act i
the yellow jacket kept flying against its reflection in the glass until she walked in. it was the lady who left with the Guy Denning pieces last month.
things learned/observed:
name: Anne
stance: prefers to lean on left leg when standing
home: in Vista and it’s messy
breakfast: coffee. she doesn’t eat breakfast
taste: deceptively similar to mine
viscosity: lingering and restrictively sticky. frosted tree sap, thin tupperware in the sun. overall, she was far less frantic than before, clinging long enough for the sunlight to find its way through the hole in my tarp.
act ii
the next week she returned. she spent nearly the entire day in my booth. luckily the banter was there. or else I’d draw a line. pick her up and place her on the other side. give her three taps on the top of her head. and then have a sit. but she had wit and held her own stick.
a lot of the rambling circled around the grandeur of my booth objects. she flew around them, drawing my eyes into the paintings and the books and the poems and into the rugs I don’t really like. and then just as I was pulled in, she’d divert her path. I’d be had with a finger on my chest. not a pressed one but a caressing, inquisitive one. she burrowed into our shared hatred for realism in art and pierced to the other side. then she started asking about how the objects of my booth pertain to me. where I found them, why I chose them, why I placed them where they were.
I swatted her inquisition away. I gave her vague, satirical tracings of their origins. and of me. I expected that to occupy her time. but she was skilled. she grabbed the pen and filled in the rest.
act iii
we had sex. the waves were glassy and clean and plump for a week straight. so it was coming.
I tried to jam levity between us as we hung out more. I mainly kept her around while I was with the other guys. but any gaps she found, she would fill herself. made me into something she wanted. and I’m a nice guy. my limbs pick up to the tugs. I bee what they see. I am never one to kill a buzz.
missionary I know is her favorite even though she tells me she prefers to be on top.
I’m a hack. a wannabe curator of art. a blue collar philosoburrr. a thunker. I will not build walls in wide open spaces. I will not take the brush out of the artists hand. even if they’re bugged and drugged.
so I let her say she preferred to be on top. just like I let her tell me how much she appreciates how stable I am, how much I know what I want, how focused I am in me beliefs in passions.
act iv
she caught feelings. she tried to slow-play it, but I felt it ever since she said she likes the smell of my 1991 Ford Ranger. on the plush cloth seats inside, she smells the plaster of her cast drying. the sober odor in actuality is just a concoction of exhaust leak and mold—flatulence from frayed manifolds and leaky window linings.
the waves became small and windblown.
act v
she visited me at the booth the next sunday even though she said she wasn’t going to. I learned Louie had told her about the hidden mirror I kept in my shop. ravenous, she wanted, or in her words, “yearned” to see it. my silence scratched her this time. she kept pressing.
while she talked about our shared intimacy and what was owed and not owed I drifted off and noted down several ways to enact revenge on Louie:
-take him to Laguna Beach
-go see a Metallica tribute band
-take him to brunch and order papaya salad
-push a skateboard mongo past him
survival instincts brought me back to her when she asked me if I know what she means. I didn’t say anything.
I walked over to a picture frame. It was the same piece of glass that the yellow jacket flew into those some weeks ago. I took it from its leaning place and handed it to her. she grabbed it and looked at the empty frame with the blank black foam board. she didn’t see her reflection. after a sigh, she lowered the frame to her hip. she again pressed to see my hidden mirror.
my limbs move when they’re tugged. so I obliged. I bowed my head. I lifted my brows in defeat. and then I walked her to the back of the booth. putting my hands on her shoulders, I placed her in front of me. then I stepped back.
“okay Anne.”
she leaned to her left leg. her hand lifted to her hair. she pulled at it like she did when she looked at art.
“here it is.”
I opened up my arms and widened my stance. she stared. her hand dropped her hair.
“here’s your mirror.”
act the end
when she left, she didn’t take the picture frame with her. she placed it on the stand next to the tapestries. she never saw the poem I had written on the backboard.
it’s a shit poem. a trance-y gimmicky poem. a sad attempt at rhyme. poem. but I guess I wanted her to tell me that. or maybe see what a great artist she is. see if she can paint over my tongue.
she stopped coming. but the yellow jacket returned after a while. or its cousin. I don’t know how long yellow jackets live for. it flew against the frame glass. crackly sparks shot across as its diamond eyes tried to cut into the reflection.
