these were the days

Chloe secretly hoped that everything would turn out, but she secretly knew it wouldn't. These were the days of burnt toast and missed subway trains. Of sugared dreams and dashed hopes. The light at the end of the tunnel was dim, and the bats had taken over now. Gaining in number, they flew furiously through the long hallways of her mind, slapping against the walls, the rush of wings carrying her forth into nothing, something. She drifted in and out, here, standing in her kitchen without an oven. Staring out the window in night silence, she wondered when that goddamn tinnitus in her right ear would go away, or whether it would only get worse from here.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinnitus

http://209.161.37.21/dictionary/batty

self help titles for the pessimist

"How to Lose Friends and Win Better Ones"

"What To Do When Your Dream Becomes Your Nightmare, and other impossible crises"

"Throwing in the Towel: Lessons in Giving Up"

forgettable things

The ad man for whom Chloe worked a few summers ago was a forgettable man with a forgettable face. The only thing she remembered about him was that he liked to dress in pleated khakis and that he thought that The Most Serene Republic was the greatest band ever.....a forgettable band not forgotten by Chloe because she could not forget that unforgettable aspect of an otherwise forgettable man.

twenty-five cent leeks

The bus doors clattered open, and Louise stepped out into the bright May sun, reflected tenfold from the sidewalk by her orange pumps. It was 5:08pm, and the day seemed still half-pregnant with the possibilities the morning had offered. She wanted to believe that, anyway, seeing as how all she had done today was sit at her desk at Ward Jenkins's Avian Pathology office where she answered four phone calls and filed ten papers.

Louise had not gotten off at her usual stop, which was still twenty blocks south, in order to complete a special errand: the procurement of fresh twenty-five cent leeks at E&H Local Market. She'd heard about the deal from her friend Olivia, who divulged the information on Sunday evening to her in response to Louise's complaint that she couldn't find fresh leeks anywhere in their "God forsaken neighborhood" on the north border of the cemetery, and that her cooking repertoire had suffered severely as a result (potato leek soup being, according to her friends, her best dish). "Oh yes!," Olivia had said. "Not only are they cheap, they are fresh and large and their leaves are the brightest green you've ever seen!"

Louise was still living on the high that this new and exciting information provided her, and visions of creamy potato leek soup danced in her head since she heard the news. The anticipation built as she neared E&H, now just half a block away. Holding her breath, Louise crossed the establishment's threshold which was marked by the sudden rush of air from a dusty industrial fan. Her eyes darted around, looking for that bright green bountiful pile of tender white bulbous roots.

It was then that she realized that E&H didn't sell fresh leeks. Not even old ones. Not even produce. It was then that she remembered the details of that conversation with Olivia, which had taken place in her sunlit kitchen, Louise drinking wine and leaning against the counter, and Olivia telling her about the leeks while holding her large, white, fluffy bunny rabbit which she didn't actually own, because had Louise had made it all up in her dream last night.

unsolicited correspondence

Dear Owen,

I heard all about the new girl. She sounds absolutely lovely, really. How did you manage to win that prize? And she and her dog already moved in, too? My, that was quick! It took you two full years to ask me. She really must be something! Especially if you still come home every night with that scowl on your face. By the way, I thought you hated french bulldogs? Anyway, really, congratulations on your new trophy / life. I hope everything goes just swimmingly.

xo,
Chloe

grand street station: then and now

Chloe remembered their third date. It was the first time they rode the subway together; a bright and cold Sunday afternoon in an endless winter.

As they awaited the next train at the Grand Street station, they reminisced about the second date's merits and shortcomings, the former being the excellent food at the Ethiopian restaurant on Mulberry, the latter being his unfortunate, uncontrollable sneezing episode which rendered their conversation mute for a good five minutes. As he rehashed his haphazard theory that he must be allergic to red lentils, he pulled out a veritable deck of metrocards from his back pocket, shuffling them like kings and queens. He explained that each card was it own ride, its own trip with its own ticket. He rode the subway this way so that his life would be more a series of small adventures rather than one continuous blur provided by the monthly metrocard. This, of course, went against all reason and logic, the monthly metrocard being the most cost-effective and convenient. But she admired his principle, nonetheless.

And she imagined him standing there at the Grand Street station, explaining his metrocard theory for the second time, four years later, on a bright and cold Sunday afternoon in an endless winter, to a different girl: tall, like she, only skinner, with bigger breasts and a dark crease at the crown of her head where her bright blond hair betrayed her.

a work/life continuum

Chloe sat there like some dumb animal, staring at the moss green wall of her living room. She sat straight up, her back against the weathered brocade fabric of her small couch, her legs in right angles with knees pointing forward. A row of holes in the plaster betrayed her endeavor last April to finally hang up the bunch of framed artwork and photos that had been sitting propped up against the baseboard. Recently, she'd had to take a few down, those works associated with her somewhat recent ex-boyfriend. She was sick of the reminder. A mere glance would open the floodgates to a rush of disgust and resentment for having wasted so much time, now having realized what a terrible mistake he was. At any rate, that was all over now and in the past few months she was was able to shut the floodgates relatively quickly.
She turned her gaze to the window, where the creepy-crawly vine had had its way with the window frame, tangling itself around the old moldings and basking in the warm November sun, which at this time of year, only shone in on her apartment directly between one and three in the afternoon.
Looking out at her neighbors' clothes hanging on the line, bright against the sky, she sat there pondering the questions of her universe. Why was it that, more often that not, she would arrive at a subway station only to just miss the train? Didn't subway karma dictate that just-misses would more or less even out with spot-on arrivals? Or, why was it that whenever she was late to work, her boss was always there, sitting in his glass-walled office, his eyes following her every move? And when she was early, he was never there to see it? Furthermore, why for god's sake could she not fall asleep before midnight, then suffer dizzying tiredness all day, only to revive just when it would be an intelligent, appropriate time to go to sleep, say, 10pm? If she had it her way, the days would be 36 hours long. (That would put an end to the ridiculously uneven work/life ratio so common these days, whereby the 9-hour-a-day worker, toiling away with the end goal being to continue fattening up the bank accounts of her superiors while they sit in their corner offices drinking whiskey on the rocks, spends the majority of her waking hours making just enough money to fund the few remaining ones.) Then she'd have some time to actually do some worthwhile things like paint that cabinet in the living room, or play the Moonlight Sonata on the piano. Then she could maybe retire to the chaise with Summer by Edith Wharton, pass out, and wake up 8 hours later, refreshed and bright eyed, to the sound of the garbage truck making its morning rounds.