I experience them now only through the eyes and ears I’ve created. They’ve tried to abandon me, like everyone does eventually. But I still have them this way. I’m the stranger in the walls.

When I met Janice five years ago, she was plain and thus unprepared to be flattered, pursued, showered with gifts by a wealthy older man. The other waitresses at the diner tried to warn her. I heard that too.

“He’s handsome I guess, J, but he’s…There’s something not quite right. I mean…”

“Stop it Bev. He’s just shy, like me.”

“Really? Shy? He taped An Open Letter to the Friends of Janice Mcfain on the door to the downstairs pantry. Mike is pissed. He wants to know how he got back there.”

“Tell Mike to calm down. He’s the Assistant Night Manager, not my dad. And I think it’s sweet that he wants you guys to like him! You and Jenny were especially shitty when we went to AMC last Friday. Don’t think I didn’t see you refuse to share popcorn with us. Really?”

“I…I didn’t want to touch his hand, J! I can’t put my finger on it J, but something is wrong with him. I mean, he’s old and…and there’s something else. I just….Instead of getting mad at me, why not talk to Shell? Talk to Mike and Von too. Your ENTIRE group of friends is creeped out by him. He stops smiling when you look the other away. Did you know that? It’s weird!”

“You’re being a bitch, Bev.” Janice set her jaw and grabbed the grilled cheese on the counter, headed to the front. Beverly grabbed her wrist and the sandwich slipped halfway off the plate. Janice shoved it back in place and licked her fingers.

“Come on, J! Why are you taking this out on me? Listen, sweets, I’m telling you there’s a problem with him. I’m not a hater. I know he’s your…your first. But there’s no way you’re his, right? So, do you know anything about him? Was he marr…Shit. He’s here again.”

Beverly pointed her stubby red nails at me, dead ahead, in my favorite booth. It was my favorite because at ten in the morning the sun glinted off my thick blonde hair and gave me a gauzy, god-like halo. In the past three months, I’d sat in every booth in the place and knew from the reflection on the steel backsplash of the kitchen that this one was the best. Janice lifted her narrow set blue eyes and took in my charcoal suit, my spray tan, my wide smile just for her. She smiled and blushed right through her freckles. That’s when I knew I had her.

We married seven months later. She was three months pregnant with Charlie, queasy and green throughout the ceremony. I thought it was sexy how sick she was. When she puked after the cake, I held her hair back and kissed her ear. I tried to nibble her neck too, but she wasn’t having it.

I’m aware that people tend not to like me, so I worried about popping the question. Her parents were easy enough to deal with though.

I leaned in, hip to hip, pushing Barbara up against the formica countertop.

“You look so young,” I whispered into her ear. “You’ve really kept your figure.”

She laughed and rubbed up against my suit pants. I touched her sagging elbow skin, then her brittle orange hair. She took a swig of white wine and then lowered her eyes at me, trying for smoldering, but achieving cheap. Match win.

I wandered into the living room, clinking the ice cubes in my scotch.

“Hello Sir. How are you this evening?” He stared at the television, pretending not to hear me.

“I wanted, sir, to ask you a question if I may.” I remained standing. This wouldn’t take long and their couch had clearly never been vacuumed.

He turned to look at me, his distaste evident in the tilt of his bushy moustache. I sighed.

“Oh, I understand I’m not who you would have chosen for your little girl, but I can take care of her and elevate her a bit above…” I paused for effect. “Well, above all of this, I suppose.” I motioned with my glass to their shag carpet and peeling wallpaper.

He grunted and turned back to the TV, cranking the volume on Hunting Bigfoot.

And that’s game. I swigged the rest of my glass and walked out, swatting her mother in the ass as I passed through the kitchen.

By all accounts, I was supportive and loving throughout Janice’s pregnancy. When her little sister visited, I rubbed her increasingly fatter back and her swollen, unpolished toes, smiling all the while. I resisted my daily urge to cover her nose and mouth when she snored on the couch. Her bloated, drooling figure disgusted me, but she was mine.

Her shitty diner friends threw her a baby shower and didn’t invite me. That kind of thing really pisses me off so I stepped on her hand when she was on the floor of the nursery folding baby clothes. We both pretended it was an accident.

She eventually stopped talking to them, but it took some convincing.

“Janice, you should be home! That’s it. Period.”

“Calm down Charles. It was one night.”

“Do you really think you should be out at the dives pregnant? Is that what a good mommy-to-be ought to do?”

“Charles, I’m tired. Can we not do this? It was one night. I miss my friends.”

“The friends that encourage you to dance like a whale’s ass and then reopen the diner at three a.m. to raid the pantry bleary-eyed and laughing like a fucking idiot? Is that who you miss? Those friends?”

“How…how did you know we reopened the diner?”

“I know everything, Janice. I make it my business to know things. How’s your hand by the way?”

When Charlie was born, something changed. We were now a complete family. A world onto ourselves. And he was a funny clingy little monkey. He liked being with me, which was good. Really good actually. I found myself totally absorbed by him. I could watch him play with his toes for hours. It was a new feeling for me, fatherhood. It suited me.

But we had sex less, which sucked. I resorted to my old habits. I had many less than desirable methods of alleviating the resulting pressure, the heartbeat in my temples, the burning heat, all of which I hid from Janice. As far as she knew, I was still her darling, if a bit overbearing, husband. But then I caught Janice watching me closely with narrowed eyes when I had Charlie on my lap. Something had tweaked her.

“What?”

“Nothing. Charles, nothing.”

“The hell are you staring at?” My voice ragged, caught in my throat.

“Just….What were you doing last night?” She pulled at one chapped lip. I noticed her pinkie trembling.

I stood up then, fists balling at my side. Charlie slid expertly to the floor, thumb still stuck safely in his mouth and padded off to find his matchbox cars. At two, he was an old pro at ignoring our arguments.

“When? When did you wake up?”

“I just…I woke up on the couch. I don’t remember what time. And. Uh... And I went to check on Charlie and you…”

“And me what?” My voice was pitched low, but I was in a full rage now, shaking, my mind twisting through the various scenarios. What would she do? What did she see?

“Nothing, nothing.” She was beet red. Her still fat face (she still hadn’t lost that damn baby weight) was sweaty as usual. She had saved up all her courage for this moment and then blew it. Ha! Loser.

“You come at me with an accusation, you better have something to back it up, Janice!” I sneered at her, grabbed my new leather jacket off of the back of the kitchen chair and rolled out the front door with a big smile on my face. I love a good win.

Oh, I don’t want you to think I’m a dirtbag or anything. All she saw was me, swinging naked from the exposed beams in our bedroom. Creepy yes, I’ll own that. Incestual child-molester creepy, no.

When I got home from the bar that afternoon, three beers and two scotch and waters under my belt, the dreaded old hamburger smelling crew had descended. She had invited them into my restored nineteenth century home. Crowded in a circle on my taupe and lavender persian rug were seven white trash losers that I used to be able to name. It smelled like red wine and snot. In other words, it smelled like Janice had been crying.

“What the hell?” I stood hands on my hips in my kitchen. From there I was taller than everyone else in the sunken formal room. And better looking, as usual.

I couldn’t see her in the middle of all of the bodies, but I guessed that she was sitting on the far end, one cheek perched on the antique coffee table. Which, of course, she wasn’t allowed to do. The hairy Greek guy answered me instead of Janice.

“You’re not welcome here anymore, buddy,” he said. Then he took two steps forward as I descended into the living room. I faked a lunge and he skittered back on his heels, almost falling on his ass. Pathetic. I looked around and thought through my options. I could easily toss them all out and break a few arms in the process, but the dark-haired wench in the corner with the acne was already pulling out her cell to call the cops.

This little intervention could be a small blip brought on by a few recent events. Maybe that fight two weeks ago before the ballet when I tried to help her with her hair and I burned her ear with her curling iron? It was mostly an accident. Or maybe she was freaked by my erotic trapeze last night? We had a few other recent rows as well. Who could remember them all? Or it could turn into something really big. I was adverse to another prison term, so I decided to play along.

I stepped around the Greek, who had lost his nerve entirely and was looking at his toes like they might start a conversation with him at any minute. I found her cowering on the edge of the table (I knew it!) and grabbed her sweaty palms.

“Janice, love, what’s all this about?” Insert winning smile. Insert kneeling husband with the thick wavy hair. But this time her eyes did not go gooey at the sight of me. She pulled her hands back as if I had bitten her and stood, shakily, to her feet. She quickly turned, showing me the back of her lumpy neck and let herself be wrapped in tight by the arms of that flat faced waitress with the stubby nails. The woman’s beady eyes glared at me over Janice’s matted hair. Her mouth was pursed to look exactly like an asshole. I sighed. This was going to take some time.

I called to Charlie then and waited through the ensuing silence. The others stared at me, willing me to go. I laughed, actually amused. I’m used to people willing me gone, but in my own home? It was almost too much. But I did wish Charlie had come running. I’m not saying I grew a heart like the Grinch when Charlie was born. But I do want him around. I like his goofy face. I like the way he clings to the back of my leg when I shave in the morning. He doesn’t think I’m weird. At least not yet. She must have whisked him off somewhere to hide him from me. Payback is a bitch my dear.

The Greek followed me to the door. I wanted him to say something. I had a buck knife on me and it would feel good to let some blood pour (it’s been years!), but he just stood there, one hand on my new Cherrywood door. The one I had installed after I pulled Janice’s chair out from under her fat ass and chucked it at the door last year. He shut it in my face. That fucker. He’s got it coming too.

Watching from the tree line on Market Street, I saw the loser crew visit in shifts for two more days, but eventually they had to get back to their own horrible lives. Only one car kept coming as the weeks wore on. The old Nissan. The Greek’s car.

I ignored the service of process from her lawyer. Our lawyer actually. She doubled down with both a restraining order and a divorce decree requesting sole custody. So childish, Janice.

I used my key (too dumb to change the locks!) while they were at the grocery store probably buying pop tarts and chicken nuggets. Charlie was going to be obese by eight if I wasn’t there to tell her what to buy. I took nothing from the house. I plan on being back soon enough. But I did leave a lot of things. I left eyes and ears in every room. In every lamp, every outlet. These things are so cheap now. I must have installed fifty of them. Actually, I lost track!

I’m in every wall, in every conversation. I have an apartment downtown and the spare bedroom looks like Mission Control. I watch Charlie sorting shapes into that plastic block thing. It’s possible he’s stupid (being fifty percent Janice and all), but I don’t think so. Lately he’s been getting them all in except the crescent. That one is a bitch. I find myself clapping for him like I’m there. I wish I was actually.

Then three nights ago I saw Janice and Mike the Greek getting it on in my bed. That was unfortunate. For them at least. I was making plans to roll in (she STILL hasn’t changed the damn locks), but I hesitated for some reason and now I’m so glad I did. Because about an hour ago, I watched that Greek motherfucker hit Charlie! Yup, saw and heard it. He was banging away on Janice and Charlie started to cry. This hairy asshole gets up out of my Queen Anne bed, rolls down the hallway naked and opens the nursery. I’m watching as he lifts my son up by one arm and smacks his soft little cheek. I stood up from my monitors and started screaming, exactly matching the pitch of Charlie on the other end. I’ve hit my limit folks! It’s go time.

I’m done being the stranger in the walls. Charlie needs me. Oh, and I might scoop Janice up again. Makeup sex is so much fun…

You look like an African Queen

Your hair all done up

In hills and valleys of braids

Divided, twisted, turned into more

Complicated patterns of braids

Gold pins adorn the top of your head

Create a universe of suns

Braids long to curl in intimate places

Snake down, telltale S's tendrils and spit curls

Trace down your forehead

Frame your soft round brown face

Fine doubles S's playfully extend down your neck

Endear my heart to spit curls,

Eyes cast, half-mast

Lips gently parted, full and moist

Of what do you dream, my teenage African Queen

I watch you and wonder who you are,

What do you think of and where

Goes your mind when you gaze?

I speculate about your family, your friends

Your enemies, your past,

Who made you what you are?

What have you suffered? What makes you glow?

Or smile My African Queen?

I study your expressions, they linger then flee,

A constant flux, a flow, stop and go

Ahh hah, ... Caught in a momentary thought

A spider web, a flicker of light

Shadows flitter cross your face,

Deep set eyes, warm, dark brown swirling pools,

... Is it anger I see?

Your slightly curled lips reveal disdain

And your ever-vigilant nature

EVER OBSERVANT ... ALWAYS WATCHFUL,

I CAUGHT YOU ON MY SUBWAY RIDE

I won't lie to you: I have somewhat of a habit of falling in love with strangers. It's the books and movies that make me do it--and you, you were cinematic and literary in the very best way. You had a romanticism to you, a face that Daphne du Maurier would've compared to a painting, would've used as inspiration for her next tragic hero. I could see you in an old manor house, hiding a dark secret, waiting. For me? I'm not sure. Waiting for someone, certainly. What else do the men of Gothic novels do, when they aren't waiting around for uncertain girls to fall in love with them? You were enchanting and devastating to me, walking absentmindedly in your long coat, while the whole world buzzed around you. I saw you for only a moment, and you never even looked my way. Our stories are our own; we aren't meant to cross paths again. Yet, I sit and I write to you, a love letter you will never read, because I have heard too many songs and seen too many low-budget romantic comedies and dreamed too many dreams of beautiful boys, beautiful and graceful boys who play the piano. It's better this way, you see. I often have said that I wish the characters in the books I read and the movies I watch missed their chances, never met, were too distracted. I wish they smiled and went their separate ways. For though I love the flirting, though I clutch my heart and sigh the first time they kiss, it always leads to hardship. In life, especially, there would be this hardship, and sooner, too, because you will not be that man that I want. I will not have to wait for months of bliss to pass before I am disappointed. Were I to meet you, really meet you, I doubt you would be the man I am seeking. I doubt you play the piano, and your long coat is a facade, and you've never read a classic novel, not since high school. Your profile may be lovely, but you have only God to thank for that. Most importantly, I suppose you have a girl at home already, waiting to kiss you, knowing you for more than the dashing imaginings that your appearance brings to mind for silly romantics like myself. Though I do wish, in a little way, to be that girl, I am more than happy to be the far-off writer on the corner, with wind blowing her hair across her face, making a Polaroid-worthy moment for another dreamer. I am content to see you from afar, and write about you, and think of you as whoever I want you to be. We will be lovely strangers, happier because we missed each other, because we never knew the sadness that comes with realizing that not all love stories start in this picturesque way. You will go home to your lady, and I will go home to my solitude, and fall in love with another stranger, and another. I look forward to a thousand missed connections. I still think of you, my never-to-be-lover, for the romantic in me refuses to let go of you. What I hold on to, of course, is not really anything more than a story that I created around a moment, around a face--but it was a most poetic face. You had a most poetic face. 

Why do her blonde waves entrance you?

I can dye my hair to match…

Why does her pout make you melt?

I can act young, wild and cute…

Why do her swaying hips elicit groans?

I can learn to walk in stilettos…

If I pretend I’m her…will you?

********************************

butch girls with green eyes

have a long history of

ripping my roots out

slamming their

tectonic plates

into mine

transverse sliding

finding their way

between my hips

paralyzing me

knocking over buildings

and leaving me

trapped

alone beneath beams

of headlights

bright to the point of

blur

to the point of X-ray vision

radioactive burn

to the point of important things

crunched unknowingly

beneath feet

leaving cracks in me

leave me making

armadillo promises

of jelly fish

of stinging nettle

I will never be.

You smashed my heart and hid the glue

I'm such a wreck because of you

I should've known you were not true,

Your fingers crossed with each "I love you"

You've moved on but I'm still stuck

Trying to go on with no such luck

Like a skydiver whose

parachute failed to open

or an astronaut whose

rocket never made

it into space,

my dreams had been

painfully broken

and a tragic ending

was mine to embrace.

At that moment not one

single word was spoken

nor did any tears of despair

stream down my face.

I took with me only

rejection as a token

and for days stared

disconsolately at the

rose she refused to take.

No one can know.

No one can know the truth.

The scars on my legs scream volumes,

Alerting the world that something isn't right.

Shaving, I say almost too quickly,

Every time someone asks.

I got them from shaving

And picking at the scabs.

The lie I have grown accustomed too,

To the point of almost believing it myself.

Until I see them.

The scars are a reminder.

They remind me of the hopelessness I felt,

The pain I couldn't deal with.

They line the top of my legs,

Lucky not very noticeable.

Shaving, I lie again as my shorts ride up,

Refusing to admit where they really came from.

My eyes glued to the eraser,

as my lips say the word a final time.

Shaving.

These walls hear dreams.

As one goes, white noise follows

Into these rooms, and it reverberates

From ceiling to

Corner and corner and

Back again.

Louder, it grows

As notes add on.

In the bare brush of feet

Along this carpet,

In the faint strains

Of this song or another,

In the cracking of these

Sore knuckles,

In the pre-recorded applause

Of late night with

Insert name here,

In the rustle of weight

Shifting and sheets moving,

In the bangs of falling things

And muffled curses from

Hurting others,

In the clicking of a pen

And the jingle of

Keys,

In the rush of a door

Slam shaking the foundation,

In the scraping of a fork 

And drip of 

A leaky faucet,

In the riotous laughter

Outnumbered by the 

Soft pull of tissues

From a box,

Collectively it is the whole of

An existence.

Decipher the static and

All you will hear

Is a life, in these

Small sounds.