PROSE: No.

1 She wakes with the chatter of the city: in the early morning the trains are just beginning to run against their rails and the world is falling somewhere along her earlobes. April blinks back the pink satin eye mask tucked gently against her face and pulls herself up from the covers. The light filtering through the blinds indicates early sunrise. The ceiling flashes six o clock. The soft rayon fabric of her long nightdress falls alongside her ankles as she brushes through the vanilla speckled carpet and towards the window, tugging up the blinds. She had retired late the night before, and left it unlocked. The icy gasp of air that hits her stirs within her a spine-sweeping moment of anxiety. Oftentimes, in the midst of the noisy, bustling traffic, the whirl of the surrounding strobe lights, April feels mildly claustrophobic. She doesnt know where to go, how to be. She finds herself stumbling around aimlessly, like a leaf blowing backwards and forwards in the wind. Sometimes she imagines that she might leave it all behinddisintegrate into the air like streams of confetti on New Years Eve. April, Then May It is closing time. Its raining again. The weather in her head has been on and off, up and down. This morning it was a deep, murky gray. The water soaks her hair and clings to the static of her little red hat. The large hooded jacket she wears weighs heavy on her shoulders. From afar she looks like a modern Red Riding Hood. In lieu of a basket she sports an orange rucksack. The sign in the store window reads OPEN. He hasnt gotten around to flipping it, but most of the lights are offhes the only one inside. He continues to count the cash register as she stands on her toes. She is so minute that even if he were to look up, he might only see the tip of her. She places a palm on the door, leaving a sprawling print on the condensation. Are you going to come out? The murmur of her breath is warm against the glass. He doesnt notice her. A roll of nickels falls out of his grip and he leans down to pick it up. While doing so, he detects a flash of red running past the paneled glass of the oak front door. The moment hits her in the solar plexus. She finds herself whirling, spiraling in pain. Please, she gasps. Please, I need you to see me. She stands fixed between Fear and Desperation. They echo through her body like a terrifying song.

Lights out. Hes finished, but doesnt come outside. Hes seen a mouse running through the back and has gone after it with his coat. Eight o clock. The toys in the window have come alive. The ballerina begins twirling a melancholy tune, a crocodile snaps against her heels. The large German shepherd blinks its opalescent eyes. The rocking horse waning backwards and forwards against the reflection of an empty pavement lit with water and streetlight. Shes brave enough to knock on the windows. Geppettos puppets stare down at her with menacing disapproval. Please come out, she says. The words come alive, bouncing against the glass, pounding alongside her small white fists. Come out, come out, I want to take care of you. Come out so that we can be real! Hes nowhere to be seen. The lamps are fading in the distance. Its pouring now, heavy droplets of rain disintegrating the smooth coating of her riding cape. Nine o clock. The ticking of her wristwatch grows louder in the silence. May leaves the window and starts to unlock her bike. Time to go home.

Moral Disorder She wanted to tell him to stay. Because there was nothing that she wouldnt do for him. Because on that foggy afternoon in February she had seen his interior, and found that it was the exact same color and texture as hers: that he was the type of person she had been searching for all of her adolescent life, and that knowing this, they should never be too far apart from each other because it would be a waste of some kind of magic made by the universe. But she didnt say any of it, because that was the sort of thing people said in movies or musicals or off-Broadway plays but not in real life, however real or truthful it could seem in the moment. Because as dauntless as movies and musicals and off-Broadway plays appear to be, they are also guardedfiction is a safe medium to play with because it always turns out okay and even if it doesnt, you could always say that it was just a story anyway, badly writtenand because as brave as she knew she was, she wasnt brave enough to ask for what it was she really wanted, for fear that she wasnt good enough to have it or that it didnt exist or that even if she did get it, it would prove false and eventually be taken away. So she didnt say any of it. She sat there like a fixture against the towering concrete and let the moment until it was no longer, could no longer be true, because he had closed the door to his heart after this constant strain on its hinges and she knew that it would never open again.

Eurydice I could write a poem for you. No, not a poem, an elegy. I could write an epic script about the love that we lost when I first left you. I could sing a song about how the wind blew out the last wisps of your hair and the light faded from your eyes. I could write five stanzas about the moment that I fell in love with you and the moment that I fell without. I would write about the house we never lived in, the children we never had, the wedding anniversary that we didnt celebrate this month. And I would weep all the while, as my words ran up and down these scales I would weep for you, the love I lost and the love I gave away, and as I am weeping the waters will spread over the earth, seeping through the cracks and permeating the space between the land of the living and the land of the dead, and where you are there will be a downpour. And in the leakage of the ceilings in the underworld, in the drip-drip of the raindrops falling from the sky you will hear my song. Create Space I wish I could show you the inside of my mind. I wish I could show you the waves of depression, the dark pools of blackness that sometimes flood over every crevice, filling my body with an indescribable weightlessness. I wish I could show you the architecture of my skull: the triangulation of gaping holes that light and darken with the passing of the sun. I wish I could show you the tangled mess that are my nerves, running along the ceilings like broken tresses, ready at any moment to give way. I wish I could give you a tour, walk you through the mad house of terrors that is the inside of my head, so that you would understand: that Im a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting emotions. That I love you even when I say I dont; I want you even when I believe I wont; I need you even when I wish to be free. I wish I could show you the inside of my mind so that youd see all the images plastered like wallpaper, running along the edges of walls, beams, and doorsso that youd see how much of you there is in me. So that you would understand: youre in every reflection, every thought, every move that I make. That as broken as I am, I always made room for you. You didnt make the pain go away, you just muffled it. You covered it, so that I could wake up each morning and hear the birds chirping instead of the constant grind of machinery in my head. So that I forgot what it felt like to live in a perpetual vacuum of anxiety and fear. You suctioned out my darkest secrets and kept them in a pocket alongside the inner lining of your coat, making it possible for me to absorb the magic that still exists in the world we live in. And I swore to myself that in return Id learn to carry some of your own. Skinny Love

The longer you love someone the harder it is to live. You feel yourself falling away into a space that not even you can recognize. You get stuck in it, the muck of your love: bound, immobilized by the whir of it, so that it spirals around every gesture, every move that you make, invisible to the human eye but keenly felt by the twinge of your muscles as you go about your daily life, gasping against the pressure in your lungs. It infiltrates your deepest breaths and filters its way into your veins until it cycles your insides, until all you are is love, living and breathing the emotion so keenly felt in every second of your existence. It moves through your system like glucose, like cellular respiration, becoming your lifeline until the moment of sweet release when its gone. Thats the funny thing about skinny lovelove that is thin, formless, like liquid. Its powerful in that its slippery, fluid. It spreads quickly over your skin, absorbs into its layers like tattoo ink, into your bloodstream like water. It revitalizes, cooling your throat and refreshing your tongue. But thats all it is, a refreshment: its got no skin, no bones, no real vitamins or proteins with which to nourish itself. Nothing to digest at the end of a long day. No solid foundation to stand on when spilt on the earth. Mix it with oil, mix it with plaster, mix it with concrete and it might actually form a shape, a type of permanence against the elements. So that when arguments start flying, when words are thrown around, when things start heating up, it remains cool. So that it doesnt evaporate as mist under the midday sun. On Storytelling And it was in that pristine moment that I understood. That the story of Tom and I that I had been writing in my head was merely a microcosm of a larger event, already taken place. That it had begun before I had even stepped foot into his life, his stage. That the blip that was him and me really belonged to the story of him and her, and that I was merely playing a minor role in what might be a larger, sweeping epic of a love story. And that was when I realized that all of it, these three years, none of it might matter, because what was three years in the face of seven? A small clip in the span of a lifetime? And so I resolved to diminish my story arc on my own, before the pain of it broke me into pieces. When I was younger I used to believe that a story had to be executed a certain way. There needed to be a beginning, middle, and end. A certain type of denouement was required to gratify the reader, followed by a concise, happy ending. Now I realize that there are stories of all shapes and sizes, and not only that, but stories interloping elaborately with others... that our stories permeate with the decisions that we make... that they interweave in and out of line like pieces of a rope, twisting together. Overtime, fibers start pulling off and shredding, and those are the stories that are resolved quicklylittle spurts of life that spark up and fizzle out and leave you... but at the very end of the rope remains a single fiber, wrapped and protected by all the othersthe story that runs to the very end of your life. But because it lies at the core, hidden by the others, you don't know what it will be, what it will look like, who will be at the end of it, not until it's already over.

On Letting Go of Fear As she lay, mind pounding, in strewn fetal position, the magnitude of everything began to envelop her like the blankets roped around that lofted cage. She felt that the ceiling, comfortable raised seven inches with the help of her fathers chainsaw was now falling again, creating a pressure that sought every nook and cranny, rupturing the space between her left ear and the floral mattress. The dark and twisty slivers of her psyche were emerging once again: a slow and dangerous macabre the crescendoed like small creatures from a Tim Burton film, budding within a graveyard of past doubts and fears. Her mind flitted to an old, black habit, and her taste buds sweater for sweets, but she knew it wasnt the way to calm the acid in her stomach, and she didnt want to regress now that she had come so far (almost a year in the making!) Besides, it was like the lyrics of that song from her childhood (the one she had rewound and replayeddeterminedly parked three feet in front of the television screen in order to catch every beatand now found similar comfort in hearing): heart, dont fail me now! Courage, dont desert me! Dont turn back now that were here As nave a fairytale she might currently be living, it was at least one she had written for herself. And if you didnt believe in your own story, then who else would? So she threw back Doubt and Fear with the covers and climbed determinedly down from her bed, pausing in her stride only to grab keys from amongst the clusterfuck of life grown in her room. They were as cool in her grip as the wind that burst through open doors, warming her in the pink and orange glow that teachers liked to call the magic hour but seemed to her the purest fairy dust. As she sat cross-legged, listening to the world, it occurred to her that she might even sleep soundly tonight, without aid of pills or whispered voices, and the remaining haunts shriveled against her unwavering faith that Hope would come around againif not in the form of its earlier envoy, then through a will of her own making. On Finding Your Way It ended in December. She was alone again. It felt different, this time. It occurred to her as she rode the train back home that she didnt really feel alone. Not here in this city, amongst the breadth and depth of faces around her, amongst the lights and colors and the inexplicable lure of powerfully

reflective buildings. They winked at her as she rode past, surprisingly warm against the backdrop of the night sky. Downtown seemed friendliest at night. She thought about those long walks in high school, lost in awe at the bright bauble in the trees, the people shuffling in and out of bars at night, the chilling serenity of these streets, and the exhilarating hope she inhaled from their immensity. The quiet dignity of the strangers passing by. The strange security she felt in her anonymity within the living, breathing organism of the crowd. She thought about her dingy apartment in Oakland, their belongings tetrised between dimly lit walls, and that beautiful backyard, camping out underneath the stars eating cheezits and crackers. Smoking cigarettes as they took turns reading aloud David Sedaris and exchanging anecdotes about families. Like a waking dream. And the thing about dreams was, that they all had to end eventually. It was the chill of the city that woke her. The feel of mist on her face as she made her way through the late night fog. The last bus was delayed. And she was too restless to wait. The frayed ends of her scarf trailed up in the air behind her as she walked home. SHORT STORY: Threes A Crowd Marnie hadn't worn contacts since she was about fifteen years old. The last time she had slipped a pair onto her eyes was for the sake of her junior prom, in which she had gotten a piece of confetti stuck to the small piece of latex on the dance floor and in the process of pulling it out, ripped it and been forced to spend the rest of the night squinting out of her left eye like some disadvantaged pirate. For senior prom she had gone in her cat-eye rimmed glasses, her make-up shimmering beneath the frames like two portraits elaborately painted and hung daintily about her small pointed nose. With plastic accents around her eyes, she didn't even need to wear mascara. But tonight, as she peeled the lid off of the left piece and leaned in towards the mirror to place it gently atop her eye, she knew that there was little chance of such a fiasco taking place. The ballet was a dignified event, which required dignified behavior, quite unlike the tomfoolery that went on at high school dances. They had come through her mailbox this morning, slipped in with the usual grocery store discount clippings in a neat silver box: a delicate pair of silver opera glasses with an envelop enclosing a ticket to the San Francisco Ballets opening premiere of Eugene Onegin at 7:00 sharp. Marnie was both excited and bemused. After all, with Box Center seats, did one need opera glasses? And how would she be able to use them, atop her old cat-eye frames? But when Tom designed a night out, she knew, he meant business, and so she picked up a prescription set of contacts from the optometrist that very afternoon and resolved to put them in.

She had just finished putting on her make-up when her cell phone rang. But it was only 4:00. Thinking it was Tom, with perhaps yet another surprise for the night, she flipped it open and held the receiver up to her ear. Hello? Its me. She cringed. Leonard, I thought I told you not to call me anymore. I know, Marnie, but Ive just been thinking Leonard, she said, pacing the bathroom in her heels, and the black velvet dress she had picked up from the dry cleaners, weve been through this before. I just dont want the same things as you. You need to respect that and leave me alone. I cant stop thinking Youre going to have to. Do you remember that night in the park, when I took you to No. END CALL. Marnie sighed. She would have to start checking her caller ID from now on, until he calmed down. Be compassionate, she told herself, its only been two weeks since you ended it. And yet, rang a voice in the back of her head, if he doesnt get the picture soon enough hes going to end up with some kind of restraining order. She knew that she should feel badly for Leonard. Poor, soft, gooey Leonard with his big puppy dog eyes and the tragic look on his face when she told him that she didnt want to see him anymore, but she was getting frustrated with the constant barrage of phone calls that came every couple of daysin frenetic spurts like a sprinter at a marathonand the emails, and texts, and instant messages... It was her fault, and she knew that. She knew she shouldnt have let the charade carry on for so long, shouldve ended it the moment he professed his undying love for her, but she liked getting free cappuccinos every Thursday morning and talking to someone about literature. She loved Leonard like a friend, even if that line of friendship had been somewhat blurred by late-night sleepovers and innocuous make-out sessions in the back of his car. The phone rang again. Quickly, she flipped it open and shut. No more, Leonard, she muttered, stepping out of the bathroom and into the hallway the house, her shoes making a dull thud with each step. She slipped them off, standing 53 in her sheer stockinged feet. She checked the time. 4:23. Her ride wouldnt arrive for another hour and a half. Walking into her room, she sat down on her bed, swinging her feet along its sides. She checked the phone again to read the missed call notice, expecting to see LEONARD BUTTITA on the screen. Instead, it read DAVID CAMPBELL.

Marnie gasped. Dave. She hadnt heard from him in weeks, not since she had given him back his copy of The Wasteland with that note inside of it. Her hands were sweaty as she gripped the phone. She had thought, having heard no reply from him that he had intended to cut ties. She had spent her resulting days in a blur, grieving. But perhaps he just needed some time. She tossed the phone back and forth between her two hands, contemplating her temptation to return his call. 4:47. Another hour until Tom. Slowly, reverently, she chose CALL. It rang once, twice, three times... Hello? Hi! Its Marnie. You called me? Oh yeah, he sounded distant, as though he was in a faraway place with little reception. Or perhaps, she considered; that was just the space in his heart. Im sorry, it mustve been a pocket dial. Im in Yosemite right now, and I cant really talk because Ill probably lose the signal at any moment. Oh, okay. Marnie scratched her side of her face, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice, like a sudden drop of cold water. Yeah, listen. Ill call you when I get back. ...We probably have some things to discuss. So hes read the letter. Yes absolutely. HaveagoodtimeIlltalktoyousoon. She hung up before he could reply, feeling cold and wet, like a pet left out in the rain. 5:00. Marnie got up from the bed and walked resolutely out of the room. She headed down the stairs to the first floor and into the living room in quest of the piano. Opening it, she sat down on the stool and began to play. Arabesque No. 1 by Debussy. The melody sprang forth from her fingers in their warming familiarity, the echo of the pedal creating a volume of sound around her. A safe haven. The taxi arrived at 6:08. She got into it in her long wool coat, her phone stashed in a small clutch at her side. It zoomed from outside of her house in the outer sunset and through the highway past Golden Gate Park, heading downtown. The sky that night glowed a creamy pink and blue, and the lights of the city blinked back at her as she passed. It was early January, and many of the Victorians along the park had yet to take down their Christmas lights, in result they added to the mixture an iridescent sprinkle of color. She watched all this through the thin layer of frost on the vehicles windows, receding into the balmy layers of her coat. Its a little cold, she thought, to be going to Yosemite. But Dave was enamored with nature, and tried to take trips into the wild as often as he could.

As the car pulled up alongside the Classical architecture of the citys civic center, she saw from a distance that Tom was waiting for her on the steps of the War Memorial Opera House, holding a single red rose. He was pacing back and forth, a small figure in a large overcoat, undoubtedly covering a sleek suit and tie. In the seven months that they had known each other, she had never seen him look quite so anxious. Sweeping the fragments of Dave from her mind, she exited the taxi, stepping carefully so as not to stumble and trip on the pavement. As a fresh twenty-two year old, she had not quite gotten used to stalking the world in dress shoes. But Tom didnt know that. Not of her age, or her inexperience, and she believed that she had hidden this assiduously well from the day they met, telling tall tales over glasses of Rosette about her alma matter in Poughkeepsie, New York, her work in the inner-citys public schools, her plans for a Masters in Secondary Education. Neither Tom, nor Leonard, for that matter, knew the truth, that she had barely finished her undergraduate degree on the east coast, and was working not as a teacher, but as a shelver of books at the San Francisco Public Library, picking up early morning shifts at West Portal Bakery. She had never told Tom, or Leonard, about her abrupt leave of absence from her studies in Medieval History, about her fathers yearlong stay in the general hospital. But she had told Dave, whom she had met working the reception desk at the Parkside branch on the very first day of her new job. She had spilled the beans over long hours in the back room, sorting through copies of mystery novels and during coffee breaks on the corner street across from Walgreens. Steady Dave, with whom she feared she was falling in love, in spite of his menial job as a library clerk and her own crisis as a young adult run from society. "You look beautiful," Tom said, as she made her way up the steps towards him. He extended her his arm. "Did you get the glasses?" "Oh no," she groaned, "I forgot them at home. And what a pity, since I put on contacts especially for--" "You look beautiful," was all he said. "Forget the glasses, our seats are close enough." "It was a wonderful gesture," she agreed, taking gentle hold of his arm. "And Box Center! However did you manage?" He winked. "I have my ways." Tom was a junior associate at Bain and Clemmett, a small but prestigious law firm located downtown. They had met almost a year ago at a coffee shop in North Beach, and bonded over a discussion of the book she had been perusing on Gothic cathedrals. He had been adamant in his pursuit of her, and Marnie had been flattered. Lately they had been seeing each other once a week for a night on the town, all expenses paid by him or his company's credit card. She adored his sharp suits and white collared shirts. He was, of course, the type of man she'd always dreamed of meeting. The only problem was, she was not yet his type of girl.

They wandered into the opera house with the crowd of elegantly dressed people, her arm in his. On the way to their box on the second floor, Tom picked up two glasses of champagne. They found their way into a private room with its own private entrance: an elegant space with just four seats set widely apart. Like our own little foyer, Marnie thought. How charming. "And supper afterwards? What do you think?" He gestured towards the grand interior, the rows of red seats underneath the stage. Marnie looked out from their row, floating in the middle of seats in the opera house. They were just above the orchestra on the ground floor, and in direct line of sight of the stage. "It's perfect," she replied, beaming up at him. "And supper sounds perfect." And you're perfect, she thought, her thoughts turning dismal. If only you knew... The curtains were rising, revealing an elaborate stage scene: guests at a party and a young ingnue among them. Tatiana, a dancer moving characteristically in a soft, white dress. Soon arrived Onegin, the elegant stranger with whom she falls in love, prancing like a proud peacock. Marnie sank back into her seat, the velvet of her dress crinkling along her waist. Dont slouch, she thought to herself, but she couldnt help it. She was drifting away from the scene into the crevices of her own memory, and the story in her mind was much more enticing. They were at the beach, the waves of the ocean rushing back and forth towards them as they strolled side by side, stepping in and out of the sandy pits. If you could have anything in this world, he was saying, to make you happy, what would it be? He was about a foot taller than her, and his voice carried down towards her ear like a wisp of smoke, rising out of his chest where her head measured against him. Marnie imagined that she could hear his insides churning along with the beat of his heart. Well, she said, watching a mass of foam run past them like a ghost in the dark, I suppose the obvious one would be my father. Id want to see him recover. And not just survive, like the doctors are saying, but really get well, a hundred percent. From the corner of her eye she could see him nod imperceptibly. Yes, came the voice again, But what about for you? She thought for a moment. Her thesis about religious pilgrimages came to mind. Graduation, a well-paying job in the city; fancy restaurants, fashionable dresses and tall

shoes... and thenId like to write mystery novels. He laughed, no doubt thinking back to their afternoon in the archives, sorting through old volumes of Nancy Drew. No, really, she explained, or something like that. I want what you want, which I suppose is to leave your name on something. I mean she ventured softly, Isnt that why you write? She meant his poems, and his degree in Creative Writing. Dave didnt say anything for a long time. Instead, he pulled back the end of his sleeve and reached for her hand. It was small and cold in his, and the gesture brought a rush of heat up and down her body. I dont know why I write, he finally answered. Come on, lets go. Scene two. The stage was dressed like the interior of a bedroom. Tatiana whirled across the stage, dancing an imaginary waltz with the object of her love. Tom reached for Marnies hand from where it was gripping the armrest and held it in his lap. She smiled tightly. Are you hungry? he asked. Dave lived in a basement apartment that opened to the world in the form of a garage door. As it clanked shut, Marnie took in the battered cloth couch, the clusterfuck of belongings strewn about the cement floor: shoes, a bike helmet, a pair of skis, a Frisbee... This serves as the living room, he explained. The kitchen, he gestured directly across the way, is back there. And yes, he smiled, noting the look of slight disbelief on her face, it is a real kitchen. She laughed, and then pondered her answer to his question. It was late, nearing 3:00. Do you have any fruit? Some bananas, I think. And cereal and milk, if youre interested. Bananas sound wonderful. She stepped over the plethora of random belongings and followed him into the room. Is that your phone ringing? They were nearing the end of Act I, Tatiana still in the mores of deepest longing. Meanwhile, a small buzzing sound was emitting from Marnies coat pocket.

Oh yes, sorry. She took it out, looking at the outer screen. LEONARD BUTTITA. She hung up. Who was it? Tom whispered. Unknown number, she lied softly. The main character was now delivering a passionate love letter to Onegin through her nurse. How nave, she thought, blushing at her own error reflected onstage. Idiot girl. His kitchen was large and well furnished, for such a tiny dwelling. They sat across from each other while he watched her eat. She peeled the fruit and broke it into small bits with her hands before placing them into her mouth, feeling awkwardly bare under his gaze. As though he could sense this, he moved into the seat next to her. The warming curve of his figure directed towards her melted away her insecurities. You eat slow, he chided softly. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, like they were forming a secret with the open and close of his lids. Can you even finish that banana? She blushed and continued to chew slowly. He was looking down at her with what felt like glowing adoration, as though she were a newborn child. She had noted this in the letter. Basking in the luxury of your esteem, I could sense unknown wounds healing. If only you knew how much it saved me to lie there in your arms that night... Intermission. Tom got up from his seat and stretched himself out, reaching 510 atop the soles of his shoes. Marnie admired his sturdy physique as he paced inside their box. He was built a little like the dancer who played Onegin, bulky, strong and confident in his strides. Any more to drink? he asked, gesturing towards the half-drunken champagne glasses now sitting on the carpeted floor. She shook her head. Within her daze, she already felt intoxicated. Tom came towards her and bent down to kiss her on top of her forehead. "Lovely girl," he murmured. Marnie bent her head in supplication. This was how he normally displayed affection, she learned. In all the time that they'd been seeing each other, they had not once properly kissed. Tom was devoutly religious, and approached relationships in what one could view as an almost archaic, orthodox manner. Dave and Marnie hadn't kissed either. But they had come close. Marnie thought back to that night, in which she had slept in next to him in his bed.

They were lying side by side, facing each other under the covers, their faces mere inches apart on the pillows. He had offered her a space in his bed because it was too late to take the bus home from his place on 44th and Moraga. She supposed she could've called a taxi, but secretly she preferred this alternative better. "How long has it been since you left?" He was asking her about college. "Almost two years now, since last March." "And they just let you leave, in the middle of the semester like that?" "I withdrew, it was within my power to." "Why didn't you finish out the semester?" "I was too worried and frightened about Dad. It wouldn't have gone well, regardless. The news hit me hard, and I couldn't think about anything else. I knew I had to come back to be with him." "And now?" The question was gentle, a small puff of air against her nose and eyelashes. She opened her eyes, which she had closed in her lethargy, now to look at him. Tom's eyes were brown, hidden in shadows under the fierce furrow of his brows. Leonard's eyes were a soft, watery blue. But Dave's were a grassy green, with specks of brown around the irises. His hair erupted in a mass of orange curls on the top of his head, and settled on top of the pillow next to her in soft waves, about twelve inches long. Normally, when they were at work, he pulled it back into a small ponytail. The same strands of orange crept up from the V-neck shirt that he was wearing, rising and falling with every breath. She longed to inch closer, to place her head on top of his chest, but she didn't dare. She was always too meek in her actions around him. "I'm not ready to leave yet," she confessed. "I know that the chemotherapy is working, but I'm afraid, still. Every time I visit him he looks better and better, but sometimes I fear that I'm only just imagining it. That the moment I turn my back, he'll slip back into that weakened state, and start fading away." "You can't spend your life like this forever," Dave whispered. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her seriously. "I can sense that you're running from something... maybe your own future? Tell me the truth, what else is wrong?" The future. Lately Tom had been talking incessantly about it. "When you finish your Masters," he said at dinner one night, "we should take a trip together back to my hometown in Virginia. You could meet my parents."

Marnie had choked slightly on the piece of ravioli she was chewing. She grabbed the cloth napkin from her lap and quickly wiped her mouth. "We could do that," she murmured evasively. According to her fairytale, she had only three semesters left to go in her Master's program, and would be looking for teaching jobs full-time soon. In this story she had been working as a teaching assistant at one of the city's middle schools for almost a year. "Do they know about me?" She asked nervously, "your parents?" "I've told them anything and everything about how wonderful you are. That I've finally found someone." Marnie reached for her drink. She took the wine in big gulps, avoiding his gaze. "Oh no," the words slipped out of her mouth, "you've found someone." Tom laughed. "Don't worry, darling. They'll love you." He was staring at her intently, as though he wanted to say more. Please don't, she pleaded in the back of her mind. Please don't say it. It was growing too hot in the restaurant; the flames of the candles were bursting into fireworks before her eyes. Tom reached across the table and covered her free hand in his own. He picked it up, stroking the back of it with her fingers. Her face was on fire. Her entire body would soon be engulfed in the inferno of her lies. She placed her glass down and pulled her hand out of his, fanning herself with it. "Excuse me for a moment. I need to use the restroom." Do you really see yourself with someone like him? Or are you just playing a part?" Its the sort of part that I've always dreamed that I'd play," she admitted. Its like dressup. You imagine yourself as the type of person you'd like to be." "Except that it's a lie." "It's a lie for now," she countered. She sank back into the covers, cowering from the judgment in his eyes. "So you do want to become a teacher one day." Yes. A teacher. Someone who makes a meaningful contribution to society. Not some kid who works some crummy menial job at the public library, or gets up at four in the morning to organize loaves of bread." She winced as she said this, remembering that Dave was in a situation not unlike her own.

No offense taken, he muttered under his breath, turning away from her to face the ceiling just the same. "Dave..." "Well if that life is so important to you, then why dont you just go back to Poughkeepsie and finish what you started? Tell Prince Charming the truth, I'm sure he'd forgive you. And then make your story a reality. Follow through--I'm sure he'd wait for you." "I don't want to talk about this anymore. You know I can't leave my dad right now." "Marnie, the doctors say he's getting better. You can't use that excuse forever." A knot was forming in her throat. "They say that now," she said, "but you weren't there from in the beginning. You didn't see him after his surgery, strapped to that monitor like some poor sick animal." The memory of it brought a spurred a tightening feeling in her chest: those first few months when she sat vigilantly by his hospital bed, dazedly watching television and flipping through magazine articles, praying for a miracle.. Dave sat up, reaching for her. He extended his arm, pulling her up into the crook of it. She fell against his chest as he enfolded her, stroking her hair with his hand. Her chin found its resting place in the space between his shoulder, and she let out a gasp, beginning to sob. He let her cry, and remained silent as noises of exasperation, pain, relief sprang from her lips. Soon his shoulder was soaked with her tears, but if he noticed this, he didn't pull away. "It's okay," he whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "It's okay, I'm here." She sniffed, pulling away to wipe her eyes with her sleeve. Yes you are, she thought. Theres another reason I cant get myself to leave yet. The curtains had just begun to lift for Act II when her phone began to vibrate again. She sprang up from her seat and stomped outside, getting ready to give Leonard a final piece of her mind. "This is the last time--" she began furiously, but she was interrupted on the line by a woman's voice. "Miss Hancock? This is Judy, your father's doctor. I'd advise you to come in tonight. Your father needs an urgent surgery and we wanted to notify you so that you'd be able to see him before it takes place. He's..." "He's what?" She breathed frantically into the receiver. "His liver is failing. We need to do a blood transfusion. In fact, what type are you?"

"I don't know." She'd never been tested. "Well, I'd suggest you come in as soon as possible, we're going to proceed in a couple of hours." "Absolutely," she said firmly. "I'll leave right now." The orchestra was playing a soft Pas De Deux as she walked back into the tiny room, stumbling in her heels on the carpet. "Tom, I have to go. It's my father. I'll explain later." "Do you want me to come with you?" He asked, taking out his cell phone to call a cab. "What's wrong?" "He's sick," she explained, her palms sweaty as she grabbed her coat from the back of her seat and picked up her clutch. "It's an emergency at the hospital." "I'll come with you." "No, stay, enjoy the performance, you paid for it." "No, darling, I'm coming. Hello?" It was the taxi company. "Yes, the War Memorial Opera House. Come as soon as you can. Thanks." They waited outside on the steps. It was past nightfall, and the city gleamed before them in baubles of lights. They stood a short distance away from each other; each one huddled in the warmth of their coat. "You never told me that your father had cancer." There was hurt laced into the volume of his voice. "No, I never did." "Why didn't you tell me?" He turned to face her, an inscrutable look on his face. "Tom, there are a lot of things about me that I haven't told you," she said resignedly. "But you'll find them all out tonight." The transfusion took place in a whir of needles and hospital machinery. O negative: Marnie was a perfect match. Now they were now in the waiting room, Marnie cupping her face in her hands, her elbows propped on her lap. She felt drained, emotionally exhausted from the anxiety of the taxi ride, the rush to the emergency room, the piles of

paperwork, and the surgery that was now taking place. Her phone had been buzzing all night, but she left it alone. Leonard, Dave, the bakery, she didn't care who it was anymore. Tom was pacing again, his large woolen coat shifting back and forth in front of her in a thick blur as she tried to tune out the clack of his shoes on the sterile floor. He was speaking in harsh tones, but the corner edges of each word fell apart as they reached her ear, and all she deduced were the varying intonations of his voice. She could tell that he was angry. Ignoring his rant, she reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out the small plastic device, now wondrously silent. She flipped it open, entering a well-memorized number, and held it close to her ear. "Hello, you've reached David Campbell... I'm not here to take your call right now, but leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can." Yosemite, she thought wearily to herself. Of all places. "You can go now," she said to the prancing peacock in front of her. "Yes," he articulated, finally coming to a halt. "And I won't be coming back." "I wouldn't expect any less," she disclosed. "You're a terrible woman," he continued. "Not even a woman--a child! I've been wasting my time with an insolent child." "And now you know." The words came as a rush of relief, pouring over her tense shoulders like a cup of warm water. "Marnie," he said. The ache in his voice induced in her feelings of pity and remorse. "Why did you do this to me?" It was a good question. She let it run back and forth through her mind, laced in between the mechanics of her skull before an answer came stamping out. "Because," she informed herself, "I've been having a hard time growing up." She thought she saw a look of understanding cross his face, but it was soon covered by one of disdain. "I understand," he said shortly. "Well. Goodbye." He buttoned the top of his coat, turned abruptly away from her, and walked out through the paneled front doors. He was sleeping when she entered, his body laid solemnly atop the plush mattress,

covered with a layer of bare sheets. At the sound of her heels, she saw his face stir from his position on the pillow. His eyes flickered open. "Marnie," he father croaked. She walked across the room and towards the armchair next to the bed. Splayed on the seat was the open copy of Madame Bovary that Leonard had given her on her birthday. She picked it up, and placed it on the floor before sitting down in her usual position. "Hi Dad," she murmured softly. "How are you feeling?" "Right as rain." His wrinkled face broke into a smile. "Thanks for coming when you did." "Of course." "Sorry to spoil your night with Tom, I know you were excited." "The ballet is overrated." She looked at the IV in his right hand, running up into the plastic bag of fluid hung overhead. Drip, drip. "You look beautiful," he said, reaching with the same hand into the air towards her. "My beautiful girl." "Hardly." She knew that her make-up was smeared from the tears she produced in the car. "My beautiful girl, ever so popular. You've been playing the field quite a bit, I've noticed." "Dad..." "Any man would be lucky to have you," he said, adjusting himself to sit up against the pillows. "But I wonder," he turned to face her with a somber expression on his face, "if you haven't been selling yourself short." Marnie sank back against the leather seat. Now that she was no longer acting for Tom, she could slouch as much as she wanted. "How do you mean?" she asked curiously. "What I mean is that I've noticed you've forgotten a part of yourself lately. All of these fancy dinner dates, going out every other night... I didn't think that this was what you wanted, growing up." "I don't know what I want," Marnie said honestly. "I'm just--" lost, she admitted to herself. "I know." Her father sighed, his dark eyes, wrapped in a thin layer of wrinkles, bore into her own. "My situation has thrown you a bit off course, I'm afraid."

"That's not true," she protested, "I'm happy to be here with you." And I need to be. "Go back to New York. Stop sitting around in traffic. Go back and finish your honors thesis and then go do something you can be proud of." "You mean, you can be proud of," she murmured defiantly. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter, what I think in the end. Nor Tom, nor Dave, nor Leonard--yes, I know about Leonard, he called me last week." Her father chuckled softly at the appalled look on her face. "What matters is that you do what you want, that you follow your dream. One of these days I won't be a weight on you anymore, and then you'll see that you haven't built anything for yourself. You busy yourself with me, and these men... but the day will come when you might wish you'd made something of your own." "I can always go back to school," Marnie said defensively, "I'm young, there's still loads of time. I just want to be here with you while you're still--" Alive. The word stomped across the features of her face, pricking tears in her eyes. "I know." He leaned back into the bed, closing his eyes. His hand still hovered in the air towards her. She reached forward and took it in both her own. "Go back to New York," he said again, "go live your life. Go achieve the impossible dream. Go leave your name on something." "I will," she promised, feeling a rush of confusion and uncertainty. "I know that I will." He nodded, and didnt say anymore. Soon he had fallen asleep. Marnie placed his hand gently on top of his chest, and adjusted the blankets, tucking them in under his face. She then picked up Madame Bovary from where it stretched on the floor and began again on the page she had left it: "At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes on the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow." In the morning she went home, and found herself once again at the piano. As she played, she waited for that same bubble of fiery warmth to emit from the pedals, to surround her, but the clank of the keys now felt dissonant--foreign and cold. Pulling her hands away from the instrument, she got up from the seat and began to pace back and forth in the hallway, this time in her bare feet. She walked up the stairs to her room and stood in front of the full length mirror, observing herself in her black velvet dress, now noticeably

crinkled from sleep; the dark rings around her eyes from residue of make-up; the frazzled ends of her hair. She unzipped her dress and watched herself in her bra and underwear--a frail figure with skin stretched tight across her bones, translucent from lack of sun in the city's fog-strewn weather. She went to the bathroom and began a bath, running her hands underneath the faucet before slipping out of her underthings and sinking into it. The morning light was shining on the water, coruscating bright as it filtered in from a window high in the wall above. Marnie closed her eyes, thinking on her past year in this house, waking up alone to the sound of the railcar that ran past the houses of the Outer Sunset and down towards the beach. She thought about her mornings greeting regulars at the bakery, her afternoons sorting through dusty volumes at the library. She thought about Leonard and his collection of classical novels, of Tom and his love of fine wine. She thought about Dave and her letter, which she knew now with certainty that he was never going to answer. She thought about waking up in his bed alone after that night, the sheets on his side of the bed still warm and crinkled from the weight of his presence. She imagined that he had kissed her before she woke, because she felt in her sleep the brush of a pair of lips against her own. !Marnie let herself fall into the bath until her face was submerged entirely. The last vestiges of that kiss, that night, that embrace, sank out of her pores, her skin, her chapped lips, as she lay there underneath the water's surface. She reemerged, gasping for air, and grabbed the towel hanging on the wall beside her. Wrapping herself in it, she stepped out of the tub and out of the bathroom, water still dripping down her sides. Without bothering to dress, she went to her desk and turned on the computer, navigating with the mouse until she found herself on her school's website. She looked up the number to the admissions office and wrote it down on a Post-It, leaving it hanging on the corner of the screen. Then she went downstairs in search of her coat, left strewn on the side of the piano, and reached into its pocket for her phone. By the time she had found her way back upstairs, all except for her hair was dry. She dropped the towel, stepping out of it from where it fell on the floor and flipped open her phone, dialing the number she read from the small block of colored paper at her desk. She stood naked in the middle of the room, still warm from the waters of the bath, with her phone to her ear as she listened to the connecting dial. "Hello? Hi. I'm calling about enrolling for the fall semester. Yes, a returning student. ...Marnie Hancock."