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running away with the circus (looking for dolphins)

There are three of them, a brazen woman with bright eyes and a big voice, a man going grey with a hop in his step and a younger woman who might be their daughter or their niece that twists her short hair into little tufts. They roam the hotel, sometimes in elaborate costumes, letting us know that there will be a secret dance party near the ballroom in an hour.

The older woman strolls in during dinner in a costume of blinking Christmas lights and exotic face paint. V stares up at her, convinced she is a princess or a fairy or maybe both. The next night, she is all in black, great horns wobbling on her head. She always has a pair of black Converse high tops on, as if they go with every costume or maybe they are the only shoes she owns.

The man is typically dressed as a pirate, in a striped shirt, maybe an eye patch. He is perfectly relaxed, like his limbs are made of silly straws. The younger woman is always smiling, her mouth a wall of metal braces and lip gloss. I imagine they sleep …

a clear midnight


The sun rises by four just as we have found our way to becoming a slack pair of spoons. I can see the sky through my closed eyelids, pressing past the curtains and the balcony. The trucks are rumbling along the river. Teenagers are still out in mufflerless cars screaming and careening down the highway with throaty approaches that drift off, leaving us back to our pillows.

N turns, dragging my arm across her shoulder. The bed jiggles a bit, like the soft wet yolk in the center of a sunny side up egg.

The sheets are twisted around our hips. N's breathing is steady, calm. I smell the burnt toast smell of diesel exhaust. I hear the bark of the neighbor's tiny dogs. 

I stare at the ceiling.

I can remember a million things at this hour. I can walk lucid through history in this half-light. 

The tv is on, a miniature black and white screen in beige plastic. It sits in the corner of the room. Outside, I can see the treetops, Garfield place, a seltzer man working his way down the block. Charlie Chan is on, solving mysteries in thirty minutes or less. I sit on the bare wood floor, legs crossed.
"Admitting failure like drinking bitter tea." He says.
I really want an ice cream.



I see E, but grown up now. She is tall, her hair long and wild. Laughing, taking photographs of a friend, she moves with a sort of grace I could never predict. The sun is low in the sky. We are by the ocean. I feel my toes in the sand but will not look down. If I do, this will all disappear. I stare at her, at her round cheeks, her giant eyes. This is my child. This is what she will look like someday. Her fingers are long, covered with cheap rings, a clump of necklaces on her neck. The light haired gypsy. 

I squeeze my eyes closed. It is six now, but looks like eleven.

The smell of oranges and lemongrass wash over me. I see nothing, just sense a warmth, maybe of smooth wood around me, heavy, oiled, massive. There are candles here I think. I hear the crackle of a fire. I am suddenly hungry for sour apples.



Sleep comes. N throws one of her legs across me, pressing against my side. I turn my face into the pillows. I try to match her breathing, to find her secret recipe. I rest my palm on the two dimples at the base of her spine. 

The bottom of her back is like a tiny ocean. 

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