Rene Lives Here
Rene Lives Here
November 21, 2024
She told the waitress, “The usual.” I was too scared to ask for the same. I ordered a single malt, double, and neat. Now it was time for business.
Rene worked for me for nearly four months. In that period, sales and revenue doubled. I already gave her a corner office. She now wants a company car. I am inclined to agree.
The new project will require Rene to work seven days a week. I asked her if she wanted an assistant. She nodded in the affirmative. Then our drinks arrived. I took my double shot and threw it back (old college day's fun). She took her pint of beer and watched the waitress spray whipped cream on the top. Then she added a cherry for appearance. Rene unwrapped her pink straw and inserted it below the whipped cream line. From the neck down, Rene was more than an accountant. She was a star accountant with a business savvy par excellence. From the neck up, she was a combo of a little girl eating Halloween candy and a tomboy displaying a goofy, yet attractive, anti-savoir-faire.
I took it all in, and cleared my throat to regain Rene’s attention. “Did you want an assistant?”
She told me to wait at the table. Rene made eye contact with a young Korean looking man drinking the same beer with whipped cream, sitting at the bar. “This one will do.”
It was all I heard as she took her drink to sit beside him for nearly thirty minutes. When she returned, she told me she hired him and he would begin in the morning. Rene would take care of the necessary paperwork.
I thought about ordering the same drink. But only for a brief moment.
This is apparently Rene’s world.
I am just visiting.
writing poetry for cicadas
If you're going to write poetry
Tell them about the spaces
Between the stanzas
The stunning pianos
In between the fortes and
dotted lines
The small wildfires
Beneath my ribcage
Rattling a nostalgic melody
When my soul
Locked eyes with yours
The first time
If you're going to write poetry,
I fear that there isn't much to say
You can feel it on my skin
and in the way the rapid current of my eyes
melted last night's makeup
into a decaying pool of ash
a shadowy promise tomorrow
said maybe
turned today
you sent me away
If you're going to write poetry
Leave them breathless and longing for more
Tell them about the story
The one where you almost saved me
Make sure you replay the tune
of velvety icing spattered on obsolete countertops
Where we sang happy birthday
With a sinister look in your eyes
It came in the night with a "thank you"
Left the imposter persevered with
an "I love you too"
Did you tell them about the part,
The one where I loved you back
The time lapse of a million cicadas
Dancing with fireworks
In the middle of July
Did you tell them they went silent?
Should I Ask?
"There is no such thing as a dumb question."
That's what teachers, supervisors, and lecturers told me.
When no one in my work group posed a question, my boss added, "Don't be shy. There's no judgment. No one to stop you from asking anything."
A few giggles surfaced, reminding me of the ridicule and judgment that I risked.
So I kept my question to myself:
"Is there such a thing as a dumb answer?"
Lacrimosa
Dear God,
I pray to you in whispers
And tired, weary sighs
My days are empty echoes
Of restless, night time cries
But I think on how You do collect
Each tear spilt from my eye
You keep them in a vessel
Because for me, You chose to die
—————————————
You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
Psalm 56:8
We Come in Threes
The present me, the young me, and the old me walked into a bar.
"What'll y'all have," the bartender asked us.
"I'll have what he's having," I said, referring to the older me. "If it's not too much trouble, um," I said tenuously, reading his nametag, "Sal."
"Then," old me said, "I'll take a gin-and-tonic."
"Since when?" I asked. I hate gin-and-tonics.
"Since my wife left me."
"I get married?"
"Was she hot?" asked the young me.
"Idiot!" the old me told him.
"I mean," I said, "y'know, tell me about her."
"Included the hotness," added the young me.
"Youth is wasted on the young," the old me said.
"Yea, well, success and affluence are wasted on the old and feeble."
"I may not have any money to show for myself," the old me challenged the young me, but c'mere and I'll show you feeble."
"Incarnations!" I intervened. "Settle down."
"Do you have an ID, young fellah?" Sal asked the young me.
"He can vouch for me," he said, referring to me. "I mean, he's me. If any of us meets the age, we all do. And if I drink now, it's all ancient history for them, right?"
"Nice try, Chief," the bartender told the young me.
"Whatcha having, old man?" he asked the old me.
"I'd like a gin and tonic," the old man reminded him.
"Me, too," I added.
"Me, too," repeated the young me.
"You can have a Shirley Temple if you'd like," Sal suggested.
"That's just not right," I told Sal.
"No," the old me said, "it might just be right."
"Fuck you, old me," the young me shouted.
"No, fuck you right back. You better take some inventory, punk. See what kind of mess your bad decisions are gonna make."
"Thing's ain't so bad," I interjected.
"You, too," he told me. "You've got some bad decisions coming, too. Look at me! Thanks a lot, asshole."
"Who's the asshole here?" I answered. "Things are fine with me now. I can't help it if you took some wrong turns and ended up like this."
"But you can!" he shouted.
"All I know is that for me," the young me said, "my take-home pay's enough to live the sweet life with a bitchin' ride and lots of pussy."
"Asshole!" the old me called him.
"Asshole!" I agreed. "Your bitchin' car's gonna need rings soon."
"Y'know, Sal," I said to the bartender, "when me and the young me and the old me walked into this bar..."
"Sounds like a joke," Sal said. "But the only joke is you."
"Me?" I said. "Look at these jokers."
"Yea, you. Do you really want to live in the past? Or fret what the future might be? Be yourself! Or you're the asshole."
Me, the young me, and the old me walked into this bar. But I walked out alone.
A Christmas Miracle
It was Christmas Eve in London, and the city was, as always, adorned with bright lights. The air was filled with the scent of mulled wine, and snowflakes gently settled on the cobbled streets. London glowed with warmth and coziness, despite the cold wind blowing in from the Thames.
Oliver wandered through the streets, watching people rushing home with gifts. He had always loved Christmas, but this year, something felt different. His heart was heavy with longing. All he could think about was Irene, his one true love, with whom he had parted ways a year ago.
Irene was a woman he could never forget. Her smile, her voice, her gaze—all of it lived on in his memory. But fate had separated them, and now Oliver didn’t know where she was or how she was doing.
That evening, he found himself on one of Covent Garden’s narrow streets, where his eyes fell on a small shop with a sign that read "Christmas Wonders." He had never noticed this place before, even though he had passed by many times. The shop looked mysterious and beckoned with its unusual charm.
Oliver stepped inside. The cozy atmosphere was palpable: soft lamplight, shelves filled with vintage ornaments and toys, and a faint scent of pine branches. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with a warm smile.
“Welcome,” she said. “Are you looking for something special on this magical evening?”
Oliver glanced around, but nothing caught his attention quite like a small snow globe sitting on the display shelf. Inside the globe was a miniature scene of snowy London—streets filled with tiny figures of people. But what struck him most was something else: in the center of the scene stood two figures, a man and a woman, holding hands. They looked just like him and Irene.
“This globe grants one true Christmas wish,” the woman said, noticing his interest. “But the wish must come from the heart.”
Oliver smiled, thinking her words were just a fanciful story, but he bought the snow globe anyway. When he returned home, he placed it on the mantel and sat for a long time, staring at it. Thoughts of what he truly wanted swirled in his mind.
Finally, he picked up the globe, shook it, watching the snowflakes swirl inside, and quietly said, “I want to be with Irene. Forever.”
He didn’t believe it would work, but his wish was sincere. He recalled their moments together, the laughter, the long walks through London’s streets, and felt a deep longing for her.
The next morning, Oliver was awakened by a knock at the door. His heart raced—he wasn’t expecting anyone. He opened the door and froze. Standing there, covered in snow, was Irene, with the same soft and warm gaze he had always loved.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, smiling. “Something called me here, and I realized I can’t live without you anymore.”
Oliver embraced her, feeling his heart fill with the happiness he had longed for. At that moment, he understood: his wish had come true. A miracle had happened.
That Christmas became the most unforgettable one for Oliver. Now Irene was with him, and they could begin a new chapter of their life together.
Victoria Lunar
