And oh it was hot. Hot like Old Testament Lot, all mad/sad that his wife wanted to watch her friends go to ash. But what the hell was I doing there, then? Same exact thing. Only I didn’t care which one of us got to see the other go, didn’t matter if it was Helen or me. One of us would be cinder and the other salt. Here there was no skin-of-his-teeth, “wasn’t my fault,” Sodomite. And, anyway, Helen and I were not married.

I had been dating this girl who looked like a living Modigliani. The stretched limbs and dead eyes that are – as static modernist art – the pulse of surface beauty. But find someone who looks like this for real and it is not nice to gaze upon. I didn’t even like her for “who she was,” for, whatever that might have entailed, Helen was a creature who infatuated me because of her untranslatable nature, her put-off presence, her lines and planes. After our third date I knew she felt the same way about me. And now we had been seeing each other for three months and we kept meeting up for dates – never breaking them, I mean. Helen needs glasses and never wears them, so in her eyes I come off like one of Francis Bacon’s guilty men: red and pink and then too white, when I laugh I become all mouth, bragging about gums and no good can come out of me. 

I gave up on the window, got out of the car and found my way to my seat in the third row.  Helen’s always late. There is no one else who looks like me. So, I was thinking: if she gets here then no problem. Her eyes will adjust over the seats and she’ll find me. Or she won’t show up and she’ll have beaten me at this. Our relationship was this tight Rock, Paper, Scissors-thing that became evermore steeped in the stress of how used to each other we were getting. It had always been clear in our silence how we would end. One of us would stand the other one up, and this crowning act of negligence – no matter how much we’d spoken to each other on the phone or written postcards, smiled to our families whenever we mentioned who we were seeing, what we did on our evenings out – would end it. And, like I said, we had never broken a date.  

Every Thursday night the In-Joke shows two short local films before the main feature.  As I waited for Helen I watched a carnival movie. Seventeen minutes in and it still looked like there would be no fun, not even that rank howl of the dark carnival time. Although, I did feel the pain of sweaty things: there was a jar of some amniotic-looking fluid sitting atop a rotten workbench, there was a lot of sawdust, and the score was a very drunken sounding harpsichord. 

If the flick didn’t keep flashing the words CARNIVAL, I would have forgotten what I was watching. I was thinking that this was my chance; this was the sheer space I needed to make my exit. Like: Well, I was getting sick just waiting for you to show, these student films are all so painful. Why do you get to be late? This is wrong. I’m out of here, babe. But the picture ended and I let go of my tension as the commercials came on. BUY A SODA, the words so red that you felt thirst; and a child of – I was guessing – eleven holding a chocolate bar to her lips and not smiling, really looking bored, like she didn’t need this chocolate, or like she was so used to eating chocolate that it did nothing for her. I was calm now, not wanting to ever drink a soda or eat a chocolate bar again. And now the second film. A horror movie, a black and white thing called Wrist. Aptly named and well paced. This guy gets off his convenience store job, and on his walk home nearly trips over something sticking out of the ground. He looks down and it is this finger bone. There is a thirty second camera swim around the porous object, and heaven music – synthetic organ and wash out-waves that warmed my neck, made me smile. Cut to the guy trying to dig it up. His fingers rubbing out the soft earth around the bone. We see his wrists working like he’s untying someone that needs clock-stop rescuing. There is no music when he does this, but the pant and gasp of our hero’s determination. Now the hand bones are exposed.  And again: thirty seconds of a camera inspection, that same alcohol soaked cotton balls, then rubbed along the spine-music. He keeps on digging and we go down the wrist bone. Four inches down – the work, so easy – the guy starts to pull at the ossified appendage; handshake grip like his wrists and dead wrist have always been buddies. And he yanks the arm out, too far but the bone won’t stop. How long can this go on? When the guy sees that the single bone has revealed itself to be as long as a short leg, he takes a breather. Then slowly starts the inevitable pull again.  He is cautious now, not panting. In the corner of the screen the sky is changing, the sun is coming up. The screen goes to black. The film is over. I’m glad I saw it, but wish I could forget every moment. 

And this was my cue to leave. If I wanted to be the guy who cut it close but in the end bailed, I had to get up right then before Helen showed. There are never any trailers before the main feature. And I was sitting in the dark. I could hear the breaks in the film, the switch of audio levels. The screen kept flicking bright empty projections of no show. My eyes adjusted to having to seize quick sight and I noticed that Helen was sitting to my left, a seat away from me, looking at the same white surface. She couldn’t have been there for much more than a few minutes. She looked at me then pulled up a large tub of popcorn from her lap to offer me some.  I didn’t want to eat unless the main feature was playing. But when was it going to start? This was uncomfortable. 

We had shown up. Helen and I had kept up our part of the deal, but the movie hadn’t.  And now: not even the courtesy of erratic flickering, just the integrity of projector light unfiltered by any film. The sharp planes of Helen’s face and the pale lip-skin that detailed her pout had never cooperated so tightly before. She opened her mouth to ask me something, but didn’t say a word, and after a moment let it close. 

The screen went to black, then white again. The audio was being messed with. There was a sizzle-hissing noise coming from the speakers that were lined along the theater walls. Helen put her hand in the bucket of popcorn while I, before she could pull it out, cupped my fingers over her knuckle. My palm was growing cold, sweaty; but I left it there, counting to twenty and staring at the white screen, all the while knowing that we were both looking up at that sheet of silence, of bye-bye surrender. I let go of her, then stood up, really thinking that I was going to the concession stand to get a bottled water. I mean totally believing that, so much so that I didn’t even tell Helen what I was getting up for.  

But moving out of the theater and into the lobby I just kept walking. Slow pace-like; zombie sauntering toward final rest or little boy looking for an expensive toy he was warned against losing. I walked out of the cinema and then over to my car. There was a guy standing on a ladder and changing the letters on the marquee. And there was a pink flyer under my windshield wiper. I opened the car door. Water had collected in the driver’s seat. It was not raining, but it had. While I was inside, it had rained. 

The post Rock, Paper, Cinema appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Cole left his desk and stood in the office doorway. “You doing okay, buddy?” he asked.

Imad regarded him with eyes that seemed too big for his face. “I’ve been under the weather,” he replied. “Too much reading. You know how it is.”

“I’m more of an audiobook man myself.” Cole cleared his throat. “Listen, Imad. I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t look so great. Do you want to sit down before you head out? I’ve still got some soda from the graduation party in the minifridge. You’d be doing me a favor if you took one.”

A wan smile surfaced on Imad’s face. He took a step toward the office, but his expression twisted into a grimace as his laptop bag shifted against his side. “Thanks, but I’d better get going,” he muttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone? Like a Lyft or something?” Cole offered, but Imad shook his head and slipped through the door to the stairs. 

Cole watched as he left. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the corridor, but he could have sworn he saw a sheen of sweat on Imad’s forehead. It was probably nothing more serious than a summer cold, but Cole wondered what Imad could have read to make his face so pale. 

As he indulged in speculation, Cole’s imagination got the better of him. Miskatonic University was famous for housing a large collection of books once deemed heretical by the large universities in Boston. Even today, books bound in human skin occupied a substantial division of the library archives. What if Imad had gotten sick from contact with one of the books in the special collections?

A story about a forbidden book would make a great podcast episode. The most downloaded episode on Cole’s feed was a story about a cursed doll he’d found on Etsy. Creepy dolls were a dime a dozen, but the pink mildew poking out of this doll’s cracked porcelain scalp was something special. The listing said the seller was local, so Cole sent her a message and requested an in-person viewing of the doll. The seller immediately replied with her address.

When Cole drove over, he found the doll perched on the edge of the rotting concrete porch of an abandoned wastewater plant. It sat in a puddle of something that wasn’t quite liquid. Cole was painfully aware that he’d walked headlong into a prank, but he didn’t touch the doll. He had no interest in mucking about with the neon fungus infesting its hair, but he was more than happy to take a photo. 

Cole invented a lurid story about the doll for his podcast. Sure enough, listeners loved it. He resented the popularity of such obvious clickbait, but it served its purpose. For a time, at least. As was so often the case with online content, interest waned quickly. He needed another hit. Cole fancied himself to be a literary horror specialist, and he used his show to discuss writers like M.R. James and Elizabeth Gaskell alongside twentieth-century film noir. An episode about a cursed book had the potential to draw an audience, and it would be a much better ambassador for the show than a fabricated story about a cursed doll.

When he introduced himself at department parties, Cole didn’t hesitate to tell new acquaintances that he hosted a podcast. He’d even printed a business card on handsome matte black cardstock with his name and website. Most people accepted the card, but very few asked him what he meant when he described his field as “dark academia.” Perhaps they assumed he was complaining about grad school. 

To be fair, Cole had tried his hand at a graduate program, but only briefly, and only at a small department at a state school in Ohio. The college’s fluorescent-lit cinderblock buildings didn’t contribute to a scholarly state of mind, and Cole dropped out after his first semester. He took the opportunity to relocate to Boston, where he found a job writing copy for the alumni magazine of a liberal arts school. 

Far from being the ancient and shadow-blighted city he’d read so much about, Boston was a textbook case of gentrification, especially the neighborhood around the university. After a year of mounting debt with nary a Gothic spire in sight, Cole found a listing for an administrative assistant at the Classics Department of Miskatonic University in Arkham. There wasn’t much charm or prestige out in the Essex County suburbs, but it was hard to deny the lure of cutting his rent in half. 

Cole was interviewed by the department chair, a harassed-looking elderly gentleman in a threadbare blazer. The chair informed Cole that there were no other applicants, and that the position was his if he wanted it. He would be working under the head administrator, a cheerful red-faced woman named Peggy who introduced herself with a wave. The chair didn’t seem overly concerned with how the department was run, and Cole suspected that Peggy had acquired the blush on her cheeks from a liquid lunch. He accepted the job on the spot.

The Classics Department was like any other office, equipped with outdated computers and furniture straight from wholesale. The industrial wall-to-wall carpeting bore the stains of years of department parties, and a neglected snake plant struggled valiantly by the lone window. Cole didn’t see much of the professors, and the grad students were an uninspiring bunch interested primarily in gossip. 

Imad was different. As far as Cole could tell, he was the only person who made use of the shared grad student office. He came in every afternoon, and he always stopped by the department office to say hello before disappearing into the small room at the end of the corridor.

Imad told Cole that he was working on his dissertation, a comparison of Near Eastern gnostic texts from the seventh and eighth centuries. He more properly belonged to the Religious Studies department, he’d explained, but it was dissolved the same semester he finished his coursework. Cole didn’t follow his breakdown of the situation, which had something to do with falling enrollments and shrinking budgets, but he understood that Imad had been taken in by the Classics Department as a courtesy. 

Cole asked about the progress of Imad’s work every afternoon, and Imad was always ready with a concise and practical explanation. It didn’t escape Cole’s notice that Imad was blessed with a mellow yet resonant voice that would sound excellent on tape.

Cole gradually developed a casual friendship with Imad over the course of the spring semester, and he came to look forward to Imad’s visits to the office. Once classes ended and the students disappeared from campus, however, Imad started to change. He lost weight, and his cheeks became so hollow that his eyes seemed to bulge from his face. The golden tan of his skin faded to a sickly olive. His beard was patchy and uneven. 

And there was another thing. Imad had begun to smell. The odor that lingered behind him wasn’t unpleasant, but it was odd. The smell reminded Cole of wet asphalt drying in the sun after the rain. Or like an antique doll sitting in a puddle of creosotic slime outside an abandoned water treatment plant in the twilight of rural Ohio. 

Cursed book or not, something was going on, and Cole figured that he owed it to himself to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling Imad. With almost no work over the summer and a boss who only rarely bothered to show up to the office, it’s not as if he had anything else to do. 

There weren’t many students on campus during the summer. Truth be told, there weren’t many students on campus during the school year. Cole was given to understand that Miskatonic’s enrollments had been falling with each successive semester. This didn’t surprise him. The campus was filled with stately old buildings, but none of them had been maintained for years. The gym had been built in the 1970s, and the dorms a decade earlier. It wasn’t the sort of place that attracted students. 

Regardless, Cole was required to be in the office until the end of working hours. He replied to emails in the morning and spent the afternoon in comfortable solitude searching for stories online. 

He’d recently started researching the Theosophical Society Lodge next to campus. The Lodge had supposedly held seances well into the twentieth century, but they apparently stopped on the eve of the Great War. The building now housed a library that served as a stage for public lectures on world religions, some of which had been recorded.  

Cole had just downloaded the most recent lecture when Imad walked into the office. He looked even worse than usual. His face had gone from olive to yellow, and the sheen of grease on his forehead was unmistakable.

Cole swallowed his shock as he greeted Imad. “Hey, so,” he began. “I was reading about modern Gnosticism. Not much to do here over the summer, right? And I was wondering. How would you pronounce, ah, Mandaeism?”

“Mandaeism? You pronounced it correctly. The Arabic is al-Mandāʾiyya, but Mandaeism is fine for general use. Why do you ask?”

“I was fishing for material for my podcast. I read that a lot of Iraqis moved to the suburbs of DC during the early 2000s. Apparently, one community brought lead amulets written in a form of Aramaic that no one at the Smithsonian can read.” 

“I wouldn’t say that no one can read them,” Imad replied. “Even if the ganzibria priests couldn’t transliterate the written text, they’d be able to recite the historiola.”

“The historiola? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that term.”

“A historiola is a short story about a ritual. The act of reading the story functions as a performance of the ritual itself, like a magic spell.”

“How does that work?” Cole asked. 

Imad shrugged. “It’s magic. Who can say how it works? Still, it’s probably for the best that no one at the Smithsonian can read the amulets. You wouldn’t want to pronounce the Aramaic with too much accuracy. If the divine creator brought this world into existence with a word, it stands to reason that another word might open the gates between worlds. That’s a metaphor for the expansiveness of spirituality, of course,” he added with a smile, “but one can never be too careful.”

“Interesting,” Cole said, and it was. The idea that the act of reading could serve as a magic ritual was intriguing. “So what are you translating this afternoon?”

“Well,” Imad started to say, but he winced as he leaned against the waist-high counter separating the office from the faculty mailboxes. It could have been a trick of the light, but something seemed to ripple under his layers of sweaters.

Imad caught the look of concern on Cole’s face. “Sorry,” he said as he turned toward the door. “I might have had too much tea with lunch. I’m going to visit the bathroom and head to my office.”

Cole nodded and returned his eyes to his computer screen, hoping that he’d staged a decent performance of polite interest. He hesitated to cross the line of professional distance with the members of his department. He couldn’t afford to move back to Boston, and he needed this job. Arkham wasn’t the most prosperous suburb, and the only other paying work he’d be likely to find here was at the fulfillment center warehouse by the highway. 

Still, he liked Imad. Professionalism be damned. 

Later that afternoon, he brewed two bags of mint tea in paper cups and carried them down the hall to the graduate student office. When Imad answered the door, Cole was struck by the wet smell that emerged from the room. It was as if something spilled on the carpet and never dried properly. 

“So I was thinking,” he said, “no one is using the department chair’s office over the summer. I was planning to air it out a bit. Care to join me?” 

The chair’s office was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and equipped with the sort of grommeted furniture that populated movies about gentlemen explorers. It smelled like fine paper and old leather, and the sunlight that filtered through the cloudy panes of glass in the mullioned windows was bright but gentle.

 “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re working on?” Cole asked as he sat down. 

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it,” Imad replied. He sank back in his chair as he took a long sip of tea. “At the moment I’m working on a translation of the Kitab al-Azif. This is a gnostic text that originated somewhere in the vicinity of Yemen in the early eighth century. It was believed to have potent magical properties, and it was translated into several languages over the centuries. 

“Manuscripts of the Azif managed to travel around the world, but they’re remarkably rare. When I was doing research for my MA thesis, I’d see one translation or another cited in various papers, but I could never find the original source. It turns out that the only physical copies in the United States are held by the Miskatonic library, which is why I applied to do my PhD here. 

“I thought it might be interesting to compare the versions to understand how key phrases were translated by different cultures. When I spoke to the head of Special Collections here at our library, she was happy to share a PDF of a tenth-century Arabic manuscript held by the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. The file isn’t the best quality, to be honest. The manuscript is a copy of a copy of a copy, and the source is badly damaged. I’m doing the best I can with what I have available. 

“I’d like to write a grant to go see the original in person, but I’m not at that stage yet. Maybe next spring? I could use a vacation.” Imad shrugged and took another sip of tea. Cole was relieved to see the color returning to his face. 

“So this Kitab al…”

“Azif. It’s a poetic word that refers to the chirping of nocturnal insects.”

“So this Kitab al-Azif, what’s it about? If that’s the right question.”

“No, that’s a great question. The book holds that there’s a deeper truth to the universe, and the author – we don’t know his true name – tells a remarkably coherent story as he explains what this supposed truth is. He claims that our universe is like the thin film on the surface of a bubble, and he believes that there are all manner of things outside the bubble we can’t see. 

“This isn’t an original idea, but what’s interesting about the Azif is that its author provides a history of our planet long before humans lived here. Most creation myths describe humans as being brought into existence shortly after the universe itself, but the Azif speaks of genesis in terms of cycles. People that weren’t human inhabited the planet before us, and people who aren’t human will live here after us.”

“That sounds kind of Buddhist,” Cole cut in.     

“Exactly! There’s a great deal of Eastern thought incorporated into these ideas. All times exist at once, simultaneously, and in different dimensions. The borders between dimensions can be weakened by magic, supposedly. By the act of reading the Azif, the creatures occupying other dimensions can be invited into our own world.” 

“I’d love to meet them,” Cole remarked. “I wonder what they look like?”

Imad stared at his tea as he shifted the paper cup between his hands. “They’re probably not what you expect. I think we’ve gotten used to the strange creatures that appear in movies. When you finally see the monster on the other side of the door, it becomes familiar, like a type of mascot. We can see horrible things online whenever we want, from deep sea fish to the microorganisms that live inside our bodies, and we’ve learned to love them. But maybe there are things out there that are so alien that we’ll never be able to process them, either intellectually or emotionally.

“Gnosticism seems so natural in the twenty-first century, doesn’t it? Of course there’s a deeper truth to the universe. All we have to do is use science to figure it out. People publish their findings, and what they learn becomes real to us in the form of technological innovation. But the modern Western world didn’t invent science. Other cultures studied the stars and the principles of chemistry and physics long before Aristotle began giving lectures at his Lyceum. So why did gnostic ideas fall out of favor? Why did people stop thinking about the universe as a malleable series of experiential planes? I wonder if perhaps someone saw the monster on the other side of the door and decided that it would be better if the truth remained hidden.”

“Wow. I wish I could have recorded that.”

  Imad looked up from his tea. “What do you mean?”

“That would have been a fantastic interview for my podcast. You have a great voice for audio.”

“Do I?” Imad laughed, but his mirth vanished as his face twisted into a grimace.

Cole frowned. “Listen, Imad. You’re really not looking so great.”

“I’m fine.” As Imad rose to his feet, Cole couldn’t help notice the awkward movement of his body. The way his sweaters bunched around his torso was decidedly odd. Something like a thick strip of cloth hung from the back of the layers of fabric. As Cole watched Imad leave the room, he could have sworn that it twitched.

Cole returned to campus later that evening. He unlocked the department office and sat at his desk without turning on the lights. He considered making a show of checking his email, but the performance would be for no one’s benefit but his own. As long as he was here, he might as well get this over with. 

Cole wanted to tell himself he was sneaking around for Imad’s own good. That was true, to a certain extent, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He’d always regretted not investigating the waterlogged doll, and he promised himself that he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like that again. Still, as he set off down the dim corridor of faculty offices, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. The grad student office wasn’t a private space, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t violating Imad’s trust. 

There was no strange smell when he opened the office door, just the lingering aroma of bergamot tea. The two cubicles closest to the door were empty. Imad had claimed the cubicle by the window, and he’d dragged a table next to the wall behind his chair. It was covered in library books.

There was nothing unusual on Imad’s desk – a bottle of aspirin, a jumble of cheap pens, and a spare phone charger. He hadn’t pinned any photos to the corkboard cubicle divider, but a collection of thank-you cards from students was propped in a corner. Several manilla folders were stacked on top of each other in the opposite corner, each neatly labeled in Arabic.

Cole opened one of the folders. The paper inside was covered in dark smudges. This must be a copy of the manuscript scan Imad told him about. Cole didn’t know anything about Arabic, but even he could tell how bad the image quality was. It was amazing that Imad could read this at all. Interleaved between the photocopies were pages torn from a yellow legal pad. The loose papers were covered with annotations surrounding a handwritten English translation.

 Cole scanned what Imad had written, but none of it made sense to him. As far as he could tell, this particular passage had something to do with constellations. The next page was a clean photocopy of what must be a Latin translation, and the next was a translation of the Latin into severely antiquated English. Under that was a printed copy of the Wikipedia page about the sky quadrants used by medieval astronomers.

Something seized in Cole’s chest as he flipped through the pages. This was exactly the sort of academic work he once imagined himself doing. A lone scholar sitting at a quiet desk with nothing but paper and a pen as he studied ancient texts, taking careful notes while excavating the meaning of words written in centuries past. There was a certain romance to the idea, and Cole wasn’t at all surprised to find that Imad’s handwriting was as beautiful as his voice.

He picked up the legal pad sitting at the center of the desk and flipped to the last few pages. A word written in capital letters immediately caught his attention: SHOGGOTH. Under it, Imad had written: “What is formless will be given form. The shoggoth will heed the call of its creator, if called in a [dream??] voice speaking its proper name. That which hides in the deathless gap between hours can be retrieved by a shoggoth, grasped within its hands without hands.”

The next page contained a series of vectors that Imad had labeled with numbers and overlaid with pencil sketches of constellations. Cole recognized the Big Dipper of Ursa Major, as well as the three stars of Orion’s Belt, but something about the angles formed by the connected lines felt wrong. Looking at them too closely made his head hurt. 

The next page was a photocopy of an illuminated manuscript written in Latin. Cole didn’t understand Imad’s annotations, many of which were crossed out, but a square yellow sticky note appended to the bottom of the page caught his attention. Almost without being aware of it, he read the note out loud. “The hands without hands, fhtagn ph’nglui.”

As the words left his mouth, the image of the thick pale thread emerging from Imad’s sweaters jumped into Cole’s mind. He was struck by the smell of water. Roiling seas under an endless expanse of sky, stars and constellations without number, pinpricks of light fitting together into an intricate matrix of impossible geometry.

Something unpleasant rose in his throat. He barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Cole couldn’t leave the building quickly enough. He was sick again in the bushes beside the parking lot.

It was only sitting in his car, with the air conditioning blasting in his face, that his nausea dissipated. As he clutched the wheel, Cole chided himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. A cursed book was all well and good, but the notion of a cursed photocopy was absurd. He’d managed to spook himself for no reason. Whatever was going on with Imad had nothing to with star charts or Latin manuscripts. A section of the roof of Whateley Hall had collapsed during the heavy snowfall of the previous winter, and Cole wouldn’t be surprised if it had resulted in extensive water damage to the building. The insulation in the walls was more than likely riddled with mildew.  

Someone should get Imad set up in a different office. That someone, as it happened, was him. He’d bring it up tomorrow, Cole resolved as he backed out of his parking space. Still, he was troubled by the word Imad had written in rough letters at the top of his legal pad. What the hell was a shoggoth? 

Cole woke up the next morning haunted by a lingering sense of shame. What had possessed him to drive back to campus and sneak into Imad’s office? That was creepier than any cursed book could ever be. He needed to talk to Imad. Really talk to him. Maybe even ask him out to dinner.  

Cole washed his hair for the first time in a week and trimmed his beard as it dried. His apartment occupied the top floor of an old Queen Anne house, and the morning sun streamed through the tall windows under the peaked gambrel roof. Songbirds chirped in the branches of the stately ash tree growing beside the house. Cole had been toying with the possibility of moving back to Ohio, but he couldn’t deny that there was a certain charm to summer mornings in New England.

In the department office, he chatted with Peggy as he handled the visa paperwork of an incoming grad student, all the while feeling a sort of secondhand pride that someone would come all the way from abroad to study at Miskatonic. He ate lunch on the outside patio with the two elderly women who ran the office of the Modern Languages department. They showed him photos of their cats on their phones and told him stories about their grandchildren as they enjoyed the sunshine. Afterward, they brushed their teeth together in the women’s bathroom on the second floor, which they agreed was the nicest in Whateley Hall.

 Cole waited for Imad to come to the office. He waited so hard that he couldn’t read Wikipedia, not even the entry about the mysteriously nondescript warehouses used to house banks of internet servers. Everything he saw on social media annoyed him. Eventually he gave up on trying to do anything productive and opened a website that emulated screensavers from the 1990s.

After spending half an hour watching digital fish float through an overbright coral reef, Cole realized that he was being silly. It was a beautiful summer day. There was no need for him to kill time in an empty office while Imad was making himself sick looking at crusty photocopies of wizard nonsense for the sake of a dissertation that no one would ever read. 

Cole’s palms were sweaty as he knocked on the door of the grad student office. What if Imad had noticed that his research notes had been disturbed? 

“Imad?” he called out, but there was no answer. He wiped his hands on his pants before grasping the doorknob. At best, he’d have to apologize to Imad for going through his papers. At worst, he’d have to drive him to the hospital. 

There was another possibility: a void, a vacuum, a tear in the fabric of reality. A window opening onto an oceanic abyss trapped beneath sheets of ice for millennia. A silent city suspended under lightless stars. A multitude of insectile eyes focused on the present moment: a miniscule oasis in the ever-expanding desert of time and space. 

Cole opened the door. The office was empty.

The window was open, and a faint breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass into the room. A ceramic mug of tea sat on the table next to a laptop with a burnished copper finish. 

Cole closed the door and stepped back into the corridor, where he was greeted by a strange but familiar smell. The odor wasn’t unpleasant, just unusual. It reminded him of the lake shore where his uncles had hosted cookouts when he was a kid. He’d spent most of his summers indoors, reading his way through the local library’s paltry stock of fiction. His isolation made the outings to the lake with his cousins all the sweeter. In truth, Cole loved the smell of water, and he had a good idea of where it was coming from. 

He retraced his steps down the corridor until he arrived at the bathroom by the elevators. With no hesitation whatsoever, he went inside. 

At first, Cole didn’t understand the sight that greeted him. He recognized Imad’s face, but it took a few seconds to process the rest of him. Five fleshy appendages ringed with red patches of irritated skin emerged from Imad’s naked torso. The tentacles were limp but twitched spasmodically. 

Beads of sweat pooled on Imad’s forehead as he stared at Cole in horror, his sweaters clutched in his hands. “Listen, I don’t… I mean, I can explain,” he stammered. 

“You can explain later,” Cole replied, his concern for Imad’s discomfort winning out over his shock. “Just sit tight. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Cole dashed to the department office, hoping against hope that Imad didn’t flee. He grabbed a can of ginger ale from the office minifridge and rushed back to the bathroom.

He found Imad sitting on the bench by the door. His face was utterly forlorn, and his tentacles waved listlessly in Cole’s direction. 

“Buddy, you’ve got to hydrate,” Cole said, popping the tab on the can of ginger ale.  

Imad accepted the can with a curt nod and drank. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The words of the ritual,” he muttered. “The book was a historiola, but I got the words wrong. I couldn’t read them correctly.”

“Maybe you can get them to send you a better photocopy next time,” Cole replied. “For the time being, you need to take better care of yourself. Your, uh… Tentacles? Can I call them that? Whatever’s going on there. It looks like they’re irritated by your clothing. Peggy has a giant bottle of hand lotion on her desk. I’m sure she won’t mind if you use it.” 

“This doesn’t bother you?” Imad asked.  

“It’s not making you evil or anything, is it?”

“I don’t think so.” Imad’s shoulders sagged. “It’s just a lot to get used to. And sometimes I see things I’m not sure are actually there.”

“What type of things? Anything fun?”

Imad managed a weak grin. “Why? Do you still want to interview me for your podcast?”

“Forget the podcast. But I’d love to talk with you. I’m not busy right now. Do you want to take a walk? Maybe go out for coffee or something?”

Imad’s tentacles perked up at the question. “Are you asking me out?” 

“I… yes. I’m sorry if that’s not appropriate. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t want to make me uncomfortable.” Imad stared at Cole in disbelief before breaking into laughter. His tentacles undulated with good cheer. 

Cole returned his smile. He’d been worried that something was terribly wrong with Imad, but this wasn’t so bad, all things considered. Imad’s tentacles were kind of cute. Perhaps they would have been more horrific if they’d come directly from a cursed book, but there wasn’t much damage a grainy photocopy could do. Whatever this Kitab al-Azif was, he and Imad could handle it together, preferably after they’d gotten something to eat. And who knows, it might even make a good episode for his podcast. 

The post The Annotated Kitab al-Azif appeared first on The New Absurdist.

The post Analog appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Bub 

There were never many new faces on the 8 line, and I memorized them all. There was a young lady that got on at 6th/Ferdinand with her baby and went the whole trip around to get off at the same stop. The baby was always crying when they first got in and fell asleep within the next two stops. There was an old man with prune lips and broken capillaries on his cheeks and knuckles who got on at 3rd/Highland and got off at 8th/Anderson to go home from work. I’ll see you tomorrow, Chief, he said with a nod of his hat. 

The hum of rubber on pavement filled the metal walls. The evening shift was my favorite; it was my regular time. When I first started, over fifteen years ago, I had afternoons. That’s the worst time to drive. Damp bodies and hot breath; everyone’s so angry about being alive and being on the bus, you could feel it in the air like cement. 

In the cool evening everyone was so tired from work that it was quiet. I used to play tunes from the jazz station, until one day the young momma asked me to turn it off to see if that’d let the baby fall asleep faster. It worked. The hums of wind friction and the engine stirring were the only music that filled the air after that. 

Luz ran out of the panaderia on the corner by the time I pulled up to the stop, waving at the old man as he walked away, little white bags filled with baked goods in her hands as she rushed up the steps, barely on time. I didn’t mind waiting for her. 

How you doin’ today, Bub? she asked. 

I’m doing alright, Sugar. What’d you get me? 

You know they don’t have much at this time in the day, but I snagged you an empanada. She extended her hand to offer me a bag. 

I reached out for the bag. Thank you, thank you. You know I’m always too hungry by this time of the shift. 

It’s almost over though! She grinned before walking down the aisle to take the old man’s spot. 

At 9th/Zidan, a father and his child daughter got off, holding hands as they walked away from us. 

At 10th/Corpus, our last stop on the route before we turned around and took the line the other way, a young man got on. I didn’t recognize him. 

Hi. He flashed a smile before moving on. A brown leather satchel hung from his left shoulder and he carried a gray suit jacket in his left hand. 

I continued down the street before turning the corner on the next three corners. Then I took a left to get us back on the original route heading in the opposite direction. After I finished there’d be a shift change and a younger man would take over the route until 3 am. It was 9:18. 

The young momma got off at 6th/Ferdinand with her sleeping child, along with an older lady with box-blonde hair and a young boy who carried a backpack and a duffle bag and didn’t talk much. I think he ran track. The new young man got off at 2nd/Landon, so did a woman who would walk on the bus in a pantsuit and walk off the bus in a blouse that could barely cover both her breasts. I always imagined she went dancing some place. I imagined her long arms looming over her head, a soft bend in her elbows and shoulder blades popping. 

Luz was the only one who got off at 1st/Maine. 

Enjoy the empanadas, Bub! she called before stepping off the bus. 

Have a good night! 

I waited a few minutes to watch her cross the street and walk into the building on the next block, just to make sure she got in safely. 

Several weeks passed. The old man with the prune lips sat at the front of the bus, behind me. My wife tried to take our dog to the vet last night because she thought he was sick, he told me. 

Is your dog alright? 

Well, we don’t have a dog, he said a sadness laced in his words. I’m thinking about moving us into a home, at least we’d be together. It’ll be such a hassle to memorize a new bus route. 

It only took you thirty years to memorize this one, I teased and waited for the sadness to blow out the window like air. He chuckled and patted my shoulder. I tried to imagine what it’d be like to stop at 3rd/Highland without being greeted by the nod of his flat cap. 

Maybe I’ll consider retiring this year to spend more time with her, he said. I think he should’ve retired a long time ago. He’s been on the 8 line since way before I started driving it. His was the first face I memorized. 

It was raining. Windshield wipers sped back and forth across the glass. We stopped at 6th/Ferdinand, and the young momma got on, closing her blue umbrella without taking the time to shake it. I didn’t mind. 

You shouldn’t have brought your baby out in the storm, the old man said with a sort of sweetness in his voice. He was just as concerned about the mother as he was about the baby. She won’t sleep without this bus ride, she said. The bags under her eyes seemed to get worse every day. She doesn’t accept rain checks, the momma said, earning a laugh from both the old man and me. 

At 8th/Anderson, Luz ran out of the panaderia right away, without the usual little white bags in her hands. She didn’t have an umbrella, her clothes and hair dripping wet. The old man tipped his hat at me and walked off the bus. I saw him caress Luz’s shoulder when she greeted him and offered her his umbrella but she refused it. 

Sorry, Bub. They didn’t have anything for us today, she said as she climbed on the bus. I passed her my cardigan. It’s okay, dry off Kiddo. 

She smiled and took a seat in the middle of the bus. 

The new young man got on at 10th/Corpus. He had a black umbrella. He shook it off before climbing on the bus, but the rain was so bad he was soaked in just those few seconds. He dragged water onto my bus. 

We looped around. This time, the new young man didn’t get off at 2nd/Landon. I turned back to him, but he didn’t move. I kept driving. 

Have a good night, Luz, I told her once we were at 1st/Maine. She only responded with a smile as she hung my cardigan on the back of my seat. Luz climbed off and the new young man followed after her. 

I watched him run up behind her, I leaned forward in my seat, getting ready to unbuckle my seatbelt. But then he held his umbrella over her head. I settled. 

. . . 

Arlo 

I had studied the stops of the 8 line and taken notes about where I had to go. It made things easier to remember. The stop where I got on the bus was in front of an Indian restaurant. It was three blocks away from my apartment building. I’ve never had Indian food before. I made a mental note to go there with friends at a later date. Or maybe during my lunch hour sometime. I knew that we passed a shopping mall two stops before the one I got off, and I knew that we passed an elementary school one stop before it. It looked so dark and sad as we drove by at night, very different from what it was like during the day, on my way to work. I was supposed to get off at 2nd and Landon, just in front of some random business plaza. 

I’d never taken the bus before. I grew up in the suburbs and had a car in college. But now that my place of work was virtually across town from my apartment, I had to utilize public transportation. Something about it felt grimy and dirty. I packed disinfectant wipes in my satchel, but I was too embarrassed to use them. Instead I sat with the germs and bacteria, imagining them making friends with one another before infecting me with whatever viruses they carried. 

There was a girl. She was already on the bus by the time I got on everyday. But she was the first person I noticed when I got on. She had dark hair that framed her face, and deep-set eyes. A second chin would form slightly below her face as she looked down at her phone. She couldn’t have been older than 23, maybe 24. 

I noticed her talking to the bus driver and other passengers. Once she sat behind the woman with a baby. Her hand gently reached over the seat to stroke the baby’s hair. “She’s so sweet,” the girl said, a curl of hair twisting around her finger before her hand glides along the baby’s cheek. 

“You should see her before we come on the bus. She’s a demon, a whole different baby,” the woman said. The girl laughed and I chuckled under my breath. They both turned to look at me and I felt embarrassed. I began to imagine all the things they might be thinking about me: he’s so rude, insensitive, obnoxious. The woman turned to look at her baby. 

But then the girl smiled. The corners of her mouth turned up like curly q’s. My stomach bottomed up as she turned away. 

Later that week, I sat in the seat across from the girl. She talked to a younger kid, who sat in front of her. 

“How was your meet?” she asked him. 

“We won. But I didn’t do well.” 

“What happened?” 

“I was too slow. And I kept dropping the baton.” 

“That’s okay, you’ll do better next time. Summer’s coming, are you excited?” 

“Yeah, we won’t have any practice.” 

“The high school team won’t practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll try out.” 

“How come?” 

“I just don’t want to do it anymore.” 

“You shouldn’t give up on it so easily,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself. I started mentally cursing myself for being such a fool. What would she think of me for eavesdropping? The girl turned to look at me, then she smiled. “Do you have any advice?” I sighed, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding onto so tightly. 

“Yeah,” I said, “I used to play basketball in high school. My team wasn’t very good, or maybe it was just me. But everytime that I felt like quitting, I remembered all my friends on the team, all the time and energy my coach put into trying to make us good, all the gas money I spent to drive to practice,” the girl laughed. “It motivated me to stay, and keep getting better.” “Did you get better?” the kid asked. 

“Well, no,” I said, and she laughed again. I hoped she’d think I was funny. “But still, the basketball team gave me a place where I felt like I belonged.” I swore I saw something change in the girl’s eyes, something softened. 

“What about you?” she asked the boy now, turning to face him. “Do you have a lot of friends on the track team? Does it feel like home?” 

“Well yeah, I guess so,” he said. 

“Maybe you just need to give it another chance,” I told him. He nodded. The girl smiled at me again before turning to look out the window. 

On the first Monday of my second month at work, and on the bus, it rained. When I got on the bus, I saw that the girl’s hair was soaking wet. She didn’t have an umbrella. I took a seat a few rows behind her. We passed the shopping mall, and the elementary school. I knew there was only one stop on the line after mine before it turned back around and went to all the same ones again. When we got to the plaza, I didn’t get up. The bus driver turned back to look at me for a second, but kept driving when I didn’t move. 

When the bus stopped at 1st and Maine, I followed the girl off the bus, staying a few feet behind her at first. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. But as I watched the rain continue to pour down on her, I ran up behind her. 

“Hey, wait up,” I called. I held my umbrella over her head. 

She didn’t flinch when she turned to look at me. I was surprised by that. “Thank you,” she said. I nodded. 

We didn’t say anything for a second, just stood near each other under the sound of the rain. I could feel drops of rain hitting the back of my neck, but I could tell that none were hitting her. 

“I’m Arlo,” I finally said. 

“I’m Luz.” 

I moved my hand closer to her, motioning for her to take the umbrella. “You should use this.” 

“What will you do?” 

“I don’t mind the rain much.” 

“When will I return it to you?” 

“Tomorrow, on the bus. We’ll both be there anyway,” I said, and she laughed. She looked up at me through long eyelashes, her brown eyes were so big. “Okay.” Her fingers brushed over mine slightly as she took the handle; a warmth spread over me. “Thank you,” she said again. I nodded, and watched her walk away. The rain seemed to make a path just for her. 

I walked home. I felt like I was walking on water, rather than getting poured down on by it. It was a long walk, and I was soaking wet by the time I walked into my apartment, but I didn’t care about the water I dragged in. I knew future me would be worried, and I made a mental note to grab the mop in the morning. 

I fell asleep thinking about the smile in Luz’s eyes. 

It rained all week, too. The next morning, I bought an umbrella on my way to work. I couldn’t stand the feeling of the cold wet against my skin. 

I worked in the HR department of a toilet paper company. I had only started the job a few weeks ago, and already I’d slipped into a monotonous cycle of ugly ties and gray walls. I didn’t want to make any judgments about my coworkers too soon, but they all seemed to be boring and middle-aged, sitting in their cubicles in gray suits. I was afraid to grow up and become exactly like them. 

At the end of the day, when I got on the bus, Luz was already sitting in the same place she had the day before. I gave her a smile and sat behind her. She turned around, extending her hand to give me the umbrella. 

“No, you can keep it,” I told her. I held up my right hand, umbrella in my palm. “I got my own.” 

“Thank you,” she smiled. “What can I do to make it up to you?” 

“Maybe dinner?” I said, a lot more casually than I anticipated. Still, there was a bubbling feeling in my stomach. 

“Sure.” She turned away from me to look out the window. 

I think I knew I would love her because of the way she watched the rain fall on the other side of the glass. I watched the way her head moved as her eyes tracked the droplets. Her pupils danced with the rain. 

We got dinner the following evening. She got off at 10th and Corpus to meet me. I took her to the Indian restaurant. 

“I got you this,” she said as she extended a tiny white bag to me. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s a marranito,” she responded. When she noticed the same confused look on my face she continued, “It’s sort of like a gingerbread cookie, but in the shape of a pig. You can save it for later.” 

“Thank you,” I said. 

The side of her arm sometimes brushed against mine as we walked down the block toward the restaurant. 

“I’ve never been here before,” I told her. 

“Indian food is my favorite,” she responded. She wore a skin tight green dress. That one became my favorite outfit of hers. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having then.” 

There was a red tapestry hanging on the wall. I think Luz noticed me staring, she said, “It’s beautiful isn’t it.” 

“Yeah I suppose it is.” 

“I love the way the gold weaves through the red, it’s so subtle but everytime you see it it’s striking.” 

“I guess I was just trying to figure out a logic in the pattern.” 

Without looking up at me she said, “Maybe there is none.” 

Afterwards, we took the 8 line back to my apartment. There was a different bus driver now. I didn’t even realize our bus driver’s shift would’ve ended. When we got off at 2nd and Landon, she held my hand. Mine were clammy, but I hoped she wouldn’t notice. She didn’t seem to. Or she at least didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes seemed to watch the way the leaves moved or the shape of the stars in the sky. 

When we got up to the apartment, she stood in front of the window, looking out at nothing. 

“What a beautiful view,” she said. 

“It’s just a bunch of lights and concrete buildings.” 

“Each of those lights was turned on by fairies. They’re switched on by the same hands that braid hair, that touch skin, that pick flowers.” 

When she looked at me, something bubbled in my stomach and I had the urge to reach out and touch her cheek, but I didn’t. 

Everything seemed to move so fast the following weeks. We sat beside each other on the bus. We found a nice grocery store near the stop on 4th and Lopez. We took turns going to each other’s place each night. She had slept over at my place a few times, but she never let me stay at hers. 

When I got on the bus, she was sitting behind the bus driver, they were laughing about something. I took the seat right next to her. 

“Hey, how’s your day going?” I asked her. I pulled the bottle of hand sanitizer out of my satchel and gave myself a generous amount before offering her the bottle. “Really good, the panaderia had my favorite, conchas, today. I brought you one.” She placed a little white bag on my thigh. 

“Thank you,” I said, looking inside the bag to see a small piece of bread with what seemed to be blocks of power sitting on top in a random pattern of squares. I tried not to think about how many hands might have touched the bread. “I’ve never asked you where you get these snacks.” 

“There’s a bakery down the street from the gallery, and it’s right by the bus stop.” “I see.” 

We said goodbye to the busdriver, but all he said was, “Goodbye, Luz,” as we climbed off. I noticed the tiny white bag sitting on the dashboard. 

Luz was an artist. She was an assistant to a curator at the gallery near 8th and Anderson. She was finally going to show me some of her work when we got up to her apartment. “It’s not very good,” she warned as she sat on the couch. 

“I think you’re lying.” I kissed the tip of her nose from the other side of the coffee table. “I’ll show you my sketches,” she said and I nodded, moving around the table to sit next to her. Our thighs touched. 

She started passing me pages of gray lead, most of them people. 

“This is my mom,” she said. A woman sat on the page. I looked at her profile. Fine lines on the side of her eyes, and it looked like there might be tiny stars in her irises. Strands of hair were falling out of her bun. I felt like she might move off the paper. I wondered when I’d meet her mom, when she’d meet mine. 

“This is Bub, the busdriver,” she said. I could almost see the texture in Bub’s hair in the pencil strokes. The moles on his face looked like flowers in a garden. 

“Luz, these are amazing,” I said. “Have you tried submitting these anywhere?” She shook her head. “Not these, at least.” She took the pages out of my hand and started putting them back into the folder they came from. When she opened the folder I saw an old man I didn’t recognize, then the woman with the baby from the bus. 

“Do you draw everyone who comes on the bus?” 

“Well, everyone I’ve gotten to know.” 

“Will you draw me someday? You know, when you know me like that?” “Maybe,” she said, getting off the couch. 

“Maybe?” I joshed as I stood up to follow behind her. 

As we walked into the hallway I noticed the drawings in frames on the walls. Drawings of a lonely hand reaching for a flower, or a pair of awkward knees in a skirt, or a lanky man sitting on a bus bench. 

“Are these all yours?” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed them before. 

She nodded, “Yeah, those have been up there for a while.” 

“These are really beautiful. You’re so talented.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It feels like you see the world differently.” I took one of the frames off the wall. When I looked closer, I noticed the flowers in the garden were actually lightbulbs, or arrangements of them, each bulb a petal. I’m not sure I understood what it meant, but I turned to look at her. “It feels like you have so much to say about the world.” 

She looked at me and didn’t say anything. The look in her eyes was so intense it made my skin feel like it was falling off my body, in a good way. 

She exhaled and turned away from me, walking to look out the window at the other end of the hallway. Something shimmered gold in her brown eyes as she looked at the city. It reminded me of the gold thread in the tapestry from the Indian restaurant. 

She turned to me again, “How many fairies do you think are awake? Why do you think all the lights are on?” 

I loved the way she looked at me. I loved the way she saw the world. 

. . . 

Luz 

Arlo and I were at the grocery store near 4th and Lopez, we planned to make dinner together that night, he said he wanted to practice for when he would cook for my parents. My mom loved cooking, I told him she would have really high standards, they hadn’t met yet. He just laughed. 

We made our way through the aisles. He held my hand in his right and carried the basket in his left. He asked me what her favorite meal is, I told him it was caldo de res. We needed two pounds of beef, an onion, a can of diced tomatoes, beef broth, two carrots, two ears of corn, and a head of cabbage. We would also need cilantro and limes, but I had that at home. Technically, we were also supposed to use a potato, but I didn’t tell Arlo that because I didn’t like potatoes much. 

Arlo paid when we checked out. I watched the woman’s hands as she scanned each item, her hands looked like alligators, white between the cracks. We carried the groceries in a reusable bag, the grocery store charges a dollar for each paper bag, and the city put out an ordinance two years ago banning plastic bags. Arlo asked if I’ve ever thought about how crazy it is that no matter how many ‘green alternatives’ come about, we never stop creating waste. I told him I had, I talked about how no matter how many metal straw small businesses pop up we still make (and probably use) the same amount of plastic straws as we did before. He asked me if I thought it would end, I told him no. 

On the way to my place, he pointed out the houses with windows with lights on. We played a game where we came up with stories about what was happening inside each window, I called them fairies. He pointed to a window at the top floor of the building, it was the only light on that floor. He said the person in there was getting ready for work, they were a bartender, he said they were playing some bad sitcom in the background while they brushed their hair. I pointed at a window on the first floor of another building. I said a mother was tucking her twin boys into bed, they don’t like each other, but they share the same favorite bedtime story. 

Then he changed the game, he pointed to a window with the light off, he said that would be ours. He said we’d have a dog and eventually maybe a kid too. He said he’d make a place for me to draw, and that he’d add another chair so he could sit beside me. He said he loves to watch me draw. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t like that part of the game, I couldn’t tell if he noticed or not. He told me it was my turn. 

In my kitchen, he did most of the work. He danced around me in the small space, moving back and forth from the fridge to the oven. He didn’t cry while he chopped the onions. He talked about his mom who lived in Arizona, and how he missed her a lot even though it had only been a few months since he left. He told me about how he sold his car to one of her old friends’ teen kid to make the down payment on his apartment here. I realized he did most of the talking, but not because I wanted him to. He said he didn’t like taking the bus but he was glad that I was there. Then we talked about how his dad died when he was young, it was cancer, Arlo was only ten. We moved to the couch and he cried, he fell asleep with his head on my lap before the soup was done, he didn’t wake up when I moved him and walked away to stir. 

When the soup was ready I woke him up and told him he had to go home, he tried to get me to let him stay the night. I told him we weren’t there yet, I wasn’t there yet. I gave Arlo a white bag from the panaderia when he got on the bus later that week. I was excited, they had conchas. He didn’t say thank you, most days he didn’t, he didn’t look in the bag right away. I tried to explain to him that usually by this time the panaderia is out of almost everything, conchas are a rarity, he asked me why I couldn’t just call it a bakery. I told him the people who own it don’t call it a bakery, neither do my parents, neither will I. He didn’t say anything, that was a first, I was glad. 

When we got off the bus he told me about his day at work, he called his boss an asshole, he said he was up for some big project but his boss was elusive about who would get it. I asked what a big project meant at a toilet paper company, he rolled his eyes at me, he never answered the question. 

At his apartment he told me that he told some of his coworkers about my work, I asked him what prompted him to do that, he said that one of them has a daughter who just got into art school. He said he sent some of them my public portfolio to look at, he hoped that was okay, I said sure, it was. Then he asked me what was wrong, that I’d seemed off all of a sudden, a sense of relief washed over me, at least he noticed part of it. I told him I felt like he’d been rude to me all day. He apologized immediately, he said he was just stressed from work, that he guessed he was taking it out on me without realizing it. I don’t know if I believed him, but I said it was okay anyway. 

Arlo and I went on a picnic in the botanical garden. We had to take the 4 line, neither of us had ever taken it before. We accidentally got off a stop too soon and had to walk the rest of the way. I was annoyed, only slightly, but I don’t think that Arlo noticed, I wondered if he ever actually noticed those things. He held my hand while we walked, his was sweatier than usual, he gave my hand a squeeze every few minutes. 

I drew him in the garden. My favorite part about sketching was the sound the pencil made as it glided against the paper. Arlo wouldn’t sit still, he kept reaching out to move the hair out of my face, I told him he was ruining my vision, he said I was his vision. I could tell he liked me a lot more than I liked him, there was something about the way his eyes bored into mine that made me feel funny inside, I knew I always looked away before he wanted me to. He asked me why I had to do that, I asked him what he meant and he said that I was never vulnerable with him. I told him I didn’t understand, I told him I had been plenty vulnerable, he said that he felt like he could never get close enough to me, I told him I felt like we were closer than I was ready for. He stood up and started to pace, I thought about how lucky we were that no one was around, I hated the thought of people hearing us argue. Then he stopped, he apologized and said he was being dramatic, he asked how he should sit for my drawing. He leaned so his elbows sat on top of his thighs and his green eyes looked up at me through his dark curls, he asked if this pose was good, I nodded. I tried to make the right shade of gray for his olive skin on the page, then I added shadows, then I gave him flowers for freckles. 

He reached out to touch my knee, his hand rested there. I settled, I didn’t realize there was tension in my body. Maybe he noticed it, I didn’t think so though. Maybe he did it to make himself feel better. 

Days passed, we got off the bus together, he asked if he could spend the night in my apartment, I told him I guessed that was fine. He dropped my hand, ran it through his hair, he paced. He said I was doing it again, I told him I didn’t know what he meant, he said I knew exactly what he meant. He said he wanted to be closer to me, he asked why I couldn’t allow myself to have strong feelings for him, and I, without really meaning to, told him that I didn’t know what I felt for him anymore. He paused. Then he said that maybe he was overreacting, that we should both just cool off and we’d talk later to decide when we should have dinner with my parents. I told him I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea anymore. He asked what I meant, I told him I didn’t want to see him for a while, I said I was confused, overwhelmed. He said I was being crazy, I told him I hated every time he said that word, I told him I hated feeling crazy.

I walked away from him and told him not to follow me, but he did. He was asking how things could have changed so quickly. I told him maybe they’d been like this the whole time and he just never noticed. I told him maybe things were always this way, and neither of us noticed. 

I kept walking to my apartment, he followed right behind me in silence. He asked me to let him in and I said no. 

Two drops of water raced each other down the window. I didn’t sit with Arlo today, or rather he didn’t sit with me. When he got on at 10th/Corpus he sat at the front of the bus, as he climbed up the steps his eyes didn’t even make their way up to look for me like they usually do. My mom used to tell me when I was a kid that I would know someone was my soulmate if I could feel them in a room without seeing them. I wondered if he felt me there, or if he would assume I was here because I always am. 

When we got to 2nd/Landon, he didn’t get off, he didn’t even look like he considered getting off, his eyes stayed focused on whatever was on the other side of the front windshield: streets, headlights, stop signs. 

We got to 1st/Maine, he stood up with intent and walked off the bus, I watched him as I gathered my things. I said goodbye to Bub, Arlo was waiting for me outside the door, I dreaded walking out equally as much as I wanted to be next to him. He didn’t say anything while we walked to my apartment, he didn’t reach for my hand on the sidewalk, or at the door, or on our way up the stairs. He asked me for a glass of water when we got inside and I brought it to my bedroom for him. He apologized for calling me crazy, then for the things he didn’t notice. He wrapped his arms around me when I crawled into bed. He said it’s over, isn’t it. I told him it had to be. 

When I woke up he was gone. I went to work on the 8, like normal, but when I got out of work I decided to take a different line, just in case Arlo might get on. The stop I had to get off on was much farther from my door than the 8 was, but I decided it wasn’t so bad. As I approached my building I could see the 8 line pulling up to the stop at 1st/Maine. I thought about turning back to wave at Bub, but I didn’t, maybe I would the following day, or the day after that. 

. . . 

Bub 

It stopped raining at the beginning of June. Instead the days were hot, and so were the nights. The setting sun created a glare in the windshield. 

The old man stopped coming on the 8 line. The last time he was here he mentioned that his kids were helping him and his wife move into a nursing home. I felt I’d already forgotten the pattern of his broken capillaries, or the rhythm of his nod when he tipped his hat goodbye. The young boy, who I think ran track, didn’t get on the 8 line anymore either. School was probably out for the summer. The woman with the baby was still coming. Her baby’s hair was growing so long. The father and his daughter still came, but some days the father got on the bus alone. 

Sometimes Luz came, and sometimes she didn’t. The first time she didn’t come, I’d waited outside 8th/Anderson for an extra minute, then two, then three. I did the same thing the following day and the day after. 

On the fourth day, Luz came out of the bakery, white bags in hand. 

How you doin’, Bub? she asked. 

I’m doing alright, Sugar. I keep thinking about the way things change. 

Things have a way of doing that, don’t they? She set a bag on the dashboard for me. There were still two white bags in her hand. 

The new young man, whose face didn’t seem so new at all, got on at 10th/Corpus. I brought you something, she said to him. I looked in the rearview mirror to watch as she passed him a little white bag. I waited to hear him say ‘thank you’ but it never came. Have you talked to your mom about next weekend? he asked. 

Yeah, but her and my dad are busy. 

Oh, alright, maybe a different weekend then. 

Maybe. There was something uneasy in her voice. 

Maybe you and I can do something, still. I guess he didn’t hear the change in her words. Before I knew it the route hand ended, and it seemed the 8 line as I knew it had ended too. 

On a night when Luz wasn’t around , I talked to the woman who, I imagined, went dancing. As long as she had been on the bus, I hadn’t talked to her. She always went to sit further back on the bus. That day she sat behind me. 

The bus seems a little empty tonight doesn’t it? she asked. 

It feels that way a lot of the time lately. 

Does it get lonely for you? Seeing all these people and then knowing one day, without warning, they won’t come back? 

Well when you put it that way I might be. We both laughed. Her upper lip pulled back in her grin, I could see her deep pink gums. 

Don’t worry, Bub. Some of us will be around long enough that you’ll wish we’d leave. She rubbed my shoulder. 

Before she got off at 2nd/Landon I asked her, Where do you go? 

What do you mean? 

Where do you go when you leave the bus? 

She smiled. I go where I’m going now. 

Eventually, neither of them took the 8 line anymore. Not Luz nor the new young man. But some nights, after I’d made my last stop at 1st/Maine, I saw her crossing the street. I saw the same creases of her coat and flyaways in her hair. I watched her rush into the building on the next block, just to make sure she got in safe.

The post Carousel appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Welcome to the Clementine Barish Memory Clinic! We specialize in memory recall, modification,  and erasure. In order to ensure we are able to meet your memory needs, please fill out the  following form and a memory specialist will reach out to you in order to schedule a consultation. 

Please be advised that memory erasure is permanent, and cannot be undone. While there will  be several check-ins with your specialist before your final procedure, please be sure to read up  on our memory modification procedure, which may be a better fit.

Name: Alex Goodwin 

Date of Birth: 9/16/1982 

Email: Nonsenseaddress @ hootmail . net 

Are you a new or existing patient? NEW

Have you had memory recall work done before? NO 

Have you had memory modification work done before? NO 

Have you had memory erasure work done before? NO

Please list all of your viable payment options, as highlighted in our Payment Guideline:

– Bank account  

– Family inheritance (future acquisition date unknown) 

– 2017 Toyota Corolla 

– The ability to taste cilantro as something other than soap 

– The ability to see the color orange 

– All of fifth grade 

– All of sixth grade 

– All of seventh grade 

– All of freshman year of college 

– The muscle memory associated with painting 

– Enjoyment of the taste of chocolate  

– 45 decibels of hearing 

– A kidney

Please explain which memory/memories you would like erased. Please start with the least  emotionally-resonant memory first. More deep-rooted memories can be difficult to cleanly  extract, though our technicians will do their best to remove as many as possible. 

Reminder: These should be memories that you want COMPLETELY ERASED.

– That episode from that stupid kid’s sitcom when the star gets fed zucchini and blows up  like a balloon, itching and choking the entire time. (Can you get rid of all memories of  shows with this plot line? Are they all connected or do I need to list them all out?) 

– The screaming fit I threw at that coffee shop when the barista poured dairy into a cup  that clearly said “almond milk” and then the person who ordered it was like “It’s not a big  deal” and the barista got mad at me for telling him how he might have really hurt  someone. Killed someone. 

– Crying in the grocery store when the manager had to walk me to the back cause I was  freaking out the customers.  

– Crying in the middle of my board meeting when Janine was presenting on the Q3 profits.  The looks of pity were like knives in my back, brutal betrayals of the carefully built  separation of the world and work.  

– Crying at my older sister’s birthday party when I found an epipen in her kitchen drawer. I  tried so hard not to ruin her big day, but even just sitting up in her room to calm down, I  know I had made it all about me again.  

– Not picking up the phone because I was “busy” when really, I was just mad we had a  fight and I wasn’t ready to get into it. He’d be back from lunch with Paul soon enough,  we’d duke it out later. Later. There was always going to be a later.  

– Walking into the hospital room and seeing him under that sheet. They said someone  used the epipen wrong, they said they didn’t get there in time. The EMTs did everything  they could, tried to keep the airway open, said I shouldn’t look under the sheet. The  words “horror show” were used more than once. When I held his cold hand, his fingers  were so swollen.  

– Driving down to the restaurant to scream at the manager about not labeling their  desserts properly. Who expects apple pie to have peanuts? Why wouldn’t you label  that? He says he’s sorry. He says the company is sorry. He says everything he’s  supposed to say. But unless he can bring back the dead, his apologies weren’t worth jackshit.  

– Looking under the sheet. 

– Calling his mom. All of it. Every single moment of it. 

– When I let him walk out the door without giving him a kiss goodbye. 

– Looking at him after the funeral parlor had cleaned him up, in that shitty suit from the  back of the closet. All stuffed and puffed up, skin still too tight everywhere. He wasn’t  him anymore. He wasn’t my husband. Lyle was gone.  

Memory erasure is often a complicated procedure, due to the way memories are often  entangled in one another, and some memories may be erased in the process. While we cannot guarantee the preservation of all associated memories, please list all potentially associated  memories you would like us to try and preserve.

– Our first date, which was at that restaurant. It was a different menu back then, and  obviously if I had known this was going to be the place that killed him, I would have  suggested we eat somewhere else, anywhere else.  

– Lyle’s whole department coming to clean the house and help get relatives to and from  the services. Preparing food and fielding questions. Even Caleb, that massive prick, was  helpful, bringing enough cases of wine to supply a vineyard.  

– Holding his mother’s hand at the funeral. Glenda and I never saw eye-to-eye, but in that  moment, she seemed to finally get that I really loved him. I just really need this one.

– Dr. Ramirez sitting with me next to Lyle’s bedside, rubbing my back while I cried, telling  me everything I was going to need and then writing it all down and giving me her number  in case I needed anything. She shared in my anger and ire in ways I hadn’t known I  needed at the time. I have drawn on her words a hundred times now. 

– The most important of those words: “Nothing will ever be enough, but hatred is as good  a place as any to start.” 

– The fight. I was a giant ass, acting like he was definitely coming back. I want to  remember it so I always know that my words to someone could be the last. And even  though he was mad, it was the last time he said I love you to me. That’s mine, that gets  to be mine forever. 

– Lyle. He has to stay, whole and complete. Whatever happens, you can’t let me forget the  way he breathlessly ate food or wheezed when he laughed or the feel of his cold hands  after working outside or the scrunch of his nose when he got mad or how he never, ever  separated his whites no matter how often I told him or the way he used to kick the tires  of his car every time everytime he got frustrated. Even the bad parts of Lyle have to stay.  All of him. The whole of him who walked out that door and who could come back, always  just on the other side. 

Is there anything your memory specialist should know before your consultation?

I was told I needed to wait twelve months from the last memory I want erased, and I figure by  the time the procedure is scheduled, it will be about the right time. I can’t sleep, I can’t bring  myself to eat. I can see the image of him in that awful coffin burned into my eyelids. Please, I  am begging you, I can’t live like this anymore. My last memory of him cannot be him lying in the  tacky oak box in a suit a size too small for him. If the payment isn’t enough, please let me know  and I can figure out something else. I can get loans, I can clean the clinic, whatever you need,  whatever it takes.

Your memory specialist will reach out within 1 to 2 business days in order to set up a  consultation. If you have any questions in the meantime, don’t hesitate to email us or call  our office. 

Thank you for choosing the Clementine Barish Memory Clinic!

Memory management you’ll never forget!

The post We Can Forget It For You appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Calling Heroines of All Ages!

Are you ready to heed the call to adventure?

Join Princess Isabelle of Xamayca as she answers her first call to adventure on the high seas to free the people of Orphalese from the sinister Captain Flint and his fleet of greedy pirates. Along the way, not only does she find love in magically unexpected places, but Isabelle finds strength in forming and commanding her own crew of powerful warriors to fight the demons—both real and imagined—that threaten to take away her crown and test her will to survive.

Journey to Orphalese is book two in the chronicles of Princess Isabelle. Book I: The Embryo Goddess and the Morpho took you inside the formative years of this fearless demigoddess, daughter of the powerful Sun King, Vata Helios and the imperious, yet stunning Ice Queen, Cythona. As readers witness Isabelle’s harrowing story unfold, we learn valuable lessons on how to become the heroine of our own life story.

Join Princess Isabelle, her faithful companion, Xerxes, and an eclectically beautiful crew of sailors on this exciting, sometimes perilous, journey—and discover yourself along the way! 

Author, Nicole Cutts, Ph.D., a clinical psychologist and success coach, continues to blend the rich elements of diverse female archetypes with the universal mythology of the heroine’s quest in book two of the story of Isabelle, The Princess Royal of Xamayca.

The Journey Begins 

Aboukir 

The post The Adventures of Isabelle Book II: Journey To Orphalese appeared first on The New Absurdist.

LIZ  

Jesus fuck Brandon I’ve spent all night scoping the party for available lips for midnight and all  I’ve got to show for it is the realization that Rebecca has basically NO single friends. 

BRANDON  

And you got creepy Dave’s number.  

LIZ  

Yeah fuck off. Anyone who writes a haiku on the napkin along with the number and  unapologetically sniffs my hair is a fucking psycho.  

BRANDON  

Tsk tsk, with that attitude the only boy you’re gonna be kissing at midnight is Mike….Mike’s  hard lemonade.  

LIZ  

I repeat, fuck off?  

BRANDON  

No come on actually though Liz, you’re not seriously gonna let a kiss from some dude make or  break your night.  

LIZ (wavering)  

I’m not I just….last year was such a shitshow. Like, dumped the day before? 

BRANDON 

Shit dude I forgot that was so close to New Year’s Eve.  

LIZ  

Yeah, I watched the ball drop with my cat and even she ran away before I could kiss her!  

BRANDON  

Screw Mark, I swear if I saw him in the street I’d—  

LIZ  

Ugh, I can’t even look at you two right now.  

BRANDON  

Come on Lizzie, get out of that head of yours and come dance with us.  

LIZ  

In a bit. I’ve consumed so many liquids tonight I gotta release the kraken. 

BRANDON  

You’re so poetic Liz. Write me a haiku while you go?  

BRANDON (calling after her)  

Nine minutes til midnight!  

LIZ 

Motherfucker, have I looked this shit all night?  

CAM  

It’s Cam actually. And if it helps, I’m pretty sure everyone out there is too drunk to notice how  you look.  

You look fine, by the way.  

LIZ  

What the fuck? Dude.. Cam… whatever why are you sitting in the tub reading Tiger Beat?  

CAM  

I’m discovering which perfume goes best with my star sign. I’m hoping for something floral.  Don’t mind me.  

LIZ  

Um…CAM?  

CAM  

Yeah?  

LIZ  

I kinda mind you being here while I drop trough if you don’t mind leaving.  

CAM (nonchalantly)  

 I can pull the curtain and put on my headphones, you won’t even know I’m here.  

LIZ (shrugging)  

Fuck it, fine  

Cam?  

Cam!  

CAM  

You’ve interrupted a really good podcast whatever your name is.  

LIZ  

It’s Liz…  

(beat)

I can’t pee knowing you’re here.  

CAM  

What? I can’t even see you right now.  

LIZ  

Yeah but I still know you’re here.  

CAM  

Would it help if I sang you a tune?  

LIZ  

Yeah, maybe no.  

CAM (singing)  

The wheels on the bus go round and round—  

LIZ (interrupting)  

–fuck you dude.  

CAM (continuing)  

—round and round, round and round. The wheels on the bus…  

I didn’t realize it’d be that effective.  

LIZ (embarrassed) 

I guess your singing voice is just so terrible my body would do anything to stop it.  

CAM (unbothered)  

Maybe so, but glad I could help regardless.  

LIZ  

So why aren’t you at the party, actually?  

CAM (matter-of-factly)  

The host is my best friend’s new girlfriend and he didn’t want to come alone and I owed him a  favor.  

LIZ  

So you’re the type that gets forced to go to a party, huh? That doesn’t really seem like a favor.  

CAM  

I’m just not that big on New Year’s Eve. Nothing like waking up hungover and disappointed to  reign in another year.  

LIZ  

Big on the cynicism though, huh?  

CAM  

Eh, maybe.  

(beat)

You seem to actually want to be here, so why are you still in this bathroom with me with only– 

—five minutes until midnight.  

LIZ  

Fuck, five minutes?  

CAM  

Yup, five minutes.  

LIZ (defeatedly)  

Five minutes.  

CAM  

I think that’s supposed to be a good thing? I mean don’t ask me, but that’s the general consensus.  

LIZ (laughs)  

I really thought this was going to be the New Year’s Eve party that I was going to get a kiss. A  good kiss, not just a pity peck, or one from some sloppy drunk dude with his hand on my ass.  

CAM  

No viable options at the party, huh? I feel like it can’t be that hard.  

LIZ (shakes her head)  

I scoped out the whole party. Most of the guys came here with someone or are gay or are gross or  are a peeping tom in a bathtub.  

CAM  

Hey! I’m many things, but a peeping Tom isn’t one of them.  

(beat)

Why is a kiss at a random time of year decided by someone hundreds of years ago so important. 

LIZ  

It’s not the time, exactly. It’s the meaning, I guess.  

(beat)

It’s that moment. That moment when the ball drops and time stops for a minute and there’s  confetti and everyone is cheering and there’s champagne and embraces. I don’t know. Normally I  would gag at that kind of thing, but maybe I just wanted a little bit of that joy tonight.  

CAM  

And you think that joy is gonna be transferred to you through tongue?  

Ok, fine, I actually see your point a bit. Everyone deserves a little joy.  

(beat)

Maybe it’s none of my business, but if that’s not your thing normally then why do you give a shit  now? 

LIZ  

I don’t know…maybe it’s always been my thing and I just hate to admit it. Maybe I want to feel  genuinely wanted. Doesn’t everyone?  

(beat)

Besides, if I’m going to wake up tomorrow hungover and disappointed tomorrow, at least let it  be with someone I can go get egg mcmuffins with.  

Minutes until midnight?  

CAM  

Three minutes.  

LIZ  

Fuck it, I can’t. Fuck this whole fucking night. Room for one more in that tub?  

CAM  

How could I refuse such pleasant company?  

So you can see which member of One Direction is your soulmate.  

LIZ (laughs)  

How old is this magazine?  

(beat)

Brandon is probably wondering where I am.  

CAM  

Brandon?  

LIZ  

My best friend. He’s here with his boyfriend though and I’m just not in the mood to see their  happiness. Bitchy, I know.  

CAM 

I don’t know, that’s pretty sane. But we’ve established I’m a cynic so  

maybe he’ll think you got your kiss.  

LIZ  

I would love to prove him right. But, like I said,  

no pity peck.  

CAM (laughs awkwardly)  

Didn’t realize I was offering.  

LIZ  

Shit.  

(beat)  

So, maybe I’ll take this quiz then. I’m hoping for Harry.  

CAM  

Yeah, I could see that for you.  

Um, thirty seconds now.  

LIZ  

Thirty seconds.  

(beat)  

I suppose a firm handshake at midnight will suffice?  

CAM  

Sounds sufficiently passionate.  

Happy new year, Liz.  

 (she laughs and whispers back)  

LIZ  

You had an alarm set for midnight?  

CAM (laughing)  

I wanted to know when I could go home!  

LIZ  

Happy new year, CAM.  

So, can I get that handshake now?  

CAM (avoiding her eyes)  

Sorry it wasn’t the kiss you wanted.  

LIZ  

It’s ok. I think I got a moment, whatever kind of moment it was.  

CAM  

I do what I can.  

(beat)  

So…did you finish the quiz?  

LIZ  

Yeah, I got Niall.  

I guess I don’t know shit about shit.  

CAM  

The year just started. You don’t need to know anything for a few minutes. 

LIZ  

If only. Can’t spend my life in a bathtub, though.  

CAM  

Yeah…  

LIZ  

Didn’t realize how popular I am.  

CAM  

Brandon wondering where you are?  

LIZ  

Yeah, he’s drunk and wants to go home.  

CAM  

Well, I guess that’s your cue. Thanks for stopping by, I can honestly say it made my night.  

LIZ  

Yeah, I’m surprised no one else tried to come in.  

CAM (teasing)  

And miss the ball drop? You’d have to be a total loser.  

LIZ  

Yeah well fuck you, Cam.  

CAM  

Fuck you too, Liz.  

There. Now it’s not out of pity. 

LIZ  

What time is it?  

CAM  

12:03, New Year’s Day  

LIZ (beaming)  

Close enough.  

END SCENE

The post Minutes To Midnight appeared first on The New Absurdist.

JOCELYN

I sooo should not have taken my mom’s car to this, like what if someone takes a picture of the
plates and my mom gets arrested for buying D-RUGS!

KATE

Dude your window better be rolled all the way up when you say that shit.

JOCELYN

You said that and I actually thought for a second I was dumb enough to have a window cracked.

KATE (teasingly)

To be fair, you are dumb enough to have a window cracked.

JOCELYN

Hey!

I’m glad we’re finally doing this, though. Like I’m totally nervous–what’s new–but winter break is
almost over and this is gonna be an awesome memory to have.

KATE (nodding)

Kinda a crazy way to reign in the New Year, but I’m excited for tomorrow. What I can’t believe is
that Matt actually asked us to meet in front of Lincoln High…like, the irony is just a little too on
the nose.

JOCELYN

You know he lives like a block away. It’s just convenient for him. But yeah, I get it, I haven’t been
here since graduation.

KATE

Remember I visited once last year. It was so weird, though, I felt like I was in one of those
dreams where you show up to school with no pants on. Except I had pants on, I was just old.

JOCELYN

To be fair, you are old as fuck now.

KATE

Correction. We’re old as fuck.

JOCELYN

Nah, I’m still a teenager for a whole two more months. Pack it up grandma.

KATE

Wow you got jokes now? What happened to being nervous.

JOCELYN

Dang, I actually forgot why we were sitting here for a second.

KATE

Where the fuck is Matt anyway? Didn’t he say he was leaving his house like five minutes ago.

JOCELYN

I mean, are you actually critiquing the customer service of someone selling us drugs?

KATE

Fair enough. But, I don’t know, I had first period with Matt senior year and he always showed up
five minutes early.

JOCELYN

Ok well I had last period with Matt senior year and he barely ever showed up.

KATE (nodding)

A truly multifaceted man indeed.

JOCELYN

Do you remember that time that Matt and Nick set off the fire alarm during our chem test and
Mr. Hendley wouldn’t even give us more time?

KATE

I was so pissed off that day, I really didn’t need anything else going against me on the test. I
can’t believe you not only kept dating Nick after that shit, but you literally gave him head in the
stairway after school.

JOCELYN

I never said I made good decisions in high school Kate; you know this. What I can’t believe is
that you didn’t date any guy at our school.

KATE

I’m sorry did you see the guys at our high school?

JOCELYN (laughing)

Ok fair, fair.
(beat)
You were like the hottest girl in our grade, none of those guys would have deserved you
anyway.

Okay but seriously, where is this dude? I’m worried some cop is gonna pull up and start asking
questions.

KATE

Joss, we don’t even have any drugs on us. What would they even accuse us of?

JOCELYN

I don’t know! What if Matt shows up, drugs in hand when some cop is right next to us.

KATE

You’re reaching juuuuust a little, honey.

JOCELYN (laughs)

Don’t you honey me!

(beat)
With that verbiage, maybe the cops will think we came here to hook up.

KATE

Jocelyn—

JOCELYN

I know, I know, you’re too classy for car sex in front of Lincoln but you know many say that I’m
actually quuuuuite the catch and I—

KATE (angry)

JOCELYN!

JOCELYN

Kate, is everything ok? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that joke would make you so mad. You know I’m
absolutely kidding right? I just—

KATE

Matt’s walking up to the car.

At least I think it’s Matt.

JOCELYN

Oh, shit. Ok, ok should I like, just roll down my window or should we get out or–

Guess that answers that.

Hey, Matt, what’s up.

MATT

Hey Joss, hey Kate. Sorry I’m late. My mac and cheese had like 5 minutes left on it when you
texted me and I didn’t want to light my house on fire or whatever.

JOCELYN

You’re totally, that’s totally fine. We didn’t even notice, right Kate?

Right well, anyway…. here you go.

MATT

Cool well, I’ll see you guys around then. Nick’s over at mine all the time, Joss, you should pull
up sometime.

JOCELYN (laughing)

I haven’t talked to Nick since last winter break. I think I might have to pass but thanks for the
offer.

MATT

No worries. Hit me up if you two need anything whenever.

JOCELYN

I really thought for a moment that Matt just gave me my change and nothing else. I didn’t realize
it’d be so small.

First successful drug deal complete.

Shall we get the fuck out of here?

Ok Kate, what’s up. Tell me what I did and what I need to say, you know I can’t function when
you’re mad at me. You’re my best friend in the whole world.

KATE (blushing)

Look it’s nothing ok, just
(beat)
don’t make jokes like that.

JOCELYN

What? Jokes about us hooking up? I’m sorry I didn’t realize it made you uncomfortable.

Didn’t realize the thought was just soooo disgusting.

KATE

Joss, I literally just told you to stop making jokes like that.

JOCELYN

Ok my bad really, my friends at college and I make those kinds of jokes all the time. I guess I
didn’t realize they don’t translate to us.

KATE

Yeah it’s whatever I just don’t want you to, ok?

JOCELYN

Yeah ok.
(beat)
Ok, this might be like totally obtuse to ask, but it’s not because we’re girls right? Because I
thought you were cool about that kind of stuff. Or like, I don’t know, I feel like I’d know if you
were homophobic, but I guess I just always assumed that you—

KATE (heated)

Ok you need to stop talking right now. I am not HOMOPHOBIC, JOCELYN. I had a massive
crush on you in high school, I literally could not have cared less about the boys in our grade.
And you’re like the straightest girl I know and that’s fine and I’ve made my peace with it, but
calling me hot and making jokes about us hooking up is not what I need to hear.

JOCELYN

Kate…

KATE

You really don’t have to say anything. Honestly, I’d prefer you didn’t.

This is why I never told you. I didn’t want to see this look on your face, I didn’t want you to worry
about me when Nick was such an emotional drain on you anyways.

And I’m glad you’ve moved past that because you deserve someone better than Nick but sitting
outside Lincoln just makes me feel like we’ve regressed back into those people and I just want
to get the fuck out of here.

JOCELYN (quietly)

I really didn’t know Kate, about any of this.
(beat)
I’m not straight. At least, I think I’m not.

KATE

What? I–When did you realize this?

JOCELYN

I don’t know, I never really thought about it in high school. The Nick drama kept me pretty busy, I
guess. But going to college really makes you question who you’ve been the last 18 years of
your life. There were like no out people at Lincoln, so meeting some queer people first year
made me realize that maybe I didn’t just like guys.

You could have told me in high school, you know.

KATE

I didn’t want anything to change. I didn’t want to lose you, you’re my best friend.

JOCELYN

I’m so sorry you thought you would lose me. You know if you murdered someone, I’d help you
bury the body.

I just thought you were too mature for the boys at our school. You were always so driven, I
wanted to be just like you. I didn’t want Nick to define me in high school, but I let him, and I
missed out on so many things because of it.

KATE (tenderly)

Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s nice to feel wanted, I get it. We were so young, we’re still
so young.

JOCELYN

Kate?

KATE

Yeah Joss?

JOCELYN

What did you mean when you said you made your peace with it?

KATE

I meant like that I knew the situation was what it was, or at least I thought I knew. So, I went on
with my life.

JOCELYN

So, you don’t like me like that anymore?

KATE

I don’t think people simply stop liking people. Like if you liked someone for long enough, there
was a reason for that and unless they did someone to irreparably damage that view of them in
your mind, you probably still remember why you liked them. And, I don’t know, I guess a part of
me still remembers why I liked you, but I shoved that part of me deep, deep down when I
thought there was no chance. Does that make sense?

JOCELYN

Yeah…yeah it does.
(beat)
Sorry you know me; I take a million years to process new information and this is definitely the
most process-worthy information I’ve been given in a while.

KATE

Yeah, I know Joss. You don’t have to do anything right now; I’m not asking you to make a
decision about anything. I told you,

I made my peace with it a long time ago.

JOCELYN

What if…what if I was asking something of you right now?

KATE

What do you [mean]—

JOCELYN

Just let me finish before I lose my nerve. What if I asked you to kiss me right now? What would
you say?

KATE

Fuck. Fuuuucck. You’re actually doing something bold and I have to be the one to say no to
you?

JOCELYN

Shit. Kate, I’m so sorry. I thought like….you said that and then like you’re you and I’m like wow
oh my god but like…oh my god….I—

KATE

No, no Joss please listen to me.

It’s just not that simple. I thought about something like this–well, maybe not this setting, but you
and me–for so long in high school.

But I can’t drop everything because you want me to kiss you. That’s not fair to me and not fair
to….

JOCELYN (softly)

Is there someone at college, Kate?

KATE (defeatedly)

Yeah, there is. It’s pretty new but she’s… we really get along.

JOCELYN

You don’t have to explain yourself.
(beat)
I’m happy for you, honestly. I’m just sorry I didn’t realize when it might have mattered.

KATE

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
(beat)
I’m really proud of you for asking me.

JOCELYN (embarrassed)

Yeah well…might take me a little while to work up the courage to be bold again.

KATE

Do NOT let me be the one and only time you asked for something you wanted! You are PAST
Nick, past all of that shit. We’re at a fucking drug deal for christs’s sake, you have $90 worth of
straight up drugs in your pocket! You are the stupidest, funniest,
take-your-mom’s-car-to-a-drug-deal-est girl I know!

JOCELYN (laughing)

I hate you so much.

KATE

Yeah, yeah you too. Let me buy you some ice cream, okay?

END OF PLAY

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