** Fuel **

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Had a bad day again
She said I would not understand
She left a note and said, "I’m sorry I
had a bad day again"

 

6:34 pm

The day had been inconsequential. She mills about the office with a tune of melancholy ringing in her ears. What was once a soft and soothing lull now a drawn out cacophony of dissonance and scattered tempo.

Like a low budget commercial.

Or a band of tone deaf elementary school drop-outs.

Dark.

Rummages through her drawers for an aspirin. Empty.

Her purse. Empty.

Fuck.

Grabs a sandwich on her lunch break – the girls behind the counter coo at her hair, “I love it! It looks wonderful!”

Thank you, I appreciate that. She smiles. They smile. Good. They don’t know.

White-knuckles her tray over to an empty booth next to a window at the far corner of the diner, careful not to overturn her tea.

Half of the sandwich is gone before she realizes she has even picked it up. Stares out the dirty, rain spotted window. Three men stand outside of an RGS Landscaping flatbed. Smoking cigarettes. Laughing.

What in the world could be so funny?

And the ringing. The fuckin ringing. Her head drops low, eyes closed, she covers her ears with fists balled up in the sleeves of her zip up hoodie.

“Hey,” says a man, “you changed your hair!” A handsome nobody. Late 20s, early 30s. Jeans and a Mechanics T.

Huh? She looks up. Squinting. Her eyes shadowed and blurry from the pressure. The ringing drowning out his voice.

“Your hair, it looks nice dark.” He smiles.

She recognizes him now – nameless still. He’s the one that always gets the chicken fingers. Sits over there. Oh, thank you. I appreciate it… she smiles.

Does he know? Can he tell? Oh God, what if he knows?

“Thought for a second you had a twin.  That could be dangerous.” Smiles. Chuckles.

She smiles. Laughs? Something like it.

Close enough. He’s either convinced or doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t know.

Noname smiles. Lingers. She smiles. Shifts in the booth. Pulls her hands out of her sleeves. Taps her index finger against her thumb – god, the fuckin ringing. Fuck the fuckin ringing – tap tap tap taptaptaptap. Shit he’s not moving. Hands on the  table. Hands in her lap. Hands reaching for her tea.

“Well, see you tomorrow?”

Huh? The fuckin ringing. Oh, yeah. Maybe. Not sure yet… maybe.

“Ok. Maybe. See ya.”

He leaves – the bell chiming, announcing his departure.

Lets out a muted sigh. Balls up her fists and tries once again to shut out the ringing…

And then she feels it. The sun – beating in through the splattered window. Warming her hair, her back. Illuminating the table. Sweat running down the length of her cup – Made from 100% recycled materials. She smiles. Thinks – I always wanted to be a performer.

Throws away the remainder of her sandwich. Refills her tea. Waves a pleasant goodbye to the girls behind the counter.

Exists stage left.

8:59 pm

Her lips glide back and forth – the whiskey coating like honey sweetened satin.

The tumbler rises. And falls. Rises. And falls.

Her chest. Rises. Falls.

Breathing slowed and body lax. Feeling. Feeling. Nothing.

The ringing is behind her eyes now and in it she sees nothing. There is nothing to see here. Nothing at all.

She is alone. The room – dark. The distant hum of the dryer and stale heat – the ringing. And yes – yes. There is the ringing.

She runs her fingers through her hair – silky. Whimsicle. Smelling of cigarette smoke. A lovely mix of baby soft innocence and tar infused abuse. Her light touch sends shivers and she recoils.

What am I doing what oh god and the ringing and she grabs on to it – the painted flesh of her arm and she doesn’t let go can’t let go and it’s gone now and he’s gone and what will she do now for fun for forget to feel for that moment where she knows that this is pain and knowing where it is and where it comes from and seeing the aftermath of her rebel skin that she can’t hide even in places where its dark and she grabs and the nails dig in and they dont let go.

The flesh cries its crimson melody and the ringing pours out of her from the inside. Drips from her finger tips. Lands in a Rorschach formation deep in the fibers of her favorite pair of blue jeans. And it is silent but for that hum. The stale heat. It is silent. And she smiles.

Reaches. Reaches.

And finds. There. Yes – it is there. That sweet nector of American Honey.