To err is human, to need air is too. Accidents are by definition not intended. If the swimming pool is to be our metaphor, drowning was not rhetoric on Marianne’s part.
Voyeurism, disassociated from amorous eyes, is an act that begs for its own meaning. I did not love Marianne entirely, only in spasms. She inside her home, putting on her bathing suit, as seen through a window, was merely a stranger in a box. They say television is chewing gum for the mind. Worry is a jaw-breaker. I worried for her.
It is a glorious moment when a child’s ball rolls onto someone’s lawn, or more notably, smashes through their window. A ball’s vector is driven with hope, and so I forgave Lucas every single time. “Did you get your balls from your daddy?” I asked him once, but he was too young to understand.
When I’m accused of pessimism, I say I’m a realist. When others herald abstract art, I say I’m a realist. Realism has two meanings: pictorial mimesis, and the abnegation of self-delusions. Of the former, I painted each hair on Marianne’s body with a fine sable brush, using Naples yellow to mark the tickle of light. And for the latter, I will only say this: The grass was never greener on the underside.
As compelling as a crotch is, it is more romantic to imagine a dog wandering the streets at night, sniffing away for an olfactory friend. Maxx, for that is what they called it, would come over to leave little pungent brown notes all over my lawn, a shit symphony of sorts.
Niceness is the opposite of intimate—a shielded diplomacy one employs with a strange neighbor. Marianne smiles at a distance, with the occasional feeding of Maxx, collecting of the mail, sorry for the broken windows, etc. “Don’t trust your neighbors” I told her once, trying to make light talk, “they know where you live.” She laughed, then winced.
A man goes on a jog. The neighborhood sweeps past him, the background hinged on a scroll, an unnoticed moving screen. The houses are all the same—two yellow jaundiced eyes upstairs and a garage mouth holding in the barf of cars. The sidewalk is a vein, bringing lifeless blue footsteps back to the heart of a man’s home, or that of his neighbor’s. When I got back, Marianne had just entered the pool. I could hear the gentle waves emitted by her body lapping against the concave cement hole. Her soft white skin was a chill blue under the dusk sky. I asked her a simple question, and she froze.
A 10 o’clock news sound-bite, the ones you hear after some meaningless violent act. It sounds commonplace, and sadly, almost natural. There were cameras everywhere. The swirling red and blue light of a police car siren marked the foliage. Maxx was hanging from the elm. Lucas was covered in tar and Cheerios. Frank screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car and locked eyes with me. That man has a wide stride. First one blow, then another. I laughed and he cried. I will never forget his eyes. They were not part of his face anymore.
Voyeurism, disassociated from amorous eyes, is an act that begs for its own meaning. I did not love Marianne entirely, only in spasms. She inside her home, putting on her bathing suit, as seen through a window, was merely a stranger in a box. They say television is chewing gum for the mind. Worry is a jaw-breaker. I worried for her.
It is a glorious moment when a child’s ball rolls onto someone’s lawn, or more notably, smashes through their window. A ball’s vector is driven with hope, and so I forgave Lucas every single time. “Did you get your balls from your daddy?” I asked him once, but he was too young to understand.
When I’m accused of pessimism, I say I’m a realist. When others herald abstract art, I say I’m a realist. Realism has two meanings: pictorial mimesis, and the abnegation of self-delusions. Of the former, I painted each hair on Marianne’s body with a fine sable brush, using Naples yellow to mark the tickle of light. And for the latter, I will only say this: The grass was never greener on the underside.
As compelling as a crotch is, it is more romantic to imagine a dog wandering the streets at night, sniffing away for an olfactory friend. Maxx, for that is what they called it, would come over to leave little pungent brown notes all over my lawn, a shit symphony of sorts.
Niceness is the opposite of intimate—a shielded diplomacy one employs with a strange neighbor. Marianne smiles at a distance, with the occasional feeding of Maxx, collecting of the mail, sorry for the broken windows, etc. “Don’t trust your neighbors” I told her once, trying to make light talk, “they know where you live.” She laughed, then winced.
A man goes on a jog. The neighborhood sweeps past him, the background hinged on a scroll, an unnoticed moving screen. The houses are all the same—two yellow jaundiced eyes upstairs and a garage mouth holding in the barf of cars. The sidewalk is a vein, bringing lifeless blue footsteps back to the heart of a man’s home, or that of his neighbor’s. When I got back, Marianne had just entered the pool. I could hear the gentle waves emitted by her body lapping against the concave cement hole. Her soft white skin was a chill blue under the dusk sky. I asked her a simple question, and she froze.
A 10 o’clock news sound-bite, the ones you hear after some meaningless violent act. It sounds commonplace, and sadly, almost natural. There were cameras everywhere. The swirling red and blue light of a police car siren marked the foliage. Maxx was hanging from the elm. Lucas was covered in tar and Cheerios. Frank screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car and locked eyes with me. That man has a wide stride. First one blow, then another. I laughed and he cried. I will never forget his eyes. They were not part of his face anymore.
About the Author
