Poisoned Apricots

poisoned apricots 

under the frozen floorboards

of a sick child’s heart 

She attentively watched the two star-crossed smoke rings being teared apart, meeting the window, gnawing at the glass skin as she let an uneasy silence buzz in her ears.

“Kid, we need to talk”, he finally said, resting his hand on her knee.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t silent; there was a record turning a couple of feet behind her.

“I need a God to pray to, maybe someone like you”, it sang in a jazzy elevator melody. And the fan was blowing cool air into her hair, making a strand of dirty blonde curls uncomfortably press against her left eyelid.

She looked up at him with knitted brows, making the scar above her eyebrow slightly bulge. He moved his hand away from her knee, got up, and took another long, meditative, inhale from his cigarette as he passed his hand through his sticky brown hair that greasily fell onto his shoulders.

“You still have the Volvo”, she said in an almost inaudible small voice.

He turned his back towards her and pressed his hands up onto the window sill, bending his brown-suit body in two, making his purple striped tie loosely flail.

“You seriously think that the P1800 can get us through this? What did they teach you down in the South?”

Not much, she thought. She couldn’t see his face but she could see the gray smoke bubbling around his head.

“You see over there?”, he said standing upright, one hand clenched to his right suspender spanning across his chest, the other pointed towards a distant building.

She tilted her head towards the left.

“That’s the Garter Movie Theater”.

“Is it really that difficult to be called ‘sir’?”, he retorted, turning his body towards her and bringing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to be able to meet her eyes.

He has green eyes, she noted.

“That’s the Garter Movie Theater, sir”, she said, correcting herself, too weak to fight back like she would have a few days back. 

“That’s right. We should go tonight”, he responded, in a testing manner, now resting his back against the window, looking straight into her eyes, his right leg rigidly laying on his left leg.

She felt an alarming tension in her chest. He couldn’t possibly be serious, she told herself.

“Sir, I don’t know if that’s a good ide-“

“Why, it would be a… magnificent idea”, he said in a decrescendo whisper enlacing his arms around her, the strong smell of smoke filling her nostrils.

“Just you and I…”, he hissed into her ear.

He broke off with a malevolent laugh and made his way towards the door. She rubbed her nose against her sweatshirt, hoping that the acrid smell would wear off.  

He opened the door and gestured towards the green-carpeted hallway.

“After you”, he said with a vicious smile.

The devil’s playground, that’s what his mind is, she thought.

She stepped outside the room, a tingle of fear trickling down her spine.

© Margaux Emmanuel

She rubbed her hand against her nose, smudging the blood still trickling out of her nostrils onto her index finger and cupid’s bow. She could still feel the outline of his knuckles pressing against her gum. They had left a fresh bruise on her lower cheek and her lip plump in its swollenness. Stiff from pain, she pressed her still moist palms, striped pink from the tight hand wraps, onto the parking lot concrete with a slight wince and attempted to straighten her back. She grabbed the icepack that she had angrily thrown to the floor, tears dripping out of its side from a rip in the blood-stained plastic, and despite the layer of sticky dirt thinly covering it, carelessly slapped it onto her face, her hunger for the cold solace betraying the hot rancour in her eyes. “All I did was make a fool of myself”, she thought as her eyes now woefully crawled towards the gloves, peaking out of a black-cloth gym bag, the ensanguined white flag shining from the timid light of a nearby lamppost. She laid her right hand onto her stomach, slightly discerning her drained muscles through the sticky shirt. Not a soul was in sight at this hour. She even leaned her ear onto the cement, awaiting the low grumble of some distant car, only to be confronted with a bitter silence. She was eventually lying on her side in the middle of the empty parking lot, the breeze leaving a cool impression on her humid hair, as her fingers danced, almost detached from her body, on a worn white line that had been painted onto the cement long ago. The blood from her nose slowed to a sideward drip. Her mind was elsewhere; she wallowed in the mud of her thoughts as she attempted to recall the intricacies of his face, a temptation that she could not resist. When she began to remember the rugged slit in his eyebrow and the grin of his pale green eyes, a violent nausea threatened her throat. She was on her knees, her arms pressed against the cold ground as she dryly coughed. “I need to get up”, she muttered to herself. She pushed herself up with the remaining strength in her muscles and arose with a tired lurch. She noticed a gas station sign, blinking red, bleeding into the blurred serenity of the night, floating in the darkness. She grabbed her bag and her leather gloves and, puffing her chest out, made her way into the moonless night.

fight | © Margaux Emmanuel

the drinks are on me

Past midnight, at a rusty bar, a young man conversing the outcome of a wrestling match. Quite charming, really: three shirt buttons undone, smooth grin of “the drinks are on me”. I heard the conversation make some turns, some more abrupt than others. The more drinks hit the counter, the more his words left tire tracks. He was soon boasting his fine palate for Japanese whiskey and saying “I saw scenery of the sort in Kyoto back in 2004”, “Hey Jim, here’s a quarter, go play me a song on the jukebox will ya”. 

He was in the booth in front of me, but I couldn’t see his face; I only caught a glimpse of his slicked-back brown hair. Maybe I had one or two, two or three drinks myself. Maybe it was a little too dark. I didn’t usually go to bars back then. 

“Wait, play that again, I’ve heard the tune before, just don’t quite remember from where”. 

A waitress, still bearing the traits of adolescence but old enough to look at you straight in the eye, came around. 

“Most people call me Connor. But you don’t look like ‘most people’. So call me whatever you want, it’ll do.” 

Connor. The way he pronounced his name, revealing his Boston accent, still rings in my ears. I still mouth it to this very day, letting my jaw slightly drop and my tongue press against the back of my lower teeth, just to make me remember that, despite the drunken haze the moment was soaked in, it was not a dream. It was something concrete in the stupor of it all. 

Soon enough, they were all loudly singing, their arms enlaced around their necks, swaying back and forth, tears swelling in their eyes. I watched, amused, possibly sipping the foam of yet another beer. 

And that’s when everything started to slow down. I laid my head against the wooden panel on my left side and let my heavy eyelids close. 

“We’re closing”; I was awoken, dazed, from the deep trance of a dreamless sleep. 

The bar was empty: only the manager, a heavily-built middle-aged man with tattoos covering his neck was standing right in front of me, slightly frowning. 

I rose from my seat, silent from the grogginess. As I was about to make my way out of the booth, I noticed a piece of paper, on the table, in the corner of my eye. Unsure if it was mine or not, I grabbed it and shoved it in my back pocket. 

I took the bus home but got off one stop too early. I stumbled my way through the streets, occasionally letting out a chuckle for no particular reason. The streets were bare; the town was dead. Ten minutes later, after fumbling with the keys and crawling in the stairs, I fell, fully clothed, onto my bed and fell back asleep.  

It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I was sitting down, my hand laying on the countertop, watching the coffee slowly drip, every drop tolling in my head. The piece of paper that I had taken the night before was in my right hand; it was a phone number. 

7911-75246 written in slanted black ink.

I grabbed my phone, turning it in my right hand indecisively. A few minutes later, the number was dialled; here we go again.

© Margaux Emmanuel

visiting hours are over

a melody from western japan

    sticks to the tears you begin to cry

“visiting hours are over”

    the curtains of your heart close

you sit on the stage

    and fold

origami feelings

    delicate

intricate

    intimate

weak

now

    you can take off your mask

and let yourself hum

    quietly

nervously

    and wait

to hear the same tune

    from the audience’s side

© Margaux Emmanuel

haiku

eyes of dented ink; 

summer liquor store color 

crawl into this bed 

© Margaux Emmanuel