The couch. Only now do I recognize it as cheap. Then, it was just the place to sit, as far away from the yellow as possible while still being inside of it.
The feeling of cold glass is everywhere, even after it’s left my cheek, it lingers on the pads of my fingers, my forehead, my seeds.
Through the window are tall trees whose names I never learn.
And on most days, the dull teeth of the freeway.
After I throw my backpack down, I ususally end up here. Usually end up with something square in my mouth, this empty bathtub before I turn on the mtv, the time where everything is still alaive in my gut and at the door of my throat.
I have hours, now.
Mom is teaching, and she will open the old heavy garage door when she comes home.
Five-ish. Either right before or after the fog horn.
And dad will be a long tick after her. Giant door door slamming into place just a little harder than before. I wave at the ovals, as they pile into minivans, or skinny people in black that avoid looking at dreams that disappear down the driveway to the apartments.
If it’s night, and I’m fourteen, I’ll meet Katie and we’ll smoke her Marlboro reds that are too harsh in the cold metal, or in the basement where we listen to Oasis on repeat, and take pictures of ourselves beneath the sticker that says bad sex sucks.
And if I’m fifteen garthwill double park outside and the whole street will hear ac/dc or def leppard
and then I'll shut the heavy bmw door and we’ll drive to Bolinas ridge with the sunroof open and he’ll kiss me and I’ll feel the dark valleys on my face and the warmth in my jeans.
And if I’m sixteen I’ll be on the leather seats of a black eye,
passing the pipe, getting slammed against other bodies and different smelling hair, up mountain roads to stare at the body of San Francisco.
To stare sideways at whoever I like that month.
If I’m 21 I’m not in my world but in his. I’m on Fresno st, and I look at the cherry tree blossoming pink and the chimney smoke across the street disappearing into the shitty grey sky .
I have a six pack of Sapporro in my apartments. I hate this day. Why do I keep living out the bottoms?
And what did I drop? Only the response comes to me, well, then, I’m an asshole.
And something comes unhooked.
The same house where he tried to explain that our connection had something to do with a triangle,
and I wanted to get it because it was so unlike him to be inner thighs.
I didn’t though.
And later he bought me a skateboard and picked me wildflowers for stranger’s day.
And I tried to make him chocolate covered strawberries and ended up with a lion.
We rubbered to Watsonville and ordered tacos in Spanish.
Drove nowhere and came back with persimmons that died under pieces of clothing and old stains.