Lipstick

EARL.

Fire Engine Red. It had to be. I picked up the mug and inspected it after she'd got up to go to the John and I can say, without a doubt, that was Fire Engine Red on her lips. I reckon she thought that I was leering at her, the way that I was staring. But there was something so innately feminine about her. When she walked past my stool I caught a whif of her in the breeze she made and it felt like flowers, I swear to fucking God. And I'm sure that was perfume or something. Liz Claiborne, I bet. But my eyes, Lord, I think they rolled right up into the back of my head and I suddenly forgot where I was. Sitting in some diner on the side of the road fantasizing about a lady I don't even know.

I paid my bill and went outside for a smoke. I left a ton of bacon on the plate. Just wasn't hungry. I dunno.

And you see, Doctor, I really did just want a smoke. But when she came outside, she stopped to touch up her make-up. She did it so effortlessly. No mirror. She knew the curves of her lips like the back of her hands and put it on like a pro. And when she dropped the tube and it rolled over under my boot, I suppose most men woulda let her bend down and they woulda enjoyed the view. But me, I just looked her right in the eye and said,

"I love this shade."

I bent down and picked it up.

"Can I keep it?"

She smiled at me this sorta crooked, half-smile like she didn't know what to make of me and nodded, backing away and I said something stupid.

"You smell real pretty, miss."

And she started to run and my feet, I guess, they were just glued down to the ground. Like I stepped on some gum or tobacco or tar. You know.

I didn't mean to scare her. I wanted to tell her truth. I wanted to say it out loud but you never know how they'll take it. Six foot tall, a scraggly beard I haven't shaved in weeks and I drive a tractor fucking trailer, you know what I mean? It's not everyday you meet a butch piece of white trash who secretly wants to be a lady.

Leaving

I'm sorry. I know that my coming back is the last thing in the world you wanted. Especially after the way things ended. The way I left. With just a note on the fridge. But I forgot my toothbrush and I was really hoping you wouldn't be here and you know how particular I am about picking out a toothbrush and how hard it would be for me to find one that I liked as much as you. It. As much as it. The toothbrush, I mean.

So, if it's okay... I'd like to just... Go in and get the toothbrush.

(Beat.)

Andrew, I know that you want to scream and yell at me. I know that, I do. I know you probably wanna smack me across the face and call me a whore. And I'd deserve it, too. But the truth is that you could do better. You could find someone less neurotic, less confused, less anxious and hell, you could find someone who didn't have these monster bags under their eyes. And I know that you don't want to find someone better, because you treat me so wonderful. You treat me so perfectly, like gold, really. But the truth is, Andrew, I couldn't take living in this house. I couldn't take watching you sit on that couch day after day, smile on your face as you watch the game, pretending that you're content in this smothering, suburban lifestyle with the housewife who has one very shitty uterus that won't conceive and one very fucked up brain preventing her from leading a normal life.

So, I'm going. And I really thought I could get out of here without ever having to look back. You know. Leave the ring on the counter, a note on the fridge and out the door I go. But I forgot the toothbrush. And so. Here I am.

Hungry

from the musical THE FEAST

It wasn't too terrible at first. Sort of a nagging, dull ache. And there was the eventual headache, but it really wasn't too terrible, at all. I suppose I thought it would be worse, the hunger, but after a few days you start to forget. And as your body eats away at the toxins inside, trying to cling to any sort of nutrition it can find, you get the occasional burst of energy. For a few hours, you're running around like a mad man, feeling more refreshed than you have in years. The sun seems brighter, the air feels fresher, the birds sing prettier. But when you turn around to go inside, the porch steps look daunting. They look terribly frightening. And your legs, as you lift them one at a time up the creaky stairs, weathered and aged, they maybe give out underneath you. Margaret, the nurse, she comes over and picks you up, practically carries you up the stairs. But once you're sitting down, oh, Dora, and you've caught your breath? You catch a glance of yourself in the mirror and my eyes... Oh, my eyes, they look so hollow. And my cheeks have caved in, my lips pale and almost blue. Someone's left a window open and a chill runs down my spine because I get cold so easily now.

I've befriended a nice young orderly. He's a black boy. His named is Thomas. He's a little younger than me, I think, and Dora -- sometimes, when I think I can't take the growling anymore, I ask him for a little juice. And he sneaks it my way when no one's looking. It feels so cool on my throat.

Yes.

That's it. The thirst is the worst. The growling, the weakness, the empty eyes-- that I can take, but my throat? Oh, Dora, it is always parched. In the morning the windows are wet with dew and sometimes I think to myself, what if I licked it dry? Those little blue crystals would feel so lovely on my tongue. But on the days that I feel strong? Oh, Dora, do I ever feel strong. Perhaps there is a method to all this madness. Perhaps there really is some possibility to it.

I miss you, Dora.

Affectionately,

your sister Clara.