We missed the goats, but had ice cream cones.

I lied to you, you know.

I knew that day when we sat at the airport and I begged you to take me to Philly with you.
Clutching your steering wheel.
Crying. Laughing.
One more truck ride with the windows down.
Hair blowing, music throbbing.

Of course I knew what it was. I’m not a stupid girl.
But there was no map. No GPS constantly telling us to turn left.

I was nervous about the ‘what now’ with knowing what you know.
What I know.

Last night when I got back home, I saw something and it reminded me.

I wanted to hold your hand again and call you a motherfucker.

It hit hard, deep within that home spot.
The air left my lungs, but I couldn’t call to have you tell me some wildly rotten joke to make me laugh.

And I have so many questions, but I’ve never been good with timing.

It’s funny too…
When I finally boarded the plane the flight attendant was a beautiful red headed girl.
Big eyes, pouty mouth, curvy in all the right places.
I watched her, despised her, because it reminded me of what already was.
And where I was not.
Where I did not belong.

The saving grace,
was all the ice cream.

“Tiffany Aching” arrived with a full moon.

Someone once gave me a sentence about a girl that tickled trout.
How she enjoyed making them laugh because it came up in bubbles.

That sentence was what I thought about every night as I sat on the edge of the pond,
toes in the water,
fish nibbling,
the 14 breathing deeply in satisfied sleeps.

Thumb wrestling through the thought.

She was an awkward woman and I still can’t tell if it’s due to reaction or self creation.

On the river’s edge I smoked a cigarette. As the spiral winds were kicking up my skirt I climbed down the rocks careful to avoid anything with three pointed leaves for fear of contracting poison.

I removed my sandals, held the cigarette in my mouth, and with both hands lifted my skirt high enough to wade through the water. I felt like Goliath with mammoth feet stomping down making the tiny little fishies flee as fast as blown dust. I giggled to myself and repeated, occasionally slipping up and letting out quiet and low roars. I was a giant! I was a slayer! I was Godzilla! The fishes my livers of Lilliput! You will run in fear from me! Your screams will shatter glass! ROAR, motherfucker, ROAR!

I played this way until my cigarette’s ember neared the filter and started to warm my lips, fingers.

Slowly, I placed sandals back on, scaled the rocks, climbing my way back up to the lands where I was the Lilliputian. A heart broken lowercase roar coming out in an exhale, in an explanation.

When I raised my head, there she stood with lopsided breasts and flabby arms. She was an average size with average coloration and average features and carried an average easy to forget always remembered name.

She places her hand out to shake, to greet. I feign a smile and say my name that is spelled incorrectly. I hate shaking hands, just shows how much bigger everything else is.

“I’ve heard all about you from T-. I’m very happy to finally meet you.”

-Finally? I had my first conversation with T- maybe 18 hours ago. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“He told me about your conversation last night.”

Very long pause. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to comment or elaborate on what was discussed. The pause kept growing in size, but before it became bigger than Andre I decided to reply. “It was entertaining. We talked about quantum physics, philosophy, weather control and time travel. It all led back to general theory and overall education, of course, but it was hilarious nonetheless.”

With a weird twinge of sadness in her voice she said, “Oh. He didn’t mention those parts.”

And insert another dangling silence.

In hopes of bypassing these awkward moments where she just stares at me blankly, I decide to point the conversation to her, desperately hoping she loves to hear her self. “That’s a beautiful necklace. I really enjoy that.” -I didn’t. It was hideous and poorly made.

So she talked about the purple noose for three minutes longer than she should have. But the blessing was that instantly the subject turn to her failing career, growing children, empty nest, and general uneasiness of the future, and inability to paint in certain styles.

I kept blacking out, spacing out, zoning out, adverbing out. The only thing that held my attention was one particular wrinkle of hers.

I lit another cigarette hoping the people that were to join us, would in fact, hurry the fuck up and join us. I kept looking behind me at the industrial stairs hoping that a familiar orange hued person was climbing down them.

She kept talking and my jaw muscle ached from the nice-ing. Why don’t I do heroin? Where could I get some right now? Would it be pure enough to smoke? I really don’t like needles. I guess I could settle for coke, but that may make me dive deeper into the conversation. What about meth? Meth heads love to fold socks. I miss socks, stupid summer. How old is she? 40? That wrinkle makes no sense for her age.

It was the kind of wrinkle that is found on the chests of some women. Either from the scrawny, mean, deeply tanned Grandma types, or from the 30 something women that have let a dozen children suckle from their breasts. She is neither of these things. How can her breasts be stretched like old underwear? Where the fuck does that deep wrinkle come from? Maybe her body stopped producing elasticin at 16. I wonder if Jacks and Button guys run in her family.

Shit…

“I’m sorry, what did you ask? Oh, yes, I used to do that. Haven’t in a few years, but it was a good life while I was living it.”

I wonder if she’s Jewish. Maybe she inherited the crack wrinkle honestly. Maybe all those years of her ancestors sunbathing on New York sidewalks with those reflective things permanently etched her. Fuck, was that racist? Where’s B-? He’d know if that were a racist comment. Racist… Hmm. R-A-C-I-S-T. Why does that make me think of raccoons? Coons. Hah. Fuck, wait. No, now that was racist. Jesus effing Christ I’m going to hell. Will she be in hell? I bet she’d go to hell for masturbating over a mirror. She seems the type to sketch her flapping vagina. Mudflaps. Shit, she’s wearing a skirt and there’s a strong breeze. I wonder if I can hear it. OHMYGOD I’m disgusting, but seriously, I wonder if I could. No, probably not, she wears those big girl panties to keep everything tight.

Then finally, as the woman was tiring of talking and starting to ask me something about myself I heard a voice yell to me from 30 feet above.

Fucking finally!

Yes, I’m ready to go, just please please please, don’t make me sit next to her during the long car ride, especially if the windows are down.

Well, maybe I’ll sit next to her if the windows are down. I wonder if it could sound like a song.

Shit.Godammit.Sumamabitch.