a papaya

This morning, I was wondering about the origin of the name papaya. Is it somehow tied to salmon? Fish eggs? The sea? The ripe fruit fell in half with little pressure on the knife. The seeds inside were nestled in pink, semi-elastic goo—a nest of fish eggs. Caviar. Capers. When there was a hole dug into each half, and those halves were quartered. The knife slid easily again, sliding along the curve of the fruit and peeling back the thin skin to show the pink flesh. It could have been covered in scales. It could have been packed on ice and put in the display between shrimp and scallops. I was afraid to smell the fruit, afraid that there could be anything familiar, salt-watery, cold-blooded about the

A domestic morning

A domestic morning. Our weekly shopping spree. This week, our produce was supplemented with Afro-Cuban music, belly dancers, Missouri Coalition for the environment and a woman talking about wind power. We enjoyed the little festival with our iced coffee from Kaldi’s. I was torn as I sipped it—they roast their own, sell their own, and make their own baristas into award winners. They served my the drink with great conversation, complimentary coffee grounds for the garden, in compostable corn cups. They give me no reason to hate them. But I wanted my coffee shop in Soulard, and now they are celebrating their newest shop, opening next month in Soulard’s East wing.

I thought of the plot Joe and I had spotted for our shop—a long warehouse, exposed brick and a garden to the West—this morning as I pulled produce from the crisper, readying the ingredients for our vegetable soup:

Courtesy of Soulard: 1 small cluster of broccoli, trimmed to small crowns • 2 medium red potatoes, and 1 medium yellow onion, sautéed together first; 1 large (I mean LARGE) carrot, sliced Lays®-thin
From the pantry: 1 bottle of Full Circle vegetable juice, 1 can Full Circle diced tomatoes, 1 can of green beans, home-canned zucchini from Joe’s grandma Mimi

By the time I was trimming the pineapple and sharing the two feet of counter space with Joe, I had forgotten our imagined coffee shop and began making the cleaning to-do list. I was surprised by the comfort I found in straightening our home. I wanted to do it well and make it comfortable, our own.

The perfection of this was slightly tainted when I flipped Joe’s sheets to flatten the bedding. A corner caught the fan and twisted it’s dangling chain around the light. “It’s okay,” I shout. “I’ve got it. It just sounded bad.”

“Hmm?” he said between oatmeal-and-banana filled teeth. He hadn’t heard.

The whole time, she was dancing

When she bought the tickets, Richard was not the least bit excited. He remembered their meeting, the party like so many parties, where she poured into his arms under the air clogged with electronic noise. She was most alive at these parties, her dark ponytail swinging in waves, creating a circle around her and leaving others to watch. He stood along the wall, waiting for the next pill-popper to overdose or thinking of ways to remove the highlighter from his shirt, shoes and eyebrows in the morning.
He came back to himself. How long had he been remembering, staring back at that scene and becoming bitter? Becky was still staring at him, eyes large and expectant. She was like a child. They would fill with tears and her lip would shrink to disappearing if he showed his disappointment. Ok, he would go. He would sit through another night of bass and synthesizer bouncing in his chest until he forgot which was the music and which was his heartbeat. He would go, but the girls? Yes, he understood that it was summer vacation, but it’s just not good for them—not that crowd.
He listened to her say this was not true. They would know which people were good and which to avoid on the way to the bathroom. They would know what the music felt like in their lungs, know what it is like to have it vibrate under their toenails. They would understand her and know why, sometimes, her eyes were not in the quiet den with them, but carried somewhere else where her thoughts wouldn’t be heard so easily by others.

Of course she had to have a t-shirt. The Crystal Method doesn’t just put out an album like artists today. This was a rare event. She had to document it, to show that she could be a new fan and appreciate the new tracks while her hands clasped tightly to their first CD, fingers dancing around the edges of the case at the thought of having it signed. She didn’t want to wear the t-shirt though. Richard held back his sigh. They didn’t have bags. What was he to do with it?
They entered the venue and followed Becky to a high, round table. Stage left. Straight shot. Not close to the pit of white tops and glow sticks; safe enough. Richard wore the new t-shirt draped around his shoulders like a cape. Or worse, he thought, like a prep-boy. He sat at his stool and waited. The girls sipped colas on stools next to him, unsure what tonight was about. There was something between their parents—some electricity that could spark and arch if the music hit a wrong note. This was not the Little Gaga concert they had requested, and they still didn’t fully understand why they were here.
Becky did not sit. Not through either opening act. Not when Crystal Method entered the stage. Not when the teenagers surrounded them dancing. Her eyes had gone somewhere else, somewhere deep in the middle of the glow sticks, where her hair would carve a circle around her as she danced and spun. But she was restrained. She stood, hands on Richard’s shoulders, and she bounced. She let the beats move her feet and shake her head. Her hair stayed close, resting on her back. The girls had this hair, neatly pulled back into ponytails. Richard thought about the neatness of it all and felt Becky’s dancing through the changing pressure of her hands on him.
It happened when the girls’ heads began to bop. When they stopped looking around to see who was watching. When the music began vibrating under their toenails, and they reached for their cameras, to prove to themselves in the morning that they had felt this way. He looked back at Becky, saw her hair still resting so close to her. As he had earlier that day, he remembered their meeting, the party like so many parties, where she poured into his arms under the air clogged with electronic noise. This time, he remembered not losing his heartbeat in the bass, but realizing that for Becky, they were the same thing. They had moved together in her circle on the floor. He had baptized of the music, blessed enough to be in Becky’s private circle, shrouded in her hair.
He grabbed the girls by the hands and moved from beneath Becky’s touch. As he walked to the stairs, she followed, unsure what she’d done, ready to cry. But when he could have turned to leave, he descended the stairs. He didn’t stop until the security guards halted his girls, on the edge of the glow-stick pit. Becky understood and followed. And with their hands grasping the railing in front of them, the eyes of the family dug deep into the pit of dancers, each carving their own space, dancing until their heartbeat was the music.

Richard and Becky looked at each other, knowing that tonight would be different. Tonight, they would have sex like that first night—not the first time, when the light was on and they moved mechanically toward each other. The moment after the lights dimmed, after they put the empty bottles of beer in the trashcan, while they looked into each other’s eyes and dug in deep, wanting fiercely and pulling close enough to the other to feel their pulse. Tonight, without the music, the rhythm of their pulsing would be the same.