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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 …

manhattan (and a jasmine sazerac)

It is difficult to understand that you have been poisoned, if it happens drop by drop. 

Life trickles past windows. You take your child to school in the cold air. You make lunches. You pay bills. Money is made, and wasted. The transmission is grinding. A dry burnt electric smell hovers in the air. Everything needs oil. Everyone needs rest.

The neighbors have their tv on loud, all night long.
It sounds like an argument.





E is crazy about mortadella sandwiches, with grainy mustard. We make up a song about them and sing it in the street and on the metro.
"Morrrrrrtadellaaaa." She croons. "More than just a fellaaaaaaa."
"Especially in the rain." I add. "Under an umbrellaaaaa."
I wonder if she knows this is what saves me.
"Hey pop." She says.
I look at her.
"If we have mortadella and we have hope." She explains. "Then, we have mope."
I laugh, full and loud.





There are leaks in the walls. There are stains on ceilings. A wet, moldy smell drifts around the stairwells. The elevator stops working two or three times a day. The sky is low, heavy.
I don't know how we live here. I don't know if life would feel different anyplace else. I miss the random smiling faces on third avenue when I went to the post office. I miss the dive bar that used to be on the corner. I miss the pastrami sandwiches from across the street. I miss friends calling me, saying they are playing a last minute show a few blocks from the apartment. I miss takeout matzoh ball soup when I felt sick.

The wind whips up, bending the trees. They say it comes from the arctic, that there will be days when it is -30C this winter, that there may be snow in a week.




We are driving on a Saturday night, with no idea what to do. N's new winter coat rests on the back seat. I have Tones on Tail playing, realizing how the songs do not sound thirty years old.
There will be a dinner at a good place, without a reservation. They give us the same table we have eaten at before.
I order a manhattan.
The drink arrives, with three cherries and a twist of orange.
I sip once.
I close my eyes.
I listen to everything.
N is quiet, thoughtful as ever. I watch her hands turning in corkscrew shapes until I hold them.
"Everything will be fine." I tell her.
I realize how I have come to say this phrase as habit, and how foolish the words feel in my mouth, but at the same time, they are always right.
She looks at me with her big brown eyes.
I imagine the drops of poison leaving me, evaporating from the top of my head.
I sip the cocktail, cold and warm at the same time.
Food arrives.
We make plans.
The duck is rare, just as I asked.
The place is filling up. There are women in tight skirts and impossible heels. There are short men with beards and little black leather man purses.
I order a jasmine sazerac. The waitress apologizes, and tells me they have changed the drink for autumn and now is is a salted maple sazerac. I am sure it may taste lovely, but my face falls. She scurries to the bar.
"They will make you one." She tells me quietly, as if she does not want anyone to hear us.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling.
The plates are cleared.
The drink arrives. I can smell it long before the glass reaches my lips.
It tastes like the clouds that rain on New Orleans.





Comments

Dear Marco,
I diligently check in every Monday afternoon of Tuesday morning, CAT, because I find your writing incredibly moving. Your minute observations about the world you are forcibly immersed in are both jarring and heartbreaking sometimes...

And sometimes you totally surprise me with a turn of phrase: "It tastes like the clouds that rain on New Orleans."

Don't let the criticism get to you too much. You give hope to somebody like me, who lives in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Marlette
Dear Marco,
I diligently check in every Monday afternoon of Tuesday morning, CAT, because I find your writing incredibly moving. Your minute observations about the world you are forcibly immersed in are both jarring and heartbreaking sometimes...

And sometimes you totally surprise me with a turn of phrase: "It tastes like the clouds that rain on New Orleans."

Don't let the criticism get to you too much. You give hope to somebody like me, who lives in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Marlette

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