed. Images of oil-rich oligarchs paraded by in fleets of limousines and fur coats made from snow leopards and Siberian tigers. Gold bars piled at their feet. It made him want a brownie sundae.
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
Monday, March 8, 2010
N8: Not or "Are the Words I'm Getting Uninspiring or What??"
From M8:
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
"Now at the time, we had a little bit of money. Not a lot," she assured him, looking demurely at the floor. "Enough." She appraised him. "You understand?"
"I do." Danny said it slowly. He wasn't sure if she was a half-wit, of if she thought Danny was a fool.
"Good." A forkful disappeared between pursed lips. "So we had service. Waiters. A silver buffet."
"OK...." He tried to imagine something else - a porno? Motorcycle magazine guy?
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
"Now at the time, we had a little bit of money. Not a lot," she assured him, looking demurely at the floor. "Enough." She appraised him. "You understand?"
"I do." Danny said it slowly. He wasn't sure if she was a half-wit, of if she thought Danny was a fool.
"Good." A forkful disappeared between pursed lips. "So we had service. Waiters. A silver buffet."
"OK...." He tried to imagine something else - a porno? Motorcycle magazine guy?
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
M8: Mainline or "Seriously?"
From L8:
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
"Uh huh." Seriously?
"When I was twenty-three, I was still unmarried, living in my parent's house on the Main Line-"
"Philadelphia?"
"Philadelphia," she confirmed with a nod. "I was already too old to make a good match," she chuckled and tassled his arm with her napkin, "so my parents set about hosting a series of parties that summer - any old excuse - to introduce me to all the young men."
Danny took a sip.
"At the, oh, third of these parties," she continued, leaning in like Danny was her oldest girlfriend, "I met HIM."
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
"Uh huh." Seriously?
"When I was twenty-three, I was still unmarried, living in my parent's house on the Main Line-"
"Philadelphia?"
"Philadelphia," she confirmed with a nod. "I was already too old to make a good match," she chuckled and tassled his arm with her napkin, "so my parents set about hosting a series of parties that summer - any old excuse - to introduce me to all the young men."
Danny took a sip.
"At the, oh, third of these parties," she continued, leaning in like Danny was her oldest girlfriend, "I met HIM."
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
L8: Lint or, "Finally, Miriam's story begins"
From K8:
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room.
"Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room.
"Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
K8: Kick-off or "Whoa"
From J8:
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick-looking blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
It was like the kick-off to every team sport he'd ever had to endure in school. The captains not choosing him. Even his friends avoiding his eyes. That pitying school-teacher smile.
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room. "Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick-looking blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
It was like the kick-off to every team sport he'd ever had to endure in school. The captains not choosing him. Even his friends avoiding his eyes. That pitying school-teacher smile.
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room. "Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
Monday, March 1, 2010
J8: Just or "Just the Tip"
from I8:
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
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