Post by Derek Nahigyan on Jul 20, 2009 1:05:53 GMT -5
The Garden Of Eavesdropping
Eliza scratched the roof of her head, pacing the parking lot, deterring forwards and frontways along the sidewalk. Should she enter; turn back; what?
It had been raining all day and the streets were dampened by a deeper shade of black. Eliza was dry. As she turned around the corner again, she brushed the hair out of her face—even that was giving her trouble.
‘What to do; what to do!’ She sat, slumping at the curbside. Her butt was wet. As the frigid condensation soaked her backside, she froze; deep in blitzkrieg thought: his mother’s birthday is today; that explains the absent automobile. Daniel must be at the cemetery, mourning. How could she forget? Such a drab, this boy is. It will be painful, less her tenderness is forthcoming.
“Oouoh!” She steadied backwards, nestling the flat part of her head on the sidewalk. She looked up at the clouds. She’d grown fond of liquids and gases; the gas explosions billowing out, dissipating from the sky. The streams, ceaseless, incandescent light bouncing jauntily from rapid to rapid; and meek ripples in the crustacean inhabited harbor. She yearned for people to be as gases or liquids, distancing themselves or disappearing eternally, but alas, everyone is important and rock solid—can’t scratch Abe Lincoln’s memorial without being known nationally. ‘About the closest thing we got are ghosts. I wonder if ghosts are invisible to other ghosts?’ Her trail-blazing question would have to wait until later, Daniel was home.
Daniel had just returned from his mother’s resting place, it’d been a tough week at work alone. He got shot in the back by his partner, Laura Ashbury, and later that evening by a reformed drug addict fearing that the big, purple giraffe had a .45 magnum. His partner was very apologetic and brought him coffee every morning. Meanwhile, the drug addict still pleads for his life whenever he visits him in the pen—pending his court date. His worries alleviated for an instant as he took a gander at the garnish beauty peacefully resting on the stone tablets.
Eliza hurried up from the sidewalk, brushing herself off as a formality. “Daniel!” she hollered with a grin, extending her hand to shake; unprepared for the oncoming embrace. Their wool jackets heated up, frictionizing their bodies and both felt very warm. The tenderness faded as Daniel pulled back and held her face, bunching her crimson cheeks together and pursing her lips. “It is so good to see you! Come, come, let’s evade this cold weather altogether; get inside!” He clenched her wrist in a gentle manner. They whisked forward, up the flight of stairs to his apartment where he urgently shuffled his keys around and negotiated the dilly-dalis that swung as decoration.
Filthy and deteriorating, the house she once knew was a wreck. She knew he’d had it rough but this spoke devastation.
His father had been calling, telling Eliza all about D’s emotions and heartache. She thought of it as being pampered, or at least marginally dishonest. Daniel was the guy that’d go work out or scream loudly, ‘then again,’ she thought, ‘getting shot may have traumatized him.’
“The place looks good. You changed it around a bit.” She humored.
“I had to make room for my experiments!” As giddy as Willy Wonka. He fastened his seatbelt and steered for the guest bathroom. The lighting had been oddly purplized and funky smells were emitting a gross disposition. Bubbly pulp wiggled, if not grew from the uppermost corner. Slime and ooze had crystallized and coated the rim of the counter; some broken off where cupboards needed to be opened. A microscope teetered near the sink where Petri dishes acted as holsters for condiments like soap. There were vials and large packages with the words ‘biohazard’ written across them—all sealed of course.
“E, you know how I’ve always been fascinated by science but never sought it out.” In all Eliza’s years of knowing Daniel, maybe once, could she vaguely recall him mentioning a fascination with goo; however, it was just as unlikely as him using an easy-bake oven.
“Right.” She felt uneasy; today would not suffice as a cushion but she put it off all the other times before, ‘course now I have a decent reason,’ she stammered thoughtfully.
“I went to my mother’s grave today.”
‘Great.’ She sank.
He was sitting neat on the sofa; dead-center so as to avoid awkward space amid them, supposing, she chose to sit. She stood.
“Oh?” She managed to squeal a vowel out.
“Yes, Papa came too. We wished you were there.” He caught her eyes; they looked appealing.
‘Forget it,’ she thought, ‘this is only going to get worse and it can’t get worse than this.’ Suddenly, it became clear to her it wasn’t the bullet wounds that made him glow like this, it was her. ‘Oh, well,’ she reminded herself. “D, I brought the divorce papers, I need you to sign them.” His eyes didn’t quiver in the slightest but his finger tips curled on the cushions. “Oh,” a vowel escaped him.
In atmospheres such as this one, E had a history for mumbling her internal thoughts aloud. She often questioned the validity of what was coming out or wanted to make herself more comfortable by making others uncomfortable. She lit a thought, puffing the papers out of her purse and flexing her hand to spawn the documents on the coffee table before him. He was busy recirclating the fingers on his hands. Daniel’s dreary eyes sank further than the junky that shot him. Eliza thought of these moments, the ones where you can hear a pin drop. It had become deathly quiet and the silent beeping in her ears only made her more anxious. However, no matter how hard the silence spilled out or the situation pleaded, she could not lose control of the situation—it belonged.
Neither of them ever thought it would come to this; it was out of the blue for everyone in the room. D knew it wasn’t the end of the world but it felt unattractive and empty. E knew it would be over soon but not soon enough.
“D,” she gathered all the calloused thoughts (she’d put aside) and lifted them with some delicate sensitivity, “we’re terrible.” Her hands gestured autonomically. “You don’t speak to me about how you’re feeling and take your anger from work out on me. I’ve asked you if you want a massage after work and you snap at me or insult my cooking. Since we’ve been together I can’t remember a single note-worthy moment where we’ve been mutually happy. And seeing you like this, though you may not see it, is the best I’ve seen you in months.”
“So let’s stay. I’m better now!”
“No, you’re not; this is temporary. I’ve seen the real you; I’ve lived with the real you. The man who would rather go out drinking with his buddies than spend a night at home with me; the man who’d rather sit on the couch than come with me to church every once in a while; the man who won’t sit still for five minutes while I read you a piece one of my students wrote about love.
“Now the kipped gloves come off, eh?! Every time I’ve asked you ‘what’s wrong’ you lock yourself up, shutting me out entirely. Whenever we get in a fight, who is it that leaves to their parents’ house for a few days and won’t even answer the phone to work it out!”
The duel expanded, delving into whose turn it was to do the dishes, to who works harder to provide for the both of them. They yelled, rocking each other, pushing and pulling back and forth, numbing themselves from the painful remarks. By the time, the “kid” conversation came up, they were hacking, severing the bridge so that not even the drift wood was salvageable. Slicing tattoos off so they could carve their name all over and when it was done, they’d surgically insert each other’s organs to taunt and disobey them for a lifetime. The hate rose like heat, cramming the air flow, pressuring them to continue to fill the rest of the space; it was a nasty impulse. The tension grew, spreading tentacles through the foundation, uplifting the source.
Eyes squint; fingernails bent backwards; lips cracked and hoarsed throat; rub the eyes so hard they squish back into your head bleeding down to the mouth soaking its fresh filth to coat the throat’s germing tongue. The veins cringed, nipping at the skin tugging the curse deeper than darkness. Pulsing, crashing, shredding, dilating, crippling, stifling, suffering, ambushing, and no escaping the hostile retardation of empathy.
“SHUT UP!”
A thunderous blow rattled that house leaving the two inhabitants deaf. The hate cowered and fled while the two looked towards their curiosity. Out on the sidewalk were two parents, spitting a storm of agony. The father demanding time alone and the wife, convinced he’d been sleeping around. They acted as lions, ferociously tearing at each other for dominance without a care for their cubs—or neighbors.
Eliza and Daniel shared a potent feeling that needn’t be spoken. And she thought it best to go but when she opened the door, the bleating from the two outside shook her vulnerable sensibility and quaked her very bones. Eliza closed the door and looked worried at Daniel. He offered her a room; she obliged.
In the morning, he left, leaving a sticky of communication behind: I’ll have the papers in by 8:00. She smiled and cooked a few pancakes; the aroma filled the house, repairing the violence that stained the walls. She wrapped them in cellophane and put them in the refrigerator. Before leaving, she attached a sticky note: Good luck with the goop!
With Eliza out of the familiar house, she walked down the local stairwell onto the foreign street where she’d drive into the distant future. They were good people at heart, just not perfect.
Eliza scratched the roof of her head, pacing the parking lot, deterring forwards and frontways along the sidewalk. Should she enter; turn back; what?
It had been raining all day and the streets were dampened by a deeper shade of black. Eliza was dry. As she turned around the corner again, she brushed the hair out of her face—even that was giving her trouble.
‘What to do; what to do!’ She sat, slumping at the curbside. Her butt was wet. As the frigid condensation soaked her backside, she froze; deep in blitzkrieg thought: his mother’s birthday is today; that explains the absent automobile. Daniel must be at the cemetery, mourning. How could she forget? Such a drab, this boy is. It will be painful, less her tenderness is forthcoming.
“Oouoh!” She steadied backwards, nestling the flat part of her head on the sidewalk. She looked up at the clouds. She’d grown fond of liquids and gases; the gas explosions billowing out, dissipating from the sky. The streams, ceaseless, incandescent light bouncing jauntily from rapid to rapid; and meek ripples in the crustacean inhabited harbor. She yearned for people to be as gases or liquids, distancing themselves or disappearing eternally, but alas, everyone is important and rock solid—can’t scratch Abe Lincoln’s memorial without being known nationally. ‘About the closest thing we got are ghosts. I wonder if ghosts are invisible to other ghosts?’ Her trail-blazing question would have to wait until later, Daniel was home.
Daniel had just returned from his mother’s resting place, it’d been a tough week at work alone. He got shot in the back by his partner, Laura Ashbury, and later that evening by a reformed drug addict fearing that the big, purple giraffe had a .45 magnum. His partner was very apologetic and brought him coffee every morning. Meanwhile, the drug addict still pleads for his life whenever he visits him in the pen—pending his court date. His worries alleviated for an instant as he took a gander at the garnish beauty peacefully resting on the stone tablets.
Eliza hurried up from the sidewalk, brushing herself off as a formality. “Daniel!” she hollered with a grin, extending her hand to shake; unprepared for the oncoming embrace. Their wool jackets heated up, frictionizing their bodies and both felt very warm. The tenderness faded as Daniel pulled back and held her face, bunching her crimson cheeks together and pursing her lips. “It is so good to see you! Come, come, let’s evade this cold weather altogether; get inside!” He clenched her wrist in a gentle manner. They whisked forward, up the flight of stairs to his apartment where he urgently shuffled his keys around and negotiated the dilly-dalis that swung as decoration.
Filthy and deteriorating, the house she once knew was a wreck. She knew he’d had it rough but this spoke devastation.
His father had been calling, telling Eliza all about D’s emotions and heartache. She thought of it as being pampered, or at least marginally dishonest. Daniel was the guy that’d go work out or scream loudly, ‘then again,’ she thought, ‘getting shot may have traumatized him.’
“The place looks good. You changed it around a bit.” She humored.
“I had to make room for my experiments!” As giddy as Willy Wonka. He fastened his seatbelt and steered for the guest bathroom. The lighting had been oddly purplized and funky smells were emitting a gross disposition. Bubbly pulp wiggled, if not grew from the uppermost corner. Slime and ooze had crystallized and coated the rim of the counter; some broken off where cupboards needed to be opened. A microscope teetered near the sink where Petri dishes acted as holsters for condiments like soap. There were vials and large packages with the words ‘biohazard’ written across them—all sealed of course.
“E, you know how I’ve always been fascinated by science but never sought it out.” In all Eliza’s years of knowing Daniel, maybe once, could she vaguely recall him mentioning a fascination with goo; however, it was just as unlikely as him using an easy-bake oven.
“Right.” She felt uneasy; today would not suffice as a cushion but she put it off all the other times before, ‘course now I have a decent reason,’ she stammered thoughtfully.
“I went to my mother’s grave today.”
‘Great.’ She sank.
He was sitting neat on the sofa; dead-center so as to avoid awkward space amid them, supposing, she chose to sit. She stood.
“Oh?” She managed to squeal a vowel out.
“Yes, Papa came too. We wished you were there.” He caught her eyes; they looked appealing.
‘Forget it,’ she thought, ‘this is only going to get worse and it can’t get worse than this.’ Suddenly, it became clear to her it wasn’t the bullet wounds that made him glow like this, it was her. ‘Oh, well,’ she reminded herself. “D, I brought the divorce papers, I need you to sign them.” His eyes didn’t quiver in the slightest but his finger tips curled on the cushions. “Oh,” a vowel escaped him.
In atmospheres such as this one, E had a history for mumbling her internal thoughts aloud. She often questioned the validity of what was coming out or wanted to make herself more comfortable by making others uncomfortable. She lit a thought, puffing the papers out of her purse and flexing her hand to spawn the documents on the coffee table before him. He was busy recirclating the fingers on his hands. Daniel’s dreary eyes sank further than the junky that shot him. Eliza thought of these moments, the ones where you can hear a pin drop. It had become deathly quiet and the silent beeping in her ears only made her more anxious. However, no matter how hard the silence spilled out or the situation pleaded, she could not lose control of the situation—it belonged.
Neither of them ever thought it would come to this; it was out of the blue for everyone in the room. D knew it wasn’t the end of the world but it felt unattractive and empty. E knew it would be over soon but not soon enough.
“D,” she gathered all the calloused thoughts (she’d put aside) and lifted them with some delicate sensitivity, “we’re terrible.” Her hands gestured autonomically. “You don’t speak to me about how you’re feeling and take your anger from work out on me. I’ve asked you if you want a massage after work and you snap at me or insult my cooking. Since we’ve been together I can’t remember a single note-worthy moment where we’ve been mutually happy. And seeing you like this, though you may not see it, is the best I’ve seen you in months.”
“So let’s stay. I’m better now!”
“No, you’re not; this is temporary. I’ve seen the real you; I’ve lived with the real you. The man who would rather go out drinking with his buddies than spend a night at home with me; the man who’d rather sit on the couch than come with me to church every once in a while; the man who won’t sit still for five minutes while I read you a piece one of my students wrote about love.
“Now the kipped gloves come off, eh?! Every time I’ve asked you ‘what’s wrong’ you lock yourself up, shutting me out entirely. Whenever we get in a fight, who is it that leaves to their parents’ house for a few days and won’t even answer the phone to work it out!”
The duel expanded, delving into whose turn it was to do the dishes, to who works harder to provide for the both of them. They yelled, rocking each other, pushing and pulling back and forth, numbing themselves from the painful remarks. By the time, the “kid” conversation came up, they were hacking, severing the bridge so that not even the drift wood was salvageable. Slicing tattoos off so they could carve their name all over and when it was done, they’d surgically insert each other’s organs to taunt and disobey them for a lifetime. The hate rose like heat, cramming the air flow, pressuring them to continue to fill the rest of the space; it was a nasty impulse. The tension grew, spreading tentacles through the foundation, uplifting the source.
Eyes squint; fingernails bent backwards; lips cracked and hoarsed throat; rub the eyes so hard they squish back into your head bleeding down to the mouth soaking its fresh filth to coat the throat’s germing tongue. The veins cringed, nipping at the skin tugging the curse deeper than darkness. Pulsing, crashing, shredding, dilating, crippling, stifling, suffering, ambushing, and no escaping the hostile retardation of empathy.
“SHUT UP!”
A thunderous blow rattled that house leaving the two inhabitants deaf. The hate cowered and fled while the two looked towards their curiosity. Out on the sidewalk were two parents, spitting a storm of agony. The father demanding time alone and the wife, convinced he’d been sleeping around. They acted as lions, ferociously tearing at each other for dominance without a care for their cubs—or neighbors.
Eliza and Daniel shared a potent feeling that needn’t be spoken. And she thought it best to go but when she opened the door, the bleating from the two outside shook her vulnerable sensibility and quaked her very bones. Eliza closed the door and looked worried at Daniel. He offered her a room; she obliged.
In the morning, he left, leaving a sticky of communication behind: I’ll have the papers in by 8:00. She smiled and cooked a few pancakes; the aroma filled the house, repairing the violence that stained the walls. She wrapped them in cellophane and put them in the refrigerator. Before leaving, she attached a sticky note: Good luck with the goop!
With Eliza out of the familiar house, she walked down the local stairwell onto the foreign street where she’d drive into the distant future. They were good people at heart, just not perfect.