Contents
Esprit Home
Esprit Spring 2005 Home
Cover Photo
Awards
Contributors
Acknowledgements
Submission Information
Mazurka
Self-Portrait
Relig na mban
Eureka
Twelve Days into January
Under-Pass
Like a Virgin; or, On Madonnas
Suisio, July
My Backyard
On
Beethoven's Sonata, Op.81a
Fade to Black
Passing Fascination
Shifting View of Window
Soiled Yogi
Thinking of Toledo
Protrusion
Storytelling in Grotte di Castellana
DeGrazia's Doors
The Sorrowful Mysteries
Dawn of Dante
Little Hope
Triptych
Self-Portrait 2
Zow Gow
Anthroarachnonet
A Breasted
Experience
A Hat in Bath
Front Cover:
Side Door, Holy Trinity
Episcopal Church,
Philadelphia
Inside Front Cover:
Together
Inside Back Cover:
Femke
Back Cover:
Monkey Toes
Return to:
[ Esprit Home ]
[ English Home ]
[ Scranton Home ]
| | Twelve Days into January
Chris Longo
Outside snow falls. I'm gazing out the window when
the girl comes in. The electronic bell on the door tinkles but I
focus on the flowing fragments of wintertime, drifting
downward lazily and then
dissolving against the slick parking
lot pavement which shimmers in the early evening glow of
street lights and passing traffic and—
She speaks. When I glance in her direction a wave of
recognition descends from her eyebrows and settles into a thin,
curious smile; her Asian eyes are beautifully dark, disturbingly
astute. My stomach tightens.
"Can I help you?"
"I dunno. Just looking for something to watch."
"Something funny?"
"Something good."
"Well, there's a couple thousand movies here, so..."
"Something funny."
"Over there." I point. She walks
away.
I fold my arms across my chest and watch her wander
slowly through the aisles. In the midst of her meandering
around one and into another, the store's fluorescent lights
sparkle across the surface of her
glossy black snow boots and
so an image from last July leaps forward and remains sharply
focused in my mind's eye and memory: us on my bedroom
floor, sitting side by side beneath my rain-splattered window; a
towel draped over my shoulders, I wear boxers and one soggy
sock, and her naked, nubile teenage frame softly sobs or
shivers
or something and I'm still drunk and don't know what to do
or say to make her miss "Michael" any less so I just stare at
the slender, delicate arches of her bare feet for what feels like a
long time but probably isn't.
After a few minutes she proffers a rental and another
disquieting smile. I ring her up and don't even bother to read
the title of the tape aloud as she shifts her weight to one leg
and sifts through her handbag, a small purse adorned with
buttons of punk bands and a sparse sampling of 1980s
iconography, and then pays,
exits; her boots carrying her hurriedly
across the parking lot.
It's still snowing.
|