Cosmic Audrey

Archive for January, 2010|Monthly archive page

March fifteen and twenty-two

In Insomnia, march fifteen on January 31, 2010 at 11:42 am

I remember us sitting in that bar filled with foreigners, just like now, raining late September over cities, I had rain boots and I sipped wine, you had unfiltered beer and I chainsmoked and you hated it so bad, not knowing you yourself will be doing it again just about a month later.

The theater in May or April, I’m so lost about that, so helpless and confusing dates and times of the year. I waited so long for the perfect movie script and it turns out I don’t even know if that’s real life any more. Pain, with no pleasure, with no second thoughts and an infinity of chances. Like February made me shiver.


Perhaps, Virginia

In deviatii de stereo on January 31, 2010 at 11:30 am

I was fascinated with you when we met. I hated you silently before and then I thought you were the hottest gal. I sat there and looked at you, I was like WOW.

The next day I turned back to hating you. Perfect lips, skinny precious hips, invisible thighs and a mouth to adore oh-so-many. You were incredible and I was struck and paralyzed from overdosing you, your image, your picture of the ashtray girl, sexed up in movement, twirly in speech. Then I just settled for glancing at you once in a while. And it never again felt the same as we never were.

Your mother would hate her

In aberatii de stereo on January 28, 2010 at 9:33 am

You’d take her to dinner at your parents’ house. Audrey would smoke unfiltered cigarettes while she ate, if she ate.

“Your folks are perfect”, she’d say, wryly, holding her plate up, like a vampire looking for the reflection that won’t be there.

Your mother would smile awkwardly, desperate enough to take this as a compliment. Audrey wouldn’t even offer to help clear. She would read your mind like a witch.

“Help your mother,” she’d order. “It will give you both a chance to talk about me in the kitchen.”

“You know you really could do better,” your mother would admonish, while you scraped dishes at the sink.

“She’s really very sweet,” you’d lie.

In the dining room, your father would be treading water with polite conversation while Audrey stared back unblinkingly, her pupils dilated. Suddenly, she would laugh at an inappropriate point in his Korean War monologue. Then she would lean forward and show him the ringworm scars between her breasts. “I’ve always had cysts myself,” your father would offer weakly.

Finally, months after that dinner, after your parents had broken all contact with you and you’d lost your job, you’d recognize your misery. When you considered leaving her, she wouldn’t threaten to kill herself, she would threaten to kill you. Nobody leaves Audrey. Got it? When you came back from the bathroom, she’d be gone, but there would be a knife stuck up to its handle in your side of the mattress. The next day, everything you owned would be in the dumpster.

Black and white television screen with dots

In aberatii de stereo on January 27, 2010 at 1:34 pm

Each time the bus stops,  you glance out the window to see if she gets out the back door.

Even if you did meet her, Audrey would never marry you. She would probably consent to date you, for the contrast. She would insult your friends. Her friends would insult you. Der Blau Engel. A moth to the flame. You’d lose all control.

You can’t see her

In aberatii de stereo on January 27, 2010 at 9:53 am

because you don’t have the guts to turn around and look. You know she’s sitting with her back against the warm steel wall of the bus, and her feet drawn up on the seat beside her. She’s not a big fan of daylight. She should never be seen in color. By day, she’s a grainy black and white image: a discarded blow-up doll of a back-up singer from a heavy-metal music video. At night she’s a fourth-generation photocopy of a Margaret Bourke-White photo luridly animated to Euro-pop dance music. She’ll never live long enough to become sepia-toned.

Like in a dream, you’re sure her name is Audrey, but you don’t know why. Maybe because it sounds like “tawdry,” name. You know that August is her favorite time of year–in August. She likes spring in spring, winter in winter. She can deal with anything.

You hope she gets off the bus while it’s still downtown. You can’t turn around, but you want another chance to look at her. It would break your heart if she rode with you out into the stability of the suburbs.