Vignettes

Good evening. Don’t worry, I would not leave you hanging. Reading with a cup of evening tea instead of your morning coffee. Hope I did not disturb your rhythm.

I feel like Virginia Woolf today: “Heaven be praised, I have seen no one. I read; I walk; I put dinner in the oven; I sleep.”

I have some sort stories for you today, based on things I saw:

I texted a friend today that the town I am in brings out the best and the worst of me. “What’s the worst of you?” he asked. “Seems like some people who live out here long enough start to mimic the unstable, sort of cruel landscape,” I said quite hesitantly. This is not entirely true, though I feel that way sometimes. How my body contorts itself to be a mirage of the mountains and the valley floors. How the snow on my eyelids are mirrors of the icy winds inside me. I walk out on the ranch road, and feel bitter. I also feel great joy, and delight, and wonder— don’t be mistaken. But it is a battle, one I can seldom win, when faced with the weathering landscape and feel it gnawing at my skin; stripping my barriers down as each icicle drips, slowly, off the adobe roof. I wonder when I will simply give in, let the scorn of my body take over and flood my veins like water. My feet will be the Rio, and my body will be the swallows: teasing, jeering, above the blue rushing water.

We have the same gas station order. Pack of… (Him: Zynns, Her: American Spirits), a Gatorade lyte (blue preferred, Him: two, Her: one), and a Diet Coke.

Him: including! a greasy half-eaten slice of cheese pizza from the warmer on the counter. Pepperoni if they are out, a hot dog if no pizza is found.

Her: in addition! A water, a topo chico (regular), and a plan to beeline to the next gas station where she will have to pee all of this out.

Even states away, and wavelengths apart, they are connected by their unstable, cruel gas station picks. Paid for in cash, change placed in the left hand pocket of their respective pants (Him, Levis and Her, Wrangler). They don’t speak much anymore, each averting their eyes to the dumpster fire of their complicated mutual desire for each other, but she chuckles getting the photo of the passenger seat that mimicked her own. A split second where, for once, they were on the same page. They will continue their vow of silence, after each slightly smiling, glancing at their phone as they start their ignitions and reverse towards the highway.

She slides herself into the back booth: slippery tan leather meets her back and scccrrrreeeeeccchhhssss as she sat down. On a Thursday in January, the restaurant is empty save for the elderly man in blue overalls sipping black coffee at the counter, and the family of five at the long table in the middle. Each pimple infested child ordered the same plate of enchiladas, much to the horror and resentment of the tired, red haired mother. Mexican restaurants south of El Paso seem to be the perfect spot for a different kind of congregation: one of many weary people with no where else to go. She supposed that she was one of that kind. She, too, had nowhere to be except here. The usual: black coffee (two sugars), chicken tacos (no cheese) with rice and beans, and a slice of lemon pie. Promptly, as if the kitchen was desperately waiting for the minute she ordered to use their hands, the food came flying out on the shoulder of a plump, short lady in a baseball cap. Without prompting, she was informed that, in fact, this woman did not watch baseball and really, truly, hated the Mets. Food was eaten, a couple came and went, and alone she sat, silent, taking in her church for the afternoon. Eventually she paid, thanked the Mets cap and swung the door open to greet the flurries outside.

In the distance, huddled together for warmth, and cocooned in blankets of fog, tied tightly by string, were the mountains. Average size, if you can call a towering force of revelry “average”, they oversaw the people and cars and dogs and gatherings of the valley floor. At night, they too slept— dreaming of crisp fall days and their mother’s kisses. Like clockwork, they arose early to watch over the tired eyes and droopy cheeks as the sun heated the world with compassion. Each turned their heads upward, squinting at the bright rays, only to lower their eyes and return to their posts. Over and over and over and over; steadfast, sturdy, seeded with years of endless waking and sleeping. The mountains kept watch.

Sleep well. Welcome to the weekend.