literature – Page 10 – A Piece, of the Sky

fighting so hard

Kaan stood in her room at the Marriott. She peeked through the curtains of the ceiling-to-floor windows, that provided a sixty-five-story view of skyscrapers new, and old, sparkling in the night.

She retreated to the bed. The TV was on and tuned to the Food Network. Beat Bobby Flay.

The room service had brought up an omelet earlier. Kaan stared at the ceiling. Earlier in the week, Beth had stood at the edge of the well, “I’ll be right here. And if it gets too cold, I’ll be in the cabin, on the walkie-talkie.”

Kaan stood on a rung of the rope ladder, “I won’t be gone long.”

She crossed through the tunnel at the bottom of the first well and sat at the bottom of the second well. By the time she got there, the sky was gray. It began to drizzle. Kaan sat in the well, holding her knees, looking up at the rain that grazed her cheeks, scrunching up her eyes in response to the distant light.

In the present, there was a knock at the door. Kaan got up to see who it was. Ran stood in the fish-eye view of the peep-hole.

Great NYC (10)

never stop trappin'

Kaan walked the path, covered in damp leaves. The trees stood out in sharp relief against the white sky. The clouds rolled and expanded out, climbing down the mountains. The branches were empty, scraggly veins written on the firmament.

The woods smelled of wet earth. It had rained that morning. Droplets budded where leaves had once shaken in the cold, autumn wind.

The trees were thinning. Through the gnarled trunks, Kaan could see the old house, shingles hanging lopsided, roof full of holes. No one had been to the gray structure in years.

She stopped in the woods. Coming off the path, she could see the door leaning, barely on its hinges. Dead foliage filled the front lawn. Dry grass curled into the dust. The mailbox stood askew in the wet, sunken ground. Kaan didn’t go in yet. She thought of Aspen.

Why did you leave me?

She could almost see her here: Aspen in a lacy, white dress, holding a frilly parasol aloft, twirling it – lifting one dainty, black Jimmy Choo-clad foot in the air, smelling of hard candy.

They had run the book store together, with its low ceilings and leaky bathroom faucet. After work, Kaan would charge off on her Harley, and Aspen would yell at her to slow down, camel skin pea coat swirling around perfect legs, calves sculpted by months of spinning classes.

Kaan sat down on the low wooden steps, half rotted through. Love is a haunted house standing in your heart, Kaan thought. She lit a Newport and had to really drag on it to get the fire going. She lay down on the forgotten porch, cigarette smoke spiraling up idly, some getting in her nostrils – the rest, catching the next breeze into the stratosphere.

She found herself crying, chest heaving helplessly on the frigid boards, far away, in some forest in Maine. I miss you. Why won’t you come back? Not even her black leather jacket protected her from the cold, the thunderous, rushing wind galloping through the woods, blowing through her heart.

should have worn the vest