you didn’t bring your car, and you press you head against the glass playing “who are you and where did you come from” with every random figure you see in the street.
There are so many people in Los Angeles that you’re suddenly overwhelmed with humanity and the weight of just being. People are like grains of sand. There are so many, almost too many people. The bus stop is only a few blocks from your house. You’re not afraid to walk them, but you always take out your keys and jingle them loudly as if to announce, “I live so close, I might just enter any of these. So don’t bother mugging me because the next pad will be mine.” I’ve got my keys out, my assertive walk—nothing can touch this.
Except for maybe a figure in black pants and a hoody, standing illuminated by a streetlight. Now there’s not an overwhelming infinite number, there is only one person. A human, not a grain of sand, and one wearing a backpack you easily recognize. If a client from work shows up on, or near your property, you should call the police just like you did for the guy with the knife. It wouldn’t be safe to approach them alone or allow them to engage you off site where there’s no supervision.
But what if you’re obsessed with him and you kind of, sort of, maybe— accidentally, once kissed him?
You walk faster and hold your bag tighter and straighten your spine. Be a grown up! Say the right thing! Just ask him to leave!
“Hey, Lana, Can we talk?”
“Not outside of Pathways. It’s against procedure.”
“I just really need to talk to you. I could give a fuck about procedure.”
“Procedure is important. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” But it comes out in barely a whisper. Where the fuck is my conviction? It disappears whenever it catches wind of this man.
“Do you want me to go home with you? To Detroit, I mean? Pedro told me you had to go this weekend. Sorry, I know you like to be private.”
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. I feel betrayed by my co-workers and staff. My loss isn’t something I want to share with everyone.
“I wanted to offer support. I want to help you.”
Can I please run into his arms and do the Dirty Dancing lift? Can we kiss under the streetlight in the most rapturous, epic, unforgettable kiss? Until the world crumbles around us and we rise to the heavens in an eternal embrace. (Maybe with rocket boosters and fireworks and philharmonic accompaniment?) Can I forget I’m a grown-up and just finally suck his face?
I stand there, staring at him with my chest heaving and my stomach bottoming out. This feels like a moment. The big one. But, it’s a moment I can’t have. One I absolutely must deny myself of.
“That is an incredibly generous offer, Mr. Cruz, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate. Neither is this—showing up at my place. I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen so you won’t get in trouble.” And with that I walk right past him.
I don’t look back to see his face.
Chapter 9
M y brother, Alexei, picks me up at the airport. He wanders toward the baggage claim, looking forlorn and tucking his longish shock of black hair behind his ears. I see him before he sees me, and I wave, but he’s looking at the floor. Alexei has this strange way of walking where he over-crosses his feet, like he’s walking on an invisible tightrope or a catwalk. With his longish raven colored hair, his pale skin and his feminine walk—the whole effect is quite emo. My little brother has grown up.
I’m staring, but he still won’t look up. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand with a vigor that should be reserved for scratching elbows or knees not the delicate orbs through which we see. But this is Alexei with his utter inability to truly respect anything. He’s sloppy and lazy and a blind mole to consequences. But he is a lover and not a fighter and knows how to love hard. My heart softens toward him, and when he looks up and finally sees me,
There are so many people in Los Angeles that you’re suddenly overwhelmed with humanity and the weight of just being. People are like grains of sand. There are so many, almost too many people. The bus stop is only a few blocks from your house. You’re not afraid to walk them, but you always take out your keys and jingle them loudly as if to announce, “I live so close, I might just enter any of these. So don’t bother mugging me because the next pad will be mine.” I’ve got my keys out, my assertive walk—nothing can touch this.
Except for maybe a figure in black pants and a hoody, standing illuminated by a streetlight. Now there’s not an overwhelming infinite number, there is only one person. A human, not a grain of sand, and one wearing a backpack you easily recognize. If a client from work shows up on, or near your property, you should call the police just like you did for the guy with the knife. It wouldn’t be safe to approach them alone or allow them to engage you off site where there’s no supervision.
But what if you’re obsessed with him and you kind of, sort of, maybe— accidentally, once kissed him?
You walk faster and hold your bag tighter and straighten your spine. Be a grown up! Say the right thing! Just ask him to leave!
“Hey, Lana, Can we talk?”
“Not outside of Pathways. It’s against procedure.”
“I just really need to talk to you. I could give a fuck about procedure.”
“Procedure is important. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” But it comes out in barely a whisper. Where the fuck is my conviction? It disappears whenever it catches wind of this man.
“Do you want me to go home with you? To Detroit, I mean? Pedro told me you had to go this weekend. Sorry, I know you like to be private.”
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. I feel betrayed by my co-workers and staff. My loss isn’t something I want to share with everyone.
“I wanted to offer support. I want to help you.”
Can I please run into his arms and do the Dirty Dancing lift? Can we kiss under the streetlight in the most rapturous, epic, unforgettable kiss? Until the world crumbles around us and we rise to the heavens in an eternal embrace. (Maybe with rocket boosters and fireworks and philharmonic accompaniment?) Can I forget I’m a grown-up and just finally suck his face?
I stand there, staring at him with my chest heaving and my stomach bottoming out. This feels like a moment. The big one. But, it’s a moment I can’t have. One I absolutely must deny myself of.
“That is an incredibly generous offer, Mr. Cruz, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate. Neither is this—showing up at my place. I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen so you won’t get in trouble.” And with that I walk right past him.
I don’t look back to see his face.
Chapter 9
M y brother, Alexei, picks me up at the airport. He wanders toward the baggage claim, looking forlorn and tucking his longish shock of black hair behind his ears. I see him before he sees me, and I wave, but he’s looking at the floor. Alexei has this strange way of walking where he over-crosses his feet, like he’s walking on an invisible tightrope or a catwalk. With his longish raven colored hair, his pale skin and his feminine walk—the whole effect is quite emo. My little brother has grown up.
I’m staring, but he still won’t look up. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand with a vigor that should be reserved for scratching elbows or knees not the delicate orbs through which we see. But this is Alexei with his utter inability to truly respect anything. He’s sloppy and lazy and a blind mole to consequences. But he is a lover and not a fighter and knows how to love hard. My heart softens toward him, and when he looks up and finally sees me,
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