Danish
Her arm is peeling from the sunburn she received last week at a San Francisco Giants game. She looked at her arm as the clock turned 10:43 this evening. Work was late as usual. She barely caught a cab at 9:30. He told her that she had to be at his birthday party around "10ish..." but people are always late... especially this bunch. Socks, pants, shirt, and shoes are assembled in that order and she has to leave, but she ends up watching one more Hot Water Music video.
Driving past West Portal over the hills that she loves, the entire Bay is in front of her illuminated by city lights and moon reflections outlining the Bay Bridge. Mission District. She loves dive bars and doesn't know why. Maybe it’s the people, the feelings, the honesty, the lies, the awkward silences, and the faux pas. She wonders if “faux pas” has a plural.
Arriving an hour late, she walks through the bar and no one is there yet. “I knew it” she murmurs. Luckily, the Mission is a beautifully lively neighborhood like Wicker Park with slightly more edge at some parts. She reminisces. She misses home. She calls her friends, but no one picks up. He calls her and asks, "Where are you?!?"
She tells him, “I'm around the corner. I'll be right there…”
This group of friends is her new family here, but for some reason, nights like tonight, nights that have happened in the past, she couldn't feel farther away. She’s disconnected to friendship and any sort of emotional intermingling. It's awkward. She’s the one who sits with the circle of friends but doesn't participate actively in the conversation. She’s the one that floats nearby trying to be a part of it all but knowing that she’s not - not that she can't be... or maybe that's it.
They're all familiar faces. They're not the typical bunch with whom she wastes her time, but they’re acquaintances nonetheless. She avoids conversation and most eye contact. They ask questions and advice like they usually do. This happened. That happened. We don't know how to... but what if... how can we...? She tries to answer, but she can't give it her all. She doesn't feel a part of any of this. It's all so empty. She has that feeling where she doesn't know where to start again and she doesn't want to. There could be nothing more painful and arduous. Yet, she feels she has to… simply for her own survival... socially.
She chooses resignation. The easy answer is the graceful escape. Her phone flashes 12:49. She has to be at work around 7 as usual. She should go. Thirty percent of her mind doesn't even want to say goodbye to anyone. The urge is to just walk out the door to her car across the street.
A hug - Good seeing you. Happy Birthday.
A handshake – Nice meeting you.
A half hug where half of the body never makes contact - Probably see you this weekend.
Another half hug - Yeah, just give me a call.
She gives a general wave to catch attention but all eyes are averted. She feels no desire to hug or make any more effort. She exits quickly and doesn't look back. She hopes to hear some endearing voice say, "You're going to leave without saying goodbye?!?" She hopes it would involve some sort of affectionate squish.
Bad Religion in the car. Left on Valencia. Right on 24th. Left on Castro. Right on Clipper. She nears the intersection near Twin Peaks where she is driving up hill towards her home. The intersecting street is steep and quickly accelerating downhill. She sees a bus moving quickly with a stop sign between them. She wonders if she should trust the angle of the streets and the road signs. She wonders if the city maintains the brakes on their buses. She wonders what would happen if one of them made a mistake.
The bumper sticker on the car parked next to her says “Kids in the back seat cause accidents; Accidents in the back seat cause kids.” She didn’t have kids, so she decided to accelerate through the stop sign.
Driving past West Portal over the hills that she loves, the entire Bay is in front of her illuminated by city lights and moon reflections outlining the Bay Bridge. Mission District. She loves dive bars and doesn't know why. Maybe it’s the people, the feelings, the honesty, the lies, the awkward silences, and the faux pas. She wonders if “faux pas” has a plural.
Arriving an hour late, she walks through the bar and no one is there yet. “I knew it” she murmurs. Luckily, the Mission is a beautifully lively neighborhood like Wicker Park with slightly more edge at some parts. She reminisces. She misses home. She calls her friends, but no one picks up. He calls her and asks, "Where are you?!?"
She tells him, “I'm around the corner. I'll be right there…”
This group of friends is her new family here, but for some reason, nights like tonight, nights that have happened in the past, she couldn't feel farther away. She’s disconnected to friendship and any sort of emotional intermingling. It's awkward. She’s the one who sits with the circle of friends but doesn't participate actively in the conversation. She’s the one that floats nearby trying to be a part of it all but knowing that she’s not - not that she can't be... or maybe that's it.
They're all familiar faces. They're not the typical bunch with whom she wastes her time, but they’re acquaintances nonetheless. She avoids conversation and most eye contact. They ask questions and advice like they usually do. This happened. That happened. We don't know how to... but what if... how can we...? She tries to answer, but she can't give it her all. She doesn't feel a part of any of this. It's all so empty. She has that feeling where she doesn't know where to start again and she doesn't want to. There could be nothing more painful and arduous. Yet, she feels she has to… simply for her own survival... socially.
She chooses resignation. The easy answer is the graceful escape. Her phone flashes 12:49. She has to be at work around 7 as usual. She should go. Thirty percent of her mind doesn't even want to say goodbye to anyone. The urge is to just walk out the door to her car across the street.
A hug - Good seeing you. Happy Birthday.
A handshake – Nice meeting you.
A half hug where half of the body never makes contact - Probably see you this weekend.
Another half hug - Yeah, just give me a call.
She gives a general wave to catch attention but all eyes are averted. She feels no desire to hug or make any more effort. She exits quickly and doesn't look back. She hopes to hear some endearing voice say, "You're going to leave without saying goodbye?!?" She hopes it would involve some sort of affectionate squish.
Bad Religion in the car. Left on Valencia. Right on 24th. Left on Castro. Right on Clipper. She nears the intersection near Twin Peaks where she is driving up hill towards her home. The intersecting street is steep and quickly accelerating downhill. She sees a bus moving quickly with a stop sign between them. She wonders if she should trust the angle of the streets and the road signs. She wonders if the city maintains the brakes on their buses. She wonders what would happen if one of them made a mistake.
The bumper sticker on the car parked next to her says “Kids in the back seat cause accidents; Accidents in the back seat cause kids.” She didn’t have kids, so she decided to accelerate through the stop sign.
