Issue Four

“Ever had your heart broke?” Maroon asked, just like that. Not: How’s your salad? How’s the raspberry dressing? Didn’t say broken, said broke, as if he was a cowboy. Fork tines pressed a chunk of tomato onto my tongue.

Didn’t wait for an answer. Looked at my raised eyebrows and knew. “Smarts like a burned finger, eh? Like mushrooms?” Culled mushrooms out of the folds of red leaf lettuce, helicoptered them onto my plate with his spoon.

Eyes like wet paint, clean sheets, calm lake water. Little lines circling upward to the roof of his head. Insight diving into me like a loon. Couldn’t he see the red taillights of my cheekbones, warning him to observe a respectable distance?

“Georgia,” Maroon rumbled, stacking onions, red cabbage, broccoli, into the sidewalk of his mouth, “my heart was broke by a girl named Georgia. Wanna’ know how hard it is to listen to that song? Hardly have the strength to change the station. Sucks the life right out of me. Ever had the life sucked out of you?” A carrot piece too skinny to spear swam away from me. A single garbanzo bean arrived alone in my mouth. Chewed it to pieces.

How long do you have to know a person before you can redirect the water flow?

“Not your fault, Sugar.” Sugar? I thought about tiny pink bags tucked close together. “Happens to lots of people. I’d say everyone, but God knows some get off scot-free.” As he spoke, rim of cotton collar nursed his neck. My whole Being yearned to be a shirt collar: Ralph Lauren, Mercer & Sons.

Maroon reached for bread, appetite unaffected by Georgia: “Some say the initial cut, when the sight of blood triggers your insides to panic, never heals. Won’t scab over. Reopens all the days of your life. What do you think?” He hardly paused, tripping over himself to add, “It scabs. Scars, too, which can be cool to look at, later, when you’re ready.”

Observation: Maroon is a wanderer. My questions, on the other hand, stay tethered, caught in treetops. Either too many branches in the way or not enough weight to bring them down.

Chin like firm sand. Let me walk on that chin barefoot, just once, and cherish the memory a lifetime.

“Worse than a broken leg, don’t you think?” Maroon careened. “Never had one, but I don’t need to be in a plane crash to know it’s more unpleasant than a canoe tipping over.” Holding my eyes like a steel cable, Maroon toyed with the candlestick, Georgia’s spirit in a little orange flame settling on his shoulders, silverware, lips.

“Inappropriate, me bringing up Georgia?” Maroon practically whispered. “I like to put the guard up while they’re standing in front of me. Less chance of losing them.” He looked away, dipped bread in poppy seed dressing.

You can’t fight fire with fire. I gulped ice water before boarding this conversation, this creaking, unstable plank precariously hinged between two cliffs. My hands tightened around the rails. Must insight always crash into you? Couldn’t it, just once, stroll into the room; quietly step or swim into the picture, like a spider or a fish?

“By the way,” Maroon skydived, instinct casually throwing out a lifeline, “how’s your salad? Do you like the raspberry dressing?