#fitzgerald.

NORWEGIAN WOOD STARTERS : accepting !» @orionin

they meet on paper, in fragmented letters and dialogues swept up and consumed in the wake of daylight. she remembers him by the fragrance of oolong and crumpled paper, ink-stained fingertips, lines of poetry.  bukowski at two in the morning.  morning is theirs for the taking; their well-kept secret.

her eyes are heavy when she comes home from a particularly long day— everything seems to ache, and her mattress creaks in protest when she lets herself fall onto it.  a sliver of moonlight has spilled in as if it’d been carelessly knocked aside, painting her wrists white when she stretches her arms out and over her head. she’s drifting off when a dull buzz sounds by her ear.  new voice message, reads her phone.  she skims the unfamiliar number. presses play.

when am i going to be able to talk to you? i want you to tell me that much, at least.

it’s three am when she sends her reply, voice grainy and distant, thin as smoke.  “wait for me.” when she finally falls asleep, the world is silent.  in her dreams, he’s in a train, a blur of motion and sounds that slip out of her reach.  

nighttime is the most vulnerable.

the tabletop is an eggshell white, pristine and untouched, striking against the pink of her elbow weighed atop its surface. she’s afraid to stare at it for too long as if it’s the heady glare of the sun— can almost hear her mother chiding her, reminding them to turn away lest their heads spin. she counts the steady pulse against her wrist and exhales softly. waits. 

(what’re you waiting for? i don’t know, something. anything.) 

at this hour the café is quiet, save for the music playing in the background, an indistinct jazz piece she’s heard before. there’s the hum of machines, too, and occasional footsteps; right now, though, the place is void of its usual life. the neon ‘open’ sign has been switched off; it hangs, unmoving and colorless. everything seems to imitate her in that moment- heavy with a sense of lethargy, swollen with a feeling that can’t be put in words. slowly, the lights are extinguished- she’s staring outside when the last row remains. 

1:05 am. she leaves a note near that pristine eggshell white tabletop and slips out through the back door, letting it click shut behind her.

7/6

if i never see you again

i will always carry you

inside

outside

(leave your reply on the underside of the chair. the workers have been meticulous about the tables lately.)