Cassis (by N. S. Lavay)
two coffees, 1/2 bag twizzler pull n’ peels, clam chowder, whole milk trader’s point creamery yogurt, baked mac n’ cheese
to be continued
A young girl sat cross-legged at a cast iron table outside the Seminary Co-op bookstore on her lunch break one afternoon. She frequented the bookstore for its proximity to her office and also for its unmatched escape which she so graciously reveled in. Nestled in the basement of the Chicago Theological Seminary, the Co-op was home to room after room of beloved rows of books. The low ceiling and particularly poor ventilation gave the space a remarkably damp and musty smell, and on a day like today one couldn’t last more than a few minutes down there without breaking a sweat.
With her iced coffee at a tilt, she fumbled through the newspaper looking for the crossword. On the table before her rested a white paper sack stained with translucent oil splotches from the croissant she picked up this morning on her walk to work. She discreetly tore off tiny bites and chewed slowly as she scanned the news.
The croissant, God, the croissant! she thought. She looked up into the bright sky and dusted the flaky crumbs from her lips and white blouse. She finished her impromptu lunch and went back to work.
JFK with Kwame Nkrumah, March 1961.
Argentine Malbecs, roasted butternut squash, Mexican hot chocolate, la table Française, new international friends, Penelope Cruz in Vanilla Sky, bright red lips, toying with the idea of getting bangs, a very thoughftully gifted tea kettle, and reading before bed with mon meilleur ami/l’amour de ma vie/l’homme le plus beau que j’ai jamais rencontré
Blue Monday Tune
Grant realized he’d failed with Aubrey’s wife. Marian. He had thought that what he’d have to contend with would be a woman’s natural sexual jealousy—or her resentment, the stubborn remains of sexual jealousy. He had not had any idea of the way she might be looking at things. And yet in some depressing way the conversation had not been unfamiliar to him. That was because it reminded him of conversations he’d had with people in his own family. His relatives, probably even his mother, had thought the way Marian thought. Money ﬁrst. They had believed that when other people did not think that way it was because they had lost touch with reality. That was how Marian would see him, certainly. A silly person, full of boring knowledge and protected by some ﬂuke from the truth about life. A person who didn’t have to worry about holding on to his house and could go around dreaming up the ﬁne generous schemes that he believed would make another person happy. What a jerk, she would be thinking now.
Being up against a person like that made him feel hopeless, exasperated, ﬁnally almost desolate. Why? Because he couldn’t be sure of holding on to himself, against people like that? Because he was afraid that in the end they were right? Yet he might have married her. Or some girl like that. If he’d stayed back where he belonged. She’d have been appetizing enough. Probably a ﬂirt. The fussy way she had of shifting her buttocks on the kitchen chair, her pursed mouth, a slightly contrived air of menace—that was what was left of the more or less innocent vulgarity of a small-town ﬂirt.
She must have had some hopes when she picked Aubrey. His good looks, his salesman’s job, his white-collar expectations. She must have believed that she would end up better off than she was now. And so it often happened with those practical people. In spite of their calculations, their survival instincts, they might not get as far as they had quite reasonably expected. No doubt it seemed unfair.
Alice Munro, The Bear Came Over The Mountain
Was it the way he carried his dossier; gripped by the spine and clutched to his side? Was it his airy locks of flaxen hair, perfectly unkempt, even after he showered? Or maybe it was the way he would pull you in close for a kiss and not say anything at all? Your memories are vivid. You remember how it began, every glass of wine and every letter. You remember the sound of his door opening. You wish you could forget the sound of it closing. But when you saw him that first time, what made him so cool? The denim jeans, the classic loafers, or his hotshot wayfarers? The way he ordered his scotch, and the way he held his glass? There really was something about him. You hadn’t met anyone so cool. When you think about it you know it was, more than anything else, that white cotton oxford, the way it hung effortlessly off his shoulders, the rolled up cuffs and crisp creases, the smell – that particular smell of cigarettes and cologne and him – and the way it felt when you put it on.