lapsus linguae (a slip of the tongue)

i see her as she enters the restaurant in the midst of her friends, standing on one foot, the way she always does when she doesn’t feel at home. quickly, and slightly compulsively, she throws the hood of her sweatshirt over her head... you know, the one  from that college she’s never heard of? the sleeves are too short for her (she probably bought it in the children’s section of goodwill)...of course she did... she never shops anywhere else. i’ll bet anything she has that empty feeling in her stomach. she told me once that’s the feeling she gets when she’s very scared.

the choir of angels moves towards my table with her tagging slightly behind them. their smiles are too white and their halos are too bright for my eyes. i look away and pull a chair out beside me for her to sit in. she’s fidgety and she knows i know it.

i’m looking at her... she’s looking at the floor that hasn’t been mopped in days and i know that she’s intimidated by me.

i lay my head on the table so that it’s next to her face and give her a little smile. she looks up at me and our eyes align...

she’s been crying and we both know it.

“have you been feeling sick lately? you don’t look so great...”

immediately i know that i’ve said the wrong thing, because her eyes return to the floor and her hands crawl into the pocket on her sweatshirt. her mother says they are shy, at least that’s what she told me...

“hey... are you okay?”

i don’t know what else to say. the heavenly chorus of laughter around me is making my ears ring.

she draws whorls with her index finger on the dirty table and looks up again. she smiles for an instant and shakes her head a little bit. her actions have been muted ever since the weight of the world fell onto her shoulders.

i want to draw her close to me, but i know that the time for that has long since past.

instead i pull out my last two turkish silvers and offer her one. she takes it, even though if anyone ever asks her, she says she doesn’t smoke (i know that nobody believes her). i hold out my lighter and she leans forward, but says nothing. she always says that silence is essential for hypocrites.

tendrils of smoke curl out of her nose and mouth, and i can’t decide if she looks beautiful or like she’s been doing a lot of cocaine lately.

“so... ahh... how have you been lately?”

my words trip out of my mouth and i feel foolish, but she isn’t in the mood to poke fun at me. i am grateful.

i don’t think she even heard me...

she’s staring at her friends.

i repeat my question.

she looks over, but obviously hasn’t understood me.

“...how have you been lately?”

she forces a tiny, unsuccessful laugh out of her throat.

“drunk” she mutters.

“may i buy you something to eat? you look pretty pale...”

the paralyzing hesitation of self-consciousness moves her hands back into her pockets and she turns away from me. i know that, once again, i have said the wrong thing. once i told her that i was never very good at conversation and i hope that she hasn’t forgotten.

she closes her eyes and leans back in her chair.

i get the feeling she tried to crash her car on the way here.

the medium is the massage

involuntary panic of fibers

fingerprints grab temples,

            pressing whorls onto the skin,

                        reverting subconsciously back to childhood.

                                    medulla oblongata pulses.

inane pictorial babble is scrawled onto bulk tree pulp.

unlearn’d fingers move in fluid motion only to be interrupted:

fingers with a 4 year degree instruct unlearn’d digits,

fitting them to a mold.

                        stop.

                        transition.

painted whorls unstrung, pulled through the nib

                     of that “lucky” pen.

one word, worth one-thousand pictures

            pulling pigment from thoughts,

                        and pouring it onto the paper.

one quarter, worth one cup of

            lemon,

                        sugar,

                                    water.

pulling currency from wallets, purses, and pockets

            and pouring it, liquefied, into styrofoam cylinders.

                        unlearn’d digits scribe meaningless figures in

                                    (spiral bound)

                                                notebooks.

                        stop.

                        transition.

                        optical orbs scan calligraphy.

imaginary pictures printed onto

                        medulla oblongata.

            whorls carved therapeutically through

                        the sludge inside my skull.

the medium is the m

a

       s

s

     a

          g

               e.