pillar that keeps their little house from falling down, despite thin shoulders and a disposition not well suited to displays of strength and assurance. He made more and they were hot and good like the last, flavored with the bliss of ignorance and belief, the father would return to smoke his pipe on the porch at night while they sat on the couch both alone and together at the same time, the smoke wafting in through open windows along with the clink of ice cubes mingling with whisky, tiny splashes intoxicating the concrete and the ladybugs that now stumbled instead of walked along to their own futures. The mother went into the pantry for red wine and breathed in the earth and vines and the past and it was good.
She closed her eyes and remembered the things she could and would never forget. Montalcino, their honeymoon, hot June sun and farmers spraying down their delicate beautiful grapes. The cold empty air in the cellar, his hand on hers, listening intently to a language they did not understand, but did understand, as soon as the first bottle was cracked and their glasses filled. Bright red tomatoes drizzled in oil and salt clear and pure, salt that shone in the bright hot sun, the same sun that refused to cross her windows now. The boy called for her, she turned around and went to the cabinet. Grabbed two glasses, poured. The boy, to toast the end of his childhood and innocence, raised his glass by her glass each angled towards the other until the inevitable clink that so often accompanies our finer moments. To us, she said. To us, he said.
***
Kiss me I’m dirty. It was written in the dust and grime and pollen on the hood of his car outside the motel. He stared at the words for a moment and under them he wrote OK.
He got in and drove to a small diner for a cup of bad coffee and was surprised when it was perfectly blended and balanced, a product of timing and precision, drinkable art in a tired cup on a tired saucer. He rubbed his eyes red from regretful sleep and vowed to regret nothing this day. That would be a change. The road was open and his mind closed. No room for thought of home, or the boy, who had become a man in his absence over warm sandwiches and circumstance, and the woman, who in fact had considerable skills and means and would be just fine without him, or anyone, for that matter. Fine, but lost. He looked out the window to see a plane go through the clouds, lighter than air like him, floating away from where it came to somewhere new, maybe to somewhere better. It was hard to say. Just then he wanted it to explode and fall in tiny fiery pieces to the dusty ground amidst screams and cries and oil and pain. He paid and as he slid the change across the counter of the diner the way they do in old movies set in diners he gave a knowing look to the waitress on tired feet like most waitresses in diners and she, meeting his gaze with her own sliding the change closer to her and further from him, understood. He went outside towards his dirty car and amidst the sunshine and warm breeze he opened the creaky old door and sat down on hot leather, ripped in places and frayed at the edges. Small spots of weakness grown big until the bare metal exposed all that lay under the cushions and comforts. I’m exposed now, he thought, then out loud, “I’m Exposed Now,” in the slow and dramatic fashion he was starting to expect from his monologues. The desire to go forward to the life and future that must be out there waiting for him to join was usurped by the desire to get his money’s worth out of a two night prepaid motel stay, so after rewinding the tape in the tape deck and contemplating the loss of $41, he turned around and went back to the motel. It seemed like a nice day for a whisky so he stopped at a tiny roadside liquor store and as he slid the money across the counter the man standing behind the counter grabbed it fast and kept the three cents of change for himself, and he did not understand. Always had a sense for the dramatic, his mother had said.
***
The boy , who recently became a man and despite knowing this still at times felt like a boy, like us all, awoke to the morning sun bright through his window and amidst the headaches that only wine can provide to the inexperienced he stumbled into the shower, his heart and mind naked and unencumbered by his staunch and sad exterior with Beethoven’s 5th loud and pounding his ears and head despite the absence of sound in the room, then finally with determination went about the normal process, ending with a grabbed shirt and jeans slipped into with effort and ease. She was in the kitchen going about the things she was accustomed to going about, breakfast and a hot cup of good coffee, not a process to be rushed or affected, instead a simple continuous act of timing and precision in liquid form, flowing into her tired cup and warm against her tired lips. She turned the TV up as she was accustomed to then turned the TV down. The boy walked into the room, tired of bearing such lengthy titles when he was so much more and so much less, and sat at the counter, his headphones in his hand and then his hand in his pocket. Empty and waiting until filled, the glass and ice clinking together with water descending over the cubes and he would be refreshed. She made toast and popped it up on time, just as he hoped, not too dark and not too light, an act of precision and timing, butter melting and the plate announcing its arrival to the counter. They did not speak or worry about speaking. It was quiet. They could hear everything, which was nothing.
After both were finished eating there was the customary and oft repeated have a good days and I love you’s but it felt to them both like they meant each and every word.
He left for the day with the familiar refrain in his ears as he walked out the door and he started humming out loud so as the door shut his mother could still hear and she thought how beautiful , and it was.
***
The man was halfway through his bottle of whisky when there was a knock at the door. It was a girl, both more and less than a woman, mid twenties at the most. “Kiss me, I’m dirty,” he said, and she laughed. The instincts were still there at least. In his youth he had always fared well, perceptive enough to overcome the crooked tooth and penchant for spilling whisky both outside and in, occasionally crying at the end of long nights over the blur it had all become, exposing vulnerability at the perfect time despite having a complete lack of timing for anything. He was a contradiction. Still was, and wasn’t.
“Your beat up piece of shit car is blocking mine in,” she said and laughed, “I have to be going.”
“It’s raining out,” he said, hoping it was true, and it was.
She walked away for a moment and came back with two matching bright neon umbrellas. He extended the bottle in his hand towards her lips and she moved closer, taking a long slow heavy swig and closing her eyes. They watered and he wondered if the tears were from the whisky or her own quiet reasons. They were for her own quiet reasons.
“At least your car’s gonna be clean now,” spoken over her shoulder as they walked down the sad hallway with the echoes of storms overhead, past every sad door numbered 2210 and 2211 and so on, despite the place only having one floor and one hallway. In the parking lot with the rain singing on tin roofs drowning the asphalt he kissed her mouth and she kissed back with water streaming down her face and him wondering if it was the rain or tears from her our quiet reasons. It was both. They did not open the umbrellas, instead letting them fall to the ground in puddles and regret.
I should stop, he thought, several times, as they found themselves fumbling and falling into the front seat of his car then into the back seat, old leather racked and worn but soft and inviting, their breath hot and loud amidst the wind and rain as he leaned back then forward, turning the keys and with his index finger pushing play on the tape deck, I love this song, she whispered and he sang along in his head tapping her back to the rhythm until she told him to stop, and then continued, hands fingers legs clumsy and cramped the music loud and the car hot despite the cold wind and cold rain and your car’s getting clean and faster faster until the silence between the songs was shared. Pulling clothes back to proper places and her looking in the rearview mirror, makeup down her face black and pink from r
ain and tears and pain and things of importance that could not be mentioned so they were not mentioned and for the first time in ages she was free. Without words she kissed his cheek and leaning forward hit rewind and waited then with her index finger hit play and tapped the beat on his thigh while he sang out loud. When the song was over she kissed his cheek again and without words opened the car door into the wind and rain and got into her car turned the ignition the music instant and loud and he could hear it with the doors closed, crawling forward to the front seat and moving his car to let her out. She was free.
Back in the room he closed his eyes and felt young and then old again until the phone rang and knowing it was home feeling empty he turned the TV loud to drown out the ringing but still could not drown out the ringing or anything at all.
The boy, still tired of titles describing his fast and gradual progression in life, all the while unwilling to fight any of the titles bestowed upon him, and what are titles anyway, he thought, rightfully, as he picked out vegetables and meat, the evening perfect for the grill on the whisky stained patio, the