She Gave.

Laila’s eyes widened as she pulled the skin on her face up and back, forming a temporary face-lift. She moved close to the mirror examining her pores, too large, her eyebrows, un-groomed, and the wrinkles that were slowly fading into her life one by one.

She watched the water pool in her small hands and splashed it onto her face, letting the cool droplets fall back into the sink. There were turquoise toothpaste stains speckling the basin, surrounded by stray brown hairs that had confettied out of her head each time she had brushed her hair.

Amy was supposed to come over for wine later that day, so Laila opened up the cabinet and grabbed a wipe from the Clorox container and wiped down the sink. She used her fingernail to scrape the stubborn toothpaste that seemed to become more of a design than a mess, even though she knew that Amy was likely to flake out on their rain-date.

She looked at her phone. It was 7:10 am on Laila’s 26th birthday, and as she shuffled out of the bathroom, and down the hall, collecting her purse, scarf, jacket, a banana and a salad she had prepared last night, she thought about how she didn’t want to go to work.

She felt like everyone else in the world. At least like everyone else in the world that she knew. Maybe there were those fortunate few who had perfect lives with jobs they loved, and every day, they woke out of bed with a big, ugly, smile on their face, ready to take on the day. Laila swore, that if she was ever to wake up next to one of those freakish fucks, she would absolutely murder them with the closest bedside object. Another reason to add to the list of why one-night-stands are potentially a bad idea.

The thought of her double monitors nauseated her. The black bezel framing her entire world in neat, ongoing, excel tables and red and black PowerPoint presentations about profit growth and territory planning. She was tired of her three-thousand-dollar rolling swivel chair, and how it made her ass increasingly more flat each time she sat in it. She thought about the sound a keyboard made and multiplied it by fifty-five—the number of keyboards she estimated to be able to hear in any given moment. They were all drones. She was a drone. A part of the while-walled, cube-separated, double-monitored, Dunkin-Donut munching, elitist group of corporate America.

But, once she arrived that day, after the usual forty-five minute commute and typical talk-radio drama, Laila settled into her cube, crossed off Monday, and decided that her desk calendar gave her hope. Today, it was her birthday. She was officially in her “Mid-to-Late-Twenties,” which was semi-traumatic to any woman (or at least it was supposed to be). However, today, Laila was sure her mother would call her--at the very least to wish her a Happy Birthday. It wouldn’t be a long conversation about how she was doing, or what she was wearing, or where she would be going out to eat later, or even the weather, but she thought, a “Happy Birthday” wish would be just enough.

Joey

I named it.
I name it Joey.
I named it like you'd name a stray dog that just showed up at your door,
All mangy and half covered in dirt.
It needed to be called something.

Joey was this kid I grew up with.
Wore one of those beat up baseball caps that was so
faded from the sun and his own sweat that he forgot
what team he rooted for.

This kid--
Joey--
he would wait for me on the bus,
and every day he'd talk my ear off about the hardships
Of life,
then empty my pockets and lunch into his backpack and
Call it a day.

It got to the point where I'd stopped caring.
I'd just hand it over.

He Grew on me over time.
It was ritual.
And even though I hated the kid,
I had to accept that he was Around.

That's Joey, alright.

Except now, it costs me
more
than just my lunch money
to take care of him.

sometimes

Sometimes, all I want to do is write. But then I sit down, and I realize that we're all the same. Every last one of us. We wake up, and we fill our coffee mugs, and look outside before we decide what to wear. Khakis today.
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Bathroom, shower, brush teeth, come hair, remind yourself: Don't forget to put on deodorant.
<p>
Oatmeal packet? Check. Work badge? Check? Phone? Keys? Wallet? Check. Check. Check.
<p>
Then you're out the door, into the wild world of concrete forrest. Magma highways leading to places we travel every day, but crave nothing more than to get away from. The metal cages we buckle ourselves into for our daily commutes, and then...
<p>
The cubicles.
<p>
Your three-walled-home for fifty hours a week. That comfy ergonomic chair that has flattened your ass so much that every time you see those J-Lo jeans in the department store, you're instantly disappointed. The dual monitors; your eyes into the world. A world full of Excel and Outlook reminders, and needy, complaining, numb-skulls every bit as drained and numb as yourself.
<p>
These are the roles we assign ourselves. The Normal Life.
<p>
You grow up, you get a job, you buy a house, get married, have kids, and pay for it all-- until one day, you die.
<p>
Those are the rules.
<p>
And if you don't-- well then, you're an outcast. And you'll never amount to anything. (Whatever that means.)
<p>
The thing is: we're all fucked. That's what it comes down to. We're all brainwashed into thinking that if we don't follow the plan, we're a failure. And that something bad will happen to us, or we wont be happy. But we're not happy because we're all so bored following this plan that we might as well try something different for a change.
<p>

Masquerade

Cassidy walked through the red velvet curtains that covered the doorway, the train of her dress brushing the floor behind her. She blended into the scenery, almost camoflauged; the dress, a silk crimson that hugged her body and cascaded from her hips to the floor. She looked around, adjusting her mask. He was here somewhere, waiting for her.

In the background, she could hear music, down-tempo electro and laughter from voices she knew but could not see. As Cassidy made her way through the crowd, she noticed a narrow, dim-lit hallway ahead. On the walls we're small candle-fixtures sending flickers of light, just barely bright enough to see. Cassidy remembered the note he left. "Follow the flicker." Cassidy walked slowly, running her finger tips against the walls. It was quiet, and the sounds of the music and laughter faded as she continued to walk.

"Come here often?" a voice in the dark said.

Cassidy backed into the wall feeling the body come closer. She knew the voice was familiar, but all she could make out was the black mask that outlined a face and the eyes that penetrated deep into her.

"Jake." she gasped

Jake slid his hands down Cassidy's arms and pulled her wrists up above her head, holding them against the wall.
"I'd like to peel that dress right off of you," Jake said, his lips grazing Cassidy's earlobes and tracing down her cheek to her mouth.

Cassidy felt his lips, soft, slightly open, just barely touching hers. She opened her mouth, moving forward, craving his body against hers. His lips on her lips.

Jake pulled back just enough to still feel her. He wanted to make her want it. Wanted to drive her crazy. He looked into her eyes--almost black in the light. Begging for him.

Cassidy was breathing heavy as Jake shifted, holding both of Cassidy's wrists with one hand and slidng the other slowly down her body, over her bare neck, feeling the silken dress over her breasts and down her stomach to her thigh. Jake navigated his hand to the slit that ran up her thigh and pulled the material aside. Cassidy felt Jakes hand slide up her and then against her lace panties. She tilted her head against the wall and moaned and Jake moved his lips against her neck, slowly kissing and biting her as he moved lower.

Skin and Bones

"You were so skinny in that picture," Dylan said, staring at his monitor. "Probably the skinniest ever."

April looked over his shoulder at the shot of her in a white summer dress, between two trees. They framed her body in the picture that his cousin had taken five years ago that coming May. He was doing a project for school and needed a model. The photograph was black and white, and April recognized that girl-- a former her, that was younger and more free. A girl who worried about who was going to be the next to get kicked off "America's Next Top Model" or which flavor of Ramen Noodles would be for dinner.

"Yeah. I guess. I was thinner in high school," April responded, her hands on her waist.

"High school doesn't count. This was when I was away. You were going to the gym every day." Dylan looked at April, then back at the screen.

"I'm going to the gym more now than I was back then," she countered.

"Well, when you're older, it's harder." Dylan closed out the screen and stirred his tea.

Dylan was a runner-- a natural athlete. He had been brought up on baseball, football, and basketball. He competed in track and ran cross-country in high-school. It all came naturally to him. The competition, the sweat, the awards.

"You should get back into running." Dylan suggested.

April looked at him, sitting down on the sofa across the room. "I have been running, Dylan. I've been running every day. Not that you're home to notice."

"I thought you went out the other night," Dylan sneered.

"Yeah, after I ran." April pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

April tried to ignore the hints. They were subtle, but consistent. She walked to the bathroom and shut the door, staring at herself in the mirror. It was true-- she had put on weight. Nearly thirty pounds since they began dating almost six years ago. She was no longer a nineteen year old size 4 and was reminded of that every time he denied her.

She remembered the night two weeks ago-- a Thursday night. Dylan had class every other night, straight after work, but on Thursdays he worked til five and came home to relax. That day, April had left work early to cook Dylan lasagna. She wanted to give him a chance to relax and forget about work and school and the chaos. A night he could focus on being with her right then. April did the dishes, straightened the house and lit a candle that smelt like apples. When Dylan came home he had smiled.

"Aw, sweetie. Thank you"

April had served him a plate, poured a beer, and sat across from him. "How was your day?" April smiled, watching Dylan take a bite of the saucy goodness.

"Oh, you know. Long as Hell. How about you?"

April sipped her water. "Good. Not bad. Just busy."

April had changed from her tan pants and polo into a flowery skirt and blouse with tan heals. She did her eyes the way she saw on TV and pinned back her hair. But Dylan looked back at his food.

"This is really good," Dylan chewed.

"Thanks," she smiled.

"So, the Met's are on tonight. Wanna watch 'em?" his eyebrows rose. "It's going to be a big game."

"Yeah, sure," April said as she stood up, collecting the plates and bringing them to the sink. "You go get started."

"Thanks dude," Dylan said in a cartoon-like voice and headed towards the living room.

April washed the dishes and prepared their lunches, as usual, then headed to the couch. She sat close to Dylan, fixing her skirt and crossing her legs.

"You're really gonna love this game. They got a new pitcher, and he's really got a great knuckleball. You know how they through a knuckleball?" Dylan made a fist and then adjusted his fingers to resemble the pitcher's. "He holds the ball like this... and then," he chucked an invisible ball, "he throws it like that. Pretty tough ball to hit."

April watched the screen and agreed. It looked pretty impressive. But she didn't really care about any of that. She shifted her body and crawled on top of Dylan, straddling him and putting her forehead to his.

"Kiss me," she smiled looking into his eyes, a deep chocolate brown.

Dylan gave her a peck on the lips and peered around her.

"Come on, that's all you got?" April said playfully, kissing him on the neck.

"Hey," Dylan said, pulling away. "Come on, you know I don't like that."

"Baby," April said, running her fingers behind his neck and up through his hair. "Just relax. I want to kiss you," she smiled.

"April, look. I told you. I don't want to do this. I'm not in the mood. I'm tired, and stressed, and anxious. I have two stories to read tonight, and I just want to watch this game. Is that too much to ask?"

April crawled off and sat next to him, defeated again. Forty six days. Not that she was counting.

"I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed."

"Goodnight, sweetie" Dylan said, as April walked to the room. She slid off the skirt and took out the bobby pins that held together every strand of self-dignity she had. She had become a beggar. April slipped on the tank top and sweatpants and crawled into bed, hitting the button to the radio. She had laid there wondering again what she could do differently. What she could possibly do to get him back. Maybe she had to just let it go. For good.

olive oil

Molly moved Jake into the room and pushed him onto the mattress. She looked like a pixie, her short hair a mess, and soft face full of mischief. The bed sunk as Jake fell back, and Molly climbed on top. She took a scarf from the headboard and wrapped it around Jake's head, covering his eyes.

The cool, silky material sent a shiver down Jake as he felt Molly climb off the bed.

"You stay right there," Molly commanded, running her hand down Jake's leg as she walked away.

Jake wondered where she might be going. It was a long night at the bar, and Molly didn't have her car with her, so he offered to drive her home. When she invited him in, he didnt expect to be pushed up against the back door. She had stood on her toes, against his body, and let her lips linger just lightly against his. He could feel each of them breathing heavier and harder as the tension built-- each second, moving just a tiny bit closer. Her lips lightly closing in on his bottom lip. His tongue lightly caressing her top lip, until Jake grabbed her and pulled her into him. Kissing full mouthed, wildly, letting go of tension that had built for months.

Molly pulled Jake forward as she kissed, leading him through the living room, down the hall, against the bathroom door, and then into the bedroom, where she had left him there, on the bed.

Molly went to the kitchen, bringing back with her a small bottle of olive oil. she poured a small amount into her hands and lightly rubbed them together. Slowly, she crept onto the bed and moved her hand over Jake's. Taking his hand in hers, she began to massage the oil into his palm, and through his fingers, slowly massaging them one by one. She pushed her thumb into his palm, feeling Jake instantly relax.

Molly did the same with his left hand, smoothing the oil over his palms, through his fingers. Slowly caressing each finger and moving her hands up his arms.

Stradding Jake, Molly slowly lifted her summer dress over her head. Jake could feel the shift in her body and hear the movement of cloth. Jake moved his hands up her thighs, not feeling the silk dress that was there seconds before. Looking down, Molly held his hand, moving his fingers across the lace the ran across her hips. Jake could feel the softness of her skin above the lace and bent his finger tips to slide them inside.

Molly could feel him now, growing hard beneath her. His breaths becoming more shallow. His hands becoming less patient. He slid his hand below her hips and between her thighs, feeling her warmth--letting his thumb wander lower, rubbing deeper.

cassidy

Cassidy sat at her desk biting the end of the ball-point pen. Her eyes dove into the double monitors, setting work aside, and wetting her lips with her too eager tongue. She slid her privacy filters on, even though she had the office to herself.

Jake had messaged her the daily report, and then a second email came through.

I'd love to feel that silk shirt up against me.

Cassidy smoothed her hands down her blouse, examining it closely, checking for wrinkles. It was a lavendar, button- down with two small pockets in the front. It was professional and tucked neatly into her black skirt that fell just above the knee.

What stood out to Jake the most though, was how clearly he could see the outline of her lace bra that seemed to be patiently waiting for him under that blouse. He wondered how deftly he could undo the small pearlesant buttons and expose her-- just the first three, he thought, as his eyes grew bigger, thinking deeper. He wanted to push her up against the wall and feel that shirt against him. Wanted her to move down his body and set him free.

Cassidy knew Jake loved the color purple. That it did something to him. She remembered the conversation at Happy Hour weeks ago. Sipping on his dry martini, Jake had leaned over and whispered in her ear. "You have no idea what that color does to me." She had on a deep indigo dress-- velvet, with a short black jacket. Her stilleto heels matching as she crossed her legs and looked down at her cosmo in disbelief.

She remembered how, at that moment, Bill from Accounts Payable had stepped over and spouted, "How are those reports comin along Cass?" He never did understand the point of Happy Hour.

Jake had interjected, turning towards Bill. "Cassidy is doing a fine job at the reporting, Bill. We are still waiting for that purchase order to be rectified, however. But how about you have a beer and let go for a bit? We can worry about that on Monday." Jake looked sternly at Bill, turned to the bartender, ordered a Heiniken, and handed it to Bill.

"Thanks, Mr. Emery." Bill half-smiled as he trodded away.