PRIVATE CONVERSATIONS IN PUBLIC PLACES

My life is a dirty rug. An insurmountable collection of miscellaneous riffraff suspended by its fiber prison walls. The individual fibers are stained with careless drips and drops of cheap red wine and black cherry hair dye.

Mara derailed my train of thought. Suddenly, the buzzing chatter of the bistro resumed. Glasses clanged and laughter rang a little too loud for my taste. Oohs and aahs echoed from the other side of restaurant as a large party admired the birthday girl unwrapping her gift. The maître d' glided past me, lightly fanning some air to my face.

"I'm sorry--what?" I snapped my attention back to her. She was growing weary and impatient with me. I could tell.

She looked down at her bowl and began to trace swirls through the bisque. "Nothing."

I'm here. I'm present. Stay focused. "Please tell m--"

"I--I'm in love with you!" Mara blurted out. "Okay? I love you." She slowly sunk back into her seat and calmed her breathing. She was waiting for me to react.

I couldn't. I sat there frozen. Instead, I began to replay everything over in my head.

Back when we first met working together at that crappy cinema in the mall. We took turns toying with Jeremy G. at the concession stand. Poor Jeremy. I never knew his last name. The movie theater rarely printed full last names on our tags. Talking shop there always seemed like a high school gab fest. Allison W. had it out for Sandy M. because Marcus K. was taking his sweet time with her when they serviced a theater after showtimes. And so on and so forth.

Then there were those times when Mara and I would get early shifts. On those days, we left our uniforms at the cinema and changed into street clothes. Mara rocked the boho chic. Beautiful, flowing maxis. Loose, off-the-shoulder crop tops with high-waisted ripped shorts. Floppy hats with braided ties. Meanwhile, I dawned what I called the "lazy Old Navy". Solids. Occasional plaids. Cardigans and ballet flats galore. Skinny jeans in fifty shades of same. Next to Mara, I felt like the designated ugly friend.

But she never once made me feel that way.

We often shared dressing rooms, snapping photos of one another so we could compare our mirror selves to our camera selves. They are not the same, you know.

My thoughts spun faster and faster, becoming a flip book of signs I've ignored during our long, intimate friendship. It explained a lot.

Fuck, it explained everything.

"You're kind of leaving me hanging here," Mara sighed, but forgiving me for it. "I know it's a lot to take in." Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't be sorry." I shook my head. The gears slowly started turning, trimming off the excess rust that had built up over the years. "Mara, I just don't know what to say."

"So now you can safely assume that I'm a lesbian," she leaned back and folded her arms. She was still Mara.

I played along. "Or you're bisexual."

"Indecisions, indecisions." Mara smiled, then broke into a fit of giggles. "I want to tell you more about it. But maybe later? I know you're still processing it in your head."

"I'm sorry--what?" I pretended to space out.

She rolled her eyes at me and rediscovered her bisque. I sipped wine and watched her. How do I feel? What's it like sustaining a relationship with a woman? When the fuck is the waiter coming with our salads? I need something to pick at.

Mara tucked her sandy hair behind her ear away from her face, still fixated on clearing her bowl. At 5'6" with long legs and a slender build, she was unstoppable. I used to lie on her floor and have her pull me from my ankles to stretch my body so we could match. That was all for fun, of course, and more often than not it was inspired by drug-induced conversations. Laid back, carefree, with no strings attached. Men often twisted their necks for a second look and risked the scowling aftermath from their wives and girlfriends. She barely noticed, but I would.

"I need to drink a whole bottle of wine tonight." She rested her chin on her hands and stared at me.

"Oh, Mara..."

"To reward myself for coming out and telling you!"

I watched her for hints of how she truly felt but couldn't gauge. "Fucking waiter forgot our salads."

She looked around the bistro. "Maybe we can take this as a sign and just get the bill. I'm serious about the wine."

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Fiction

STRIPFEED

My newsfeed is like a Vegas strip sidewalk, littered with quick, indulgent ways to get a heart attack and neon click bait articles screaming "Click Me!" Controversy lurks at every corner beckoning poor, pathetic passersby as they try to keep their heads low and stay out of trouble. And as fun as a night out on the strip would be as my thumbs scroll through more opinions than facts, I hope this place isn't like the rest of the world. Because if it is, you'll find me tucked away in a hotel admiring the view out my window. How beautiful chaos can be when you're watching from a distance.

DYLAN / DYLLAN / DILLON

"Hi, come on in." The voice came from inside the conference room.

The office assistant held the tall glass door open for me. I scurried through, trying to make eye contact to thank him, but failed miserably. Instead, I kept my head down and smiled at the warm, grey wood floors.

Ah, my signature "A-for-effort" approach. It's like pretending to pick up the pace at a pedestrian crosswalk to show the driver I'm at least trying. Sure, the driver has to wait for me anyway, but we both feel a little better about the inconvenience and carry on with the day. I safely cross the street, he goes home to his empty apartment and ignores text messages from his ex-wife about being a bad father. We all win.

The hollowed impact of my black suede heels against the floor broke the dead silence as the panel waited for me with warm smiles. All three sides of the meeting room were covered from ceiling to floor in thick high-rise glass, letting in that glorious natural light. Glorious! I kept my cool and rapidly scanned the room as I made my way to the table.

Across a long table sat the reviewers, two men and a woman. I placed my shoulder bag and notebook on the table and scooted it over to the right. In an effort to gracefully sit, I plopped. The chair was lower than I thought. Fucking fuck! In midst of my struggles, one of the reviewers greeted me.

"Hope you found the place alright. Was the traffic bad?"

Traffic's always fucking bad in LA, I thought to myself. Just a little less than half an hour ago, I was screaming at the GPS on my phone because no, I didn't want to take side streets. And of course, I promptly stopped all screaming and dropped the phone onto my lap as a police cruiser whizzed past me. "No, not at all. I was pretty lucky this morning."

"Good--great! I'm Dylan." Guy on the left, Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon. Okay. How does he spell it? D-I-L-L-O-N? I imagined a slew of misspelled name tags on gifts from acquaintances while shaking the second guy's hand, or at least tried to. The table was so long, we could barely reach over to meet halfway. I couldn't hear his name over the clamor of my thoughts.

"--and this is Laurie." I took the woman's hand in a firm grip like I had with the other two. Her skin was soft, her grip was gentle, and Jesus, I needed better hand lotion.

"So nice to meet all of you." I flashed my toothy smile and squinted my eyes to really sell it.

"Would you like some water or coffee? We've also got Pellegrino, Vitamin Water, green juice..."

The view behind them was absolutely breathtaking. I could almost see across the street into the other high-rise, where one corporate employee sat staring at his computer screen in an office suite. My eyes darted back over to the panel as they adjusted into their seats and shuffled their paperwork.

"Water would be great, thank you."

Within seconds, Guy #2 magically produced a miniature Fiji water bottle and slid it across the table. It stopped barely within my grasp, so I bent my torso across the table's surface to quickly snag it, accidentally flashing a small bit of my otherwise-concealed cleavage to him. Like a pro, his gaze shifted back over to his colleagues as he pulled out his tablet.

"So, we called you over here today because we really like your samples." Laurie sifted through what I could only assume to be my written work. "Despite them not being formal pieces or anything, I found some of the concepts you developed quite fascinating. And I think we can all agree on that."

Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon and Guy #2 nodded in agreement. In the back of my mind, reggae music started up to the rhythm of their bobbing heads.

"Thank you."

"Right," Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon cleared his throat and leaned far back into his chair, crossing his right foot over his left leg. "I know we talked over email about you possibly compiling a list of pitches we can either translate into a TV show, or web series. Maybe even a short film, since we recently signed on another director who specializes in shorts."

"And maybe we can see this first meeting as a test run," Laurie added. "If the pitches are solid, we'd like to possibly meet with you on a more regular basis. We'll have you sign a few contracts, a non-disclosure agreement, all that fun stuff."

I was half-listening and still smiling. Threw in the occasional nod to acknowledge their thoughts. "That sounds great. I'd love to become involved."

"Excellent," Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon clapped his hands together and leaned forward. "What do you have for us?"

"Yes..." I grabbed my notebook and opened it to the first page. On it is a neatly, handwritten list of pitches translated from last night's scribbles on eco-friendly napkins and the stationary paper I got on my doorstep from my local real estate agent.

"Okay, well..." I cleared my throat and did my best to not sound like I rehearsed. But I totally rehearsed. "With the release of the seventh installment of Star Wars a couple of months ago, there was a huge following and growing fanbase with Kylo Ren..."

I looked up. No objections yet. The three of them sat waiting and nodding.

"...One of the things that popularized him is his depth as a character. He's got so many unknowns, but there's still an existing potential for change and redemp--"

"Wait," Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon held up a hand. "What genre were you thinking for this one?"

"Well, I originally didn't know that the pitches were limited to only television and web mediums. I thought Kylo's complexities could be expressed in a collection of beautiful poetry. You know, his inner conflicts...in the form of literary art..." I trailed off and waited for their reactions.

Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon tried to exchange a glance with Laurie but she was too busy jotting down notes. Guy #2 just sat there. I started to suspect that Guy #2 was there as a seat warmer. Either that or moral support.

A startling screech dragged across the glass window to the left of me. Outside, a window cleaner on a suspended scaffold pulled an oversized squeegee down over the soapy solution. The reviewers paid no attention to it, so I kept going.

"I mean, if this isn't something you think that would be of substance, that's fine. It's only one idea out of a handful more I've brough--"

"Sure, let's hear them!" Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon became interested once again.

"It's still a variation of the same Star Wars followup. Is that oka--"

"Yeah, go for it."

I panicked. I didn't have anything, or at least anything they seemed into. Without thinking, I opened my mouth and words just came out. "Kylo...Ren...ovations."

Both Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon and Laurie leaned forward. "Yes?"

"Well, just a depiction of him renovating his home outside of the film's plot. He's a temperamental guy. Dark, brooding and feels misunderstood. Quick to anger and react. You can use it as a basis for a short. It'll be funny. Focus on the mishaps...throw in his personality--"

"Love it. Great, okay. Wow. So, we're actually late to another meeting and we hate to rush you out, but we'll be in touch?" Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon stood up from his chair and stretched. The other two looked up in surprise, but slowly followed suit. Guy #2 put down his tablet to help Laurie pack up her notes.

Without saying anything to the three, I smiled, collected my things and walked out. This time, their conversational chatter masked the impact of my suede heels. I threw the notebook into my shoulder bag and dug around for the parking stub as I made my way to the front desk.

"Oooh, our office suite doesn't validate parking," the office assistant scrunched his face apologetically. "I'm sorry. I know it's expensive to park here, too. Dylan didn't tell you?"

"Really?" I paused in disbelief. "Fuck, man."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Fuck, man." I pivoted and made a beeline to the elevator, holding my breath until the doors completely shut behind me. My phone vibrated with an email notification. The elevator glided down floors 15, 14, and 13 as I skimmed it.

Love the second idea - will use. Not sure about future involvement but we'll be in touch. - D

They're not going to pay me. They're not going to. I know it. It was a bullshit idea made on the spot and I ran with it. Weeks of researching use of literary rhetoric in poetry and composition all sitting uncomfortably in my bag with a parking stub worth a $35 fee.

I wanted to break down and cry. Not because this morning didn't turn out as expected, and not because Dylan/Dyllan/Dillon was an interrupting piece of shit dick. He had been signing off his emails with a D, and it's been killing me because I still don't know how he spelled his name. How else am I going to purposely misspell it when I send him a thank you response?

Floors 8, 7, 6. The silver lining in all of this was that I took a mental snapshot of Guy #2 and bookmarked it later for masturbatory purposes. Floors 3, 2, 1...the elevator calmly dinged and its doors parted. I walked out into the parking structure feeling better. A lot better. 

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Fic

UNFILTERED

Draft from February 26, 2016:

I don't really have a gut, but the band of my tightly cinched high-waisted jeans is making whatever it can out of me. There's something itching me right smack dab in the center of my sternum. I do my best to not scratch it. I uncross my legs and alternate to the other leg, blankly staring at the clock. Less than an hour before I have to head into a night lecture. My mind fast forwards through class and resumes playing the imaginary footage of my life when I'm on the road, haphazardly plugging my phone in to blast music through my blown-out speakers. Note to self: I need new car speakers.

My mood is at an all-time low. Maybe it's the aged sharp cheddar I tried to pair with my moscato wine Monday night, or the melatonin I've been night capping. Whatever it is, this week has been a rough relapse in my depression. Not even the cat collector app on my phone can save me. I fill their cyber food bowls and switch out their toys like a distracted, broken-hearted mother trying to function around her kids.