Losing Altitude

He bends to kiss the ground at airports,
but I never see him with dirt on his lips. -Jim Daniels

On my lunch break, the guys from work
ask if I'll join them tonight for
drinks at the bar.
I shake my head, tell them you're flying in this evening.
After work, I get in my blue Accord.
I head West on the 16.
I take the ticket, wait for the gate to lift.
I walk to baggage claim. I circle the carousels
looking for a brown duffle bag with bright green fabric
tied in a knot to the long tan strap. Your only
identifiable feature.

At night I fall asleep and imagine you
in sandals.
I see you walking where He walked,
on a flat escalator
in the Atarot Airport, looking for gate B23.
In the mornings, when I make love to my wife,
I see you lying where she lies.
The sun breaking through the crack in the red curtains.
A tiny sliver of light covering her bare stomach.
But I know you're in Helsinki, in a hotel room on the 8th floor.
It is the middle of the night there. The lights are turned off,
your hands gripping tightly, your lips
pressing gently against the stubble of his chin,
As he rubs his fingertips up and down
the tiny sliver of light covering your bare stomach.
On my way to work I see you stepping into a cab
in Edinburgh, heading for the airport. To catch an early flight.
To layover in London. To see the clock tower from 4,200 feet.

I see you taking long strides down a steel corridor
filled with musty air.
As you wrap your arms around my waist,
I thrust my head into your chest and
listen to the slow beating of your heart.
I try to smell it on you,
the unknown place that somehow called you back to me.
You casually ask how I've been.
What can I possibly say to someone who travels
religiously like you?
The only thing I think to ask is if
you are coming or going.
Your half smile tells me it is neither.
Or is it both?

I Bet It Stung

It was 7:16. She sat silently on the suede sofa, staring at the ceiling. She startled as she heard his footsteps creak in the hall, his struggle with keys at the door. As he entered the apartment he noticed the smell of spaghetti. He dropped his keys into the wicker basket on the table. He hung his fleece sweater on the wooden hook in the entryway. “Smells good, honey.”
She sighed as she simultaneously mouthed his words. Emphasis on smells. She knew that he couldn’t stand her cooking. So taste would be a different story. As he came into the living room, he noticed her perched there on the couch, looking up. He glanced quickly to the ceiling as well and saw a dull bulb where a light fixture should be. “Oh, that’s what I forgot.” She knew that he hadn’t actually forgotten the fixture, but conveniently taken the 405 home as to not pass the hardware store. When she smiled and looked at him, he said he would pick it up tomorrow. She smiled, seemingly pacified, at least for the time being. “How was your day?” he asked.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” she replied. “The spaghetti is probably getting cold.” She nodded in the direction of the dining room, and stood up. Her bare feet slid smoothly across the hardwood floor as she led him to the table. He sat down and she served him, then scooped some noodles out for herself. She gave him very little sauce. He wouldn’t like it anyway.
She set his plate on the table and went to turn on some music. She pulled out her ancient copy of Up You Alley and pushed it into the CD player. She sat down beside him and started on her spaghetti.
“I love the rock and roll,” he said.
“That’s not on this album, babe.”
“I know; I just meant in general. Ya know?” She could hear a stiffness in his voice. “Sorry, I never really listen to this kind of stuff.”
“Don’t get so uptight,” she said. “It’s just Joan Jett.”
Not wanting to bring it up again, she waited a few minutes before she finally had the nerve to tell him. “I picked up the light fixture this afternoon.”
“You did? That’s great.” He swallowed. “I’ll hang it after dinner.”
He stood on the couch as he took the glass fixture from its cardboard box. She watched expectantly. He touched the bulb and quickly pulled away.
“You’ll have to take it out to install the fixture.” She handed him a rag, so he wouldn’t burn his hands. As he thanked her, she looked into his dark brown eyes. She knew he was thinking about it, so now was the perfect time to ask. But she knew he could tell what she was thinking to, and before she had a chance to ask, he told her the one thing she hadn’t predicted, “I know you plan out everything that you want to say.”
She stared at him shocked, in disbelief. He went to screw in the fixture, and she thought for a second that she should stop him. But instead she looked at the floor, and mumbled the only words of the evening she hadn’t rehearsed. “I wish that we didn’t have to go about things this way.”
As he fell, the lights flickered, and she glanced quickly at the dimming red numbers of the digital clock hanging on the wall.
It was 7:17. She sat silently on the suede sofa, staring at the ceiling. She startled as she heard his footsteps creak in the hall, his struggle with keys at the door.