Trigger warnings out the wazoo here. Continue reading
Yesterday, I had the honor and privilege of doing a reading at Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop. My friend Eileen curated the event, which was about using fortune cookie slips as writing prompts. I got to share a stage with several incredibly talented, inspiring, humbling Asian-American writers (including Eileen herself)! Here is the short story I wrote for the occasion.
Losing weight was the most clichéd New Year’s resolution, as Suzanne was painfully aware. Every December, the advertisements on the Internet and radio bombarded her senses with “beach bodies,” diet pills, and gym membership promotions. She was friends with a couple gym rats on social media, and they loved posting memes full of mock dread and disdain for “resolutionists.” Her family and friends back home would have laughed at this “metropolitan silliness.”
Well, the ads finally got to her. Here she was, standing in the lobby of the local gym, new membership card in hand. She preferred to think of it as the desire to do right finally triumphing over personal pride.
Growing up, Suzanne never exactly thought of herself as fat. Food had always played a central role in happy, heartwarming events. It was a way for family and friends to share, connect, and bond. Everyone she knew had more or less the same body type.
When she went to college in the city, she learned a great deal more about health and nutrition—and that this was, in fact, not a normal lifestyle for everyone else. Admittedly, she was in denial at first, but she came to appreciate the eye-opening experience. She knew she had to make some changes, at least for her own sake. If she could help others, that would be even better.
But it was all too easy to revert to old habits once she settled back home. Back where food was love, and her worldly city friends were no longer around to tell her otherwise.
She affixed the membership card to her keychain and tried to appear confident as she strode down the steps to the gym proper. New year, new you! Having moved over a thousand miles away to this bustling city just a month ago for an exciting career change, she figured this was as good a time as any to try to get in shape, too. She wasn’t exactly sure where or how to start, but simply showing up was already an achievement, right?
The room full of cardio machines had three people in it: a woman about her age running on a treadmill, an older woman idly pedaling on a stationary bike while reading a book, and an elderly man wheezing as he climbed the Stairmaster. There was only one person in the weight room, but he looked extremely muscular and intimidating, and Suzanne didn’t want to be alone with him. There was a pool, but she didn’t bother checking it out since she didn’t know how to swim.
She returned to the first room, stepped onto a treadmill, and started jogging. The gym was playing a surprisingly enjoyable playlist of dance music that made her feel energized and excited to work out. As the song built up, she increased the machine’s speed to six miles per hour. This isn’t so bad, she thought. I just have to push myself to come here and do this for half an hour, every other day. If I eat a little less for each meal and cut out sugary drinks, that should be enough to lose weight slowly but steadily, without feeling like I’m on some crazy starvation regime.
Her optimism faded quickly as she felt herself getting tired before the same song was even over. She looked at the distance tracker in dismay: 0.27 miles. That’s it? It took all the willpower she could muster to get that number up to 0.50 before she let herself lower the speed to a power walk. After two minutes of this, she pumped it back up to 6 mph, and continued this cycle until twenty minutes had elapsed. Then she walked slowly for five minutes, turned the thing off, and headed for the water fountain. The calorie counter read 151 burned—less than a can of soda.
She was disappointed, but also feeling dangerously light-headed. It’s probably best not to push myself too hard the first day, anyway, she told herself as she gulped down the water gratefully.
When she straightened up and turned around, she saw the other young woman who was on the treadmill before.
“Hey, you new here?” the woman asked. She looked incredibly fit and beautiful—in very different ways from the people with whom Suzanne had grown up—and Suzanne couldn’t help but admire her. She had been running much faster than 6 mph when Suzanne was doing her little tour of the place, and she had kept it up throughout the twenty-five minutes of Suzanne’s own workout. That must have been at least four miles.
“Yes,” she answered, extending her hand. “I’m Suzanne.”
“Carla. You haven’t done much running before, have you?”
Suzanne felt slightly embarrassed, but tried to laugh it off. “Is it that obvious? I’m pretty new to working out in general.”
“You weren’t able to maintain a good pace. At first I thought maybe you were recovering from an injury, but your form wasn’t the best, either. You know, a doctor friend of mine said he loves how running’s getting to be such a fad nowadays, because most people don’t do it right and it winds up bringing him more patient visits.”
“I had no idea!” Maybe it wasn’t so bad that someone had been watching her, after all. She would definitely need to be more conscientious of form.
“It’s really important to get proper running shoes,” Carla added. “They’ll save you money in the long run from potential medical issues.”
“Thanks for the tip.” She was about to go to a nearby chair to take a breather, but Carla had more to say.
“Are you going to hit the weight room, too?”
Suzanne laughed again, this time at the sheer absurdity of trying to lift anything in her current state. “No, I think I’ll be heading home soon. I just need to sit for a bit.”
Carla frowned. “It’s really important to do weight training. You need to build calorie-burning muscle for real, lasting improvements to your metabolism and overall fitness. Squats, deadlifts, bench presses, and a number of other exercises to strengthen your stabilizer muscles. Doing cardio alone won’t cut it.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of stuff! I’ll try to remember to look it all up when I get home.”
“Excuse me?” Suzanne asked.
“I’m getting real sick and tired of having to explain shit to fat people all the time.”
“But this is the first time we’ve met.”
Carla didn’t seem to hear her. “Swimming would be better cardio than running, in any case.”
“I don’t know how to swim.” Suzanne was starting to get annoyed. She really wanted to sit down now.
“Really? All that privilege, and you can’t swim?”
“What do you mean? My family didn’t have a pool or anything. Excuse me, I need t—”
“Ugh, just check your privilege, okay? What did you think, that you deserved a pat on the back merely for showing up here today? You have to run, swim, and join the weekly spin class they offer here. Do squats, deadlifts, bench presses, shoulder presses, overhead presses, lunges, rows, lateral raises, calf raises, bicep curls, chin-ups, pull-ups, push-ups, dips, planks, and skull-crushers. It’d be good to join a yoga class or two in your spare time, but not so many as to border on cultural misappropriation. Got that? Otherwise, don’t even bother trying to get in shape. Either you’re in it to win it, or you’re not.”
Then everything went black.
When Suzanne woke up, a gym employee was cradling her head and calling her name. Carla was nowhere to be seen. “I’m fine, thanks,” she mumbled and stood up shakily.
She thought about Carla’s rant all the way home and the rest of the evening. At first she was grateful for the advice, but it became way too much too soon. The woman seemed to have some good points, but why did she have to be so aggressive and condescending? This was all new to Suzanne. What did she mean about privilege, anyway? She was the fit and beautiful one who could effortlessly run at least four miles in one go, and still have energy afterward for weightlifting. Wasn’t Carla the privileged one?
Suzanne definitely wanted to learn and improve, but after today’s hostile encounter, she wasn’t so sure this was the right thing to do anymore. Maybe it was better just to stay the way she was and focus on her new job and surroundings, instead.
The following year, a man whose only qualification was “telling it like it is” declared his candidacy for a national leadership position. When he claimed to “call out fat-phobic sentiment for what it was,” Suzanne listened with uplifted spirits and voted for him.
“If you could have a dinner party with anyone from the past or present, who would it be?”
She pondered her DATE’s question as she chewed and swallowed her branzino. “Douglas Adams,” she answered. “You can feel his warm, funny personality emanating from all his writing. I’m sure he’d have tons of fascinating stuff to say at a dinner party.”
“That’s awesome!” he said with a grin.
She waited to see if he had anything more to add. Then: “How about you?”
“Hm… Bill Gates, for obvious reasons! What would constitute an ideal day for you?”
Once again she gave a thoughtful response, and once again he merely smiled and gave positive affirmation. She wondered if he always talked as if reading off a teleprompter, and felt herself growing frustrated and embarrassed.
When her friend had offered to set her up with a Dedicated Anthropomorphic Technical Emissary for today, she thought it would at least be somewhat entertaining. She had just gotten out of an eight-year relationship and dreaded being alone on Valentine’s Day, her favorite holiday. “They’ve made terrific strides with AI lately,” her friend had assured her. Yeah, right. This thing was duller than her childhood robot tutor.
“Say, I’ve got a question for you,” she said to her DATE. “You see a tortoise lying on its back in the hot desert sun. It can’t turn itself over. Why don’t you help it?”
He looked surprised. “Is that a Voight-Kampff question? I’m not an android, you know.”
As he stood in line for the cash register, Linus wondered if he should have gotten flowers after all. Everyone else had insisted on them: his sister, several friends, even a coworker. They had all said the same thing when he said no, he was going to get her a bottle of whiskey. What kind of impression is that going to make? It’s Valentine’s Day!
Stupid holiday. It was, unfortunately, the only time they both happened to be available. They had met at a party in late November and started talking online afterward. She had declined his invitations to go ice-skating with mutual friends, and then to a New Year’s Eve party. With good reasons, but still. Maybe she wasn’t interested in him that way.
But they kept talking so much in January, he had to see her again. At least in a casual setting hinting at the possibility of a date.
She had mentioned she liked whiskey, so he thought bourbon would be nice. Flowers would be too… valentine-y. Right? Or was it true what everyone else said, that all girls secretly wanted flowers? Was whiskey too expensive and pretentious for a first maybe-date? Was he trying too hard, or not hard enough? Would she think he just wanted to get her drunk?
Finally, he paid for the Four Roses and drove to her apartment. When she opened the door to greet him, her eyes went immediately to the bottle in his hands. “What do you have there?”
Last week in my writing workshop, the instructor had us each write the beginning of a story and then give it to a classmate to fill out the rest. We were encouraged to mix in elements of another genre for an amusing or unusual combination.
I received the outline of a horror story featuring the “Sensational Patrol,” Urbancraft the imp, and an undead surfer girl. I decided to flesh this out with self-help tips. This was pretty fun to write. Enjoy!
Mark awoke to the familiar jingle of the alarm clock he had owned for the past twenty-five years. His wife was already out of bed, bustling about in the kitchen downstairs to prepare breakfast and school lunches for their three children. He rose and entered the bathroom, briefly inspecting his face in the mirror before stepping to the toilet to relieve himself. Then he brushed his teeth, took a shower, and shaved. He returned to the bedroom and got dressed for work. Finally, he grabbed his cell phone and lighter off the nightstand and headed down the stairs.
When he entered the kitchen, he felt a sudden chill and choked down an urge to scream.
“’Morning, babe,” said the unfamiliar woman who was assembling a sandwich next to an open lunch bag. This was not the wife who had lain in bed next to him last night and whispered good night. This one was taller and curvier, and she moved more gracefully. Her hair fell straight down her shoulders instead of in soft waves. Her face was longer, her eyes rounder and slightly wider set. Admittedly somewhat prettier than the woman he’d married sixteen years ago.
At the dining table, a teenage girl with a short, edgy hairstyle looked up from the book she was reading while eating a bowl of grits, said a quick “hi,” and looked back down. She had the same eyes as her mother. Her T-shirt featured two characters that might have come out of a video game, and she wore black skinny jeans. She looked nothing like his previous elder daughter, who had preferred trendy blouses and skirts.
“Good morning,” he responded, making a tremendous effort to sound as neutral and unruffled as possible. Normal. Keep it fucking normal.
The urge to scream was still there. He could feel it struggling somewhere inside his chest, hammering against his rib cage to get out. He glanced back at the counter where the woman stood. Only one lunch? Was there only this one daughter now? His mind raced to recall earlier details from his morning routine. Had there been different toiletries around the bathroom sink or in the shower? What about the clothing in the shared walk-in closet, or anything on the nightstand? God damn it. The old Mark would have kept a keen eye on these things. He had stupidly gotten complacent over the years.
“How’s your work looking today?” the woman asked, interrupting his frantic backtracking.
He had no idea. What was his job now? Did he still work at Avatech? “Not too bad,” he said carefully. “I need to head in a little early to get some stuff out of the way, but afterward it should be a pretty straightforward day.” Oh, how he wished that last part could be true.
“That sounds nice. We’re finally kicking off that pilot program for MedAssist today, so it should be pretty busy but exciting for me. Miranda’s going to have a big day, too, aren’t you?”
So that was her name. He mentally breathed a sigh of relief that this wife was talkative, too. Then again, he had always gravitated toward the talkative ones.
“Yeah,” the girl with the book said. She looked up again and smiled at Mark. “We have a big jazz band competition in Oak Park.”
“Hope you guys knock it out of the park,” he said wryly. He checked his phone for the time. The round-eyed woman’s face regarded him warmly from the screen, frozen mid-laugh. “Anyway, I need to get going now. I’ll see you guys later.” He stood and picked up his keys from their usual hook on the wall.
“Don’t forget your breakfast,” the woman said, pointing to a bagel that sat on a napkin next to a thermos.
I love you, he normally would have added.
Mark hurried into the black Audi on the driveway and lit a cigarette. He drove toward a nearby restaurant that would have a blessedly empty parking lot at this hour, where he could figure out what why the hell this had happened.
Upon arrival, it turned out to be a bookstore.
This time he let the scream tear out of his throat unbridled.
He parked the car in a corner of the lot shaded by tall, leafy trees. Were these trees even supposed to grow in this part of the country? I should know these things. I swore I’d be fucking vigilant. He forced himself to draw in a deep, shaking breath. No point in being so paranoid about the damn trees. Anything dramatic enough to shift them would have changed a hell of a lot more than what he’d encountered so far. In any case, he couldn’t reasonably expect to keep track of every single life form.
He pulled out his phone and hurriedly scrolled through the address book until he found her. Caroline. Hopefully her number hadn’t changed. Per their agreement, she wasn’t supposed to let it. He tapped the call button and tried to keep calm as each ring purred lazily in his ear.
The first time this happened—and last, he had firmly insisted—was over fifteen years ago. His wife had remained the same, but his first child had changed. This time, it must have been something fairly significant to change his family again. If he hadn’t had such a headstrong, steadfast nature, who knew what else would have shifted? The layout of his house, his career, his country of residence?
“Hello, Mark,” her smooth, cool voice came through the phone. Vague impressions of memories stirred softly within him. It had been so long.
But he needed answers, now. “Caroline, what have you undone?”
“The coup in Burundi five days ago.”
“What are you, a fucking time-traveling James Bond now? We agreed never to mess with this shit again. The unknown implications are way too dangerous.”
“The rebel commander was going to be horrific for the country. I couldn’t let—”
“We can’t see the future, Caroline,” he said, incredulous and frustrated and furious all at once. “We don’t know that. Just because you fancy yourself a political genius doesn’t mean you can fly off to Africa and fuck with their government! I don’t have the same wife today as I did for the past sixteen years. What else has changed as a consequence of your self-righteous campaign?”
A pause. “I’m sorry your wife shifted.” At least she sounded sincere. “All I did was save the parents of the chief conspirator from getting slaughtered by the other faction. I figured it was such a little thing, and Burundi is so far away. For all we know, a relative living in the US stayed here that week instead of flying over for a funeral, and he ran into someone who did something with someone who met your old wife. You know how these things can go.”
“Yes, I know exactly how these things can go, which is why I honor our old agreement.”
“If it’s any consolation, she’s probably not dead. You could still go find her.”
“And do what? Tell her to forget everything she thinks she knows about her current life, because she’s supposed to be with me? Abandon the wife and kid who love me now? We’re the only ones who can remember original timelines every time there’s a shift. Listen, this isn’t a joke.”
“No, you listen.” Her voice became icier. “That rebel commander was going to commit another genocide. Think about how many thousands of lives I probably saved. You know the classic question, ‘If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, would you?’ Obviously we can’t, since that was way before we were born, let alone when we found the gift, but—you’d seriously say no to that?”
“I would, because we just don’t know what else could happen. If this thing could allow us to see the future of our undoings, what lies beyond the doors we want to open, then maybe I would. But it doesn’t. I don’t know if undoing my daughter’s bad test grade from yesterday is going to cause her to have a missing arm when I get back. And that’s why we swore to each other we’d never mess with it again!” They had talked about this so many times, long ago. He couldn’t believe it was resurfacing now.
“Well,” she said, “shortly after I agreed to that, I realized how silly and selfish it was. Surely we’ve been given this gift for a reason. I can’t just sit back and watch the world burn, knowing I have the power to put out a few flames here and there myself. We can help others, Mark. Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? At least you still have your cushy job, fancy car, another picture-perfect family. Try to think outside the glossy box of your own life for a minute. Imagine everything I might have sacrificed while undoing things for over twenty years. All to help other people.”
His mind reeled. Twenty years. What had she done? How did she fail to grasp the massive scope of her recklessness and betrayal?
“On a smaller scale, of course,” she added. “Always going back only a couple days. This was the first and only time I went back so far. There just didn’t seem to be a clean solution in the recent past. I’m sorry it happened to affect your personal life against all odds, but what you need to understand is that this is bigger than you or I.”
“And when you and I die, Caroline?” he demanded. “Who’s going to continue patching up the holes in history that you’ve left? Who’s going to be accountable when the fabric of space-time tears apart?”
She laughed without warmth. “You’re no astrophysicist, not even in this shifted reality. You don’t know that that would happen. Don’t be so dramatic. I’m just trying to bring some peace to the world. Let me know when you’re ready to do good, too.”
“I guess there’s no getting you to come to your senses.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree, I’m afraid.”
The full impact of his loss hit him then. Caroline was right that the woman who had been his wife probably wasn’t dead, but she might as well have been. Everything about their life together had been erased. There would be nothing of her in the house when he returned, no photos of them together. He might see her in a store or a café, and she would look right past him. And their children. Those beautiful, bubbly, curious, wonderful souls. Tanya, Derek, and Ashley had never existed now. It was devastating.
Mark continued to sit in his car for a long time, smoking cigarettes and grieving. He searched online on his phone for tragedies that had occurred in the past twenty-five years: school shootings, plane crashes, serial killings, drone strikes, bombings, and more. Some of them appeared to have been wholly prevented, turning up zero relevant search results. With others, he couldn’t tell if Caroline had mitigated them or simply been uninvolved. He almost had to admire her dedication to playing the savior.
However, it was still far too risky. Why couldn’t she understand that every time she saved ten people, she might be endangering a hundred or a thousand more? She couldn’t clean up all the bloodshed in the world herself. Even with his help, the two of them couldn’t do it. Even if they tried, who knew what else would shift as an unwanted side effect: social movements, medical discoveries, technological advances?
And the uneasy fact remained that they didn’t even know where the gift had come from, who had placed it there for them to find, what their motives were, or what secret reverberations it could cause every time it was used.
He thought about the woman and girl who had been in his house this morning. They had seemed lovely and kind. But he had already built a life with the woman he had loved for nineteen years, and the three children they had had together. He wasn’t sure he could ever grow to love these two the way they deserved.
This was a little selfish, he knew. But he also did want to bring a little peace to the world.
Mark made up his mind and closed his eyes. He returned to a forest full of sunbeams and golden leaves, twenty-five years in the past. He dug through a patch of earth for several minutes until he uncovered a metallic box with pieces that moved and turned, a puzzle that his hands still knew how to solve. Inside was a ball of lightly glowing material that he knew without touching to be delightfully soft. He took the lighter from his pocket and set the ball on fire. When it was over, everything went black.
In the morning, he awoke to the beeping of someone’s alarm clock.
This latest match has wavy black hair, sweet blue eyes, and perky tits that she shows off in low-cut tops and dresses in all her photos. According to her profile, she is nineteen years old and lives twenty-two miles away—probably a student at the state college. One picture features a small, pampered-looking Pomeranian; I decide to use this as the ice-breaker.
Hey there. Cute dog, what’s its name?
My eyes linger on the screen for a few seconds, and then I put the phone down on the table and pour a glass of water. When I return to the sofa, I see that I’ve already gotten a reply.
Lucky! He’s my long distance boyfriend lol 😍
I shift my eyes from the phone to the television and absentmindedly watch the news for a few minutes. It is still early in the conversation, and I don’t want to seem overeager. After a riveting story on some subway station crime, I turn back to the match.
Long distance, huh?
Let me guess. You’re in college, and Lucky’s back home. 😔
I had read somewhere that men who flirt with emoji were significantly more likely to get what they wanted. So far, it’s worked pretty well for me.
It doesn’t take long for the match to confirm my hypothesis and start flirting back—hard. The match goes from fawning over her dog to making fun of the “boring” boys at her school to telling me the things she would do for me if I were ever to visit. She lives in an off-campus apartment with two roommates who both happen to be away visiting their families, but she doesn’t expressly invite me over. Probably just enjoys teasing.
We gradually ramp up our messaging relays to a steady and rapid pace, dropping all coy pretenses of being cool and detached. Eventually:
All this talk is turning me on
And making me hungry at the same time 😂 😂
I could really go for some pizza
I know what’s coming. This has been much easier than expected.
Sorry, guess I tend to have that effect on people. 😇
Wish I could take you out to dinner in person tonight.
How about you let me buy you a pizza instead?
The reply arrives nearly instantaneously.
Would you really?
That’d be amazing!!
Your so sweet
A beautiful girl like you should never go hungry.
What would you like and what’s your address?
1449 broad st #5a
Could you get me a large pie with sausage and peppers
Thanks a bunch 😁
Should be there in about 45 minutes.
Lol omg I can’t believe you actually did it!
Too funny, I love it
Thanks again, your the best!!!
Haha I know, I’ve never done anything like this before either.
Hey I gotta go…
But enjoy your pizza! Talk to you later. 😆
Precisely forty-five minutes later, I ring the doorbell of 1449 Broad St, #5A, in the college town. I’m wearing a generic-looking polo shirt and old, faded jeans, carrying the box of a pizza I really did order—and paid for in cash upon pickup. The match excitedly opens the door, wearing a tank top and shorts and looking just as beautiful as she does in her profile pictures. This is going to be so good.
I abruptly push my way into her apartment, shoving her aside and startling her. “Hey, asshole! What do you think you’re doing?” I drop the pizza box on the floor. Quickly, I yank away the arm she is extending toward me, pull the switchblade from my pocket with my other hand, and slide it smoothly across her throat. She crumples to the floor and stares at me in horror, unable to speak. Rivulets of blood escape from the gash and seep into the carpeted hallway. So beautiful, and so easy.
Kerry and I liked to play what we called “Tinder games.” It started when we were hanging out at my place one night, drinking wine and talking about a hot guy in our sociology class who may or may not have just broken up with his girlfriend and been making sneaky glances at Kerry and/or me. Following some silly thread of logic that I assure you made much more sense in the moment, in order to settle this, we decided to get on our phones and see who could get a match on Tinder first.
After that, we changed our profile settings to look for girls, and we raced to see who would get the first lesbo match. The variations and rules got more and more complicated as time went on: the first to match with a guy with specific features, with someone at least fifty years old, with someone who would have a funnier reply to the same message, and so on.
Our latest challenge was to get some random person on Tinder actually to buy us something. We figured this would kill two birds with one stone: provide great entertainment, and get us free stuff. Just a couple hours after we agreed on this, I matched with a decently cute blond guy named Jeff, who had a super nice and friendly-looking smile. Last seen: twelve minutes ago.
He messaged me a few minutes later, asking about my dog Lucky. They always asked about Lucky, but I never got tired of it. I figured some guys probably needed more help with ideas for conversation starters—and anyway, I would never get tired of talking about my baby! I told Jeff that I went to the state college and missed Lucky very much because he was back home with my parents.
Jeff was pretty sweet and easy to talk to, but also seemed kind of passive and easy to whip. He seemed like just as good a candidate as any for our game. I texted Kerry:
Think I got one! Let the tinder games begin 😂
I started hinting at Jeff that he should come visit sometime. I lived in an apartment off campus, not in a dorm that would have annoying key-card swipes and stuff, so I told him it would be fun and convenient. It’s easy to get guys to be more willing to do stuff for you when you get them thinking about sex! Then I changed gears suddenly and told him I was hungry.
Wish I could take you out to dinner in person tonight.
How about you let me buy you a pizza instead?
Could it be? This was a lot easier than I thought! I told him the name of my favorite pizzeria and gave him my address, and he replied right away that my order was on its way. Ha, this was awesome! What a sucker! I texted Kerry some more:
Just got some guy from tinder to buy me 🍕!!
Wanna come over and have some and bask in my victory?
I was actually starving, so I was quite excited for my free pizza. What on earth did girls do for fun before Tinder?
Based on the ostensibly true story, Girls Are Shamelessly Using Tinder To Get Guys To Buy Them Pizza.
“She’s been barely more than a leech to me.”
“Don’t you enjoy spending time with her?”
“Sort of. It was fun having someone to giggle with over superficial things—but I have yet to have anything remotely resembling an intellectual conversation with her.”
“And you need to have intellectual conversations with everybody.”
“Don’t you? What’s the point if somebody doesn’t educate you in some little way, or inspire you, or—I don’t know—make you think about something differently?”
“You have such a utilitarian view toward your friendships. Maybe kindness and patience are two other lessons you could learn.”
“You’re one of the few I’d allow to call me a douchebag like this. Feel flattered.”
I got the timing just right once.
The rising sun was shedding russet and gold all about the leaves of the trees standing sentinel on either side of the road, and the hues echoed infinite off the trunks and the pavement. From this high vantage point that I passed through so frequently, always so preoccupied, the world looked swathed in welcoming warmth. It rolled and washed and glowed in a way that I did not expect, that I did not know was possible.
I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless
I had never before seen such a vivid, panoramic play of color. Elsewhere the yawning air was frigid and hostile, but here on this side of the mountain, summer had somehow stopped in for a minute and left its soft and teasing touch. Oh, but it was warm. It was warm and sweet, regal yet unassuming. It was an instance of flawless serenity from a lost time–and I an embarrassed, anachronistic interloper on the descent.
And in this moment, I am happy
I drive down this mountain every morning, and back up every night. At night, the myriad scattered lights below resemble miniature galaxies, and you feel as though you’re at the top of the world. But there was something more special still in the glory of this particular dawn, when I was not even searching for it. And I am not sure I will ever be graced by it again.
I wish you were here