They calmed down. They apologized. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other meant everything it needed to. With his eyes shut, Dave remembered Botticelli’s handsome fellows from The Mystical Nativity, reaching down from heaven, their own arms wrapped around fools like himself amidst little devils romping and hiding amongst the feet of men. As Botticelli illustrates it, the divine come to comfort the broken, the matters of their lives scattered about their feet.

She is a piece of the heavens laid upon my life. No; to say anyone is one of Botticelli’s divinities is an injustice to that person; we’re both just searching for angels to hold us.

Dave went into the kitchen to find something to make to eat; he wouldn’t leave the house again on Thanksgiving. The notion of leaving the house on Black Friday was also off the table. I should be with my family he thought as he stared into a pantry filled with odd cans. They need me. He looked at the white shelves in the fridge. I wish I could be there. I don’t want to work tomorrow; I’ll just have to suck it up. He forgot what he was doing and went into the living room where Elizabeth was almost done picking up.

“Have you heard from your Dad?” asked Dave.

“No.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

“No. Why bother? He’ll just tell me he’s busy.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“I can still feel bad for you, can’t I?”

“Yeah, I guess…”

Trying to make her feel better about her family is like putting duct tape on a burst pipe. Duct tape’s all I’ve got though. I wish I knew how to do more. I’ve caused so much trouble for her tonight. I’m so sorry. I wish I knew how to show it.

Dave stirred a pot of bowtie pasta. Farfalle… such a good word. Farfalle pasta will always be my favorite. Can’t think of a reason why. It just will be. I wish life were as simple and good as eating pasta. I guess it kind of is. Steam rose from the crest of the bubbling water. Dave stood alone in the kitchen.

“Wife!” he howled with a tone only a spouse could find endearing.

“Yes?”

“I love you,” he said. What else can I tell her? How else can I comfort her? Just keep cooking. Stop worrying about every little thing. It’s all just farfalle, man. Just farfalle. He reached in the freezer, pulled out a brown paper sack, and began opening up the old breakfast sandwiches he’d taken home from work some time ago, removing the sausage and the cheese from them. Camus stared up at him quietly, his little tail dancing back and forth, his eyes bright with anticipation. He licked his chops with all the wisdom of a dog.

Dave smiled at the dog and tossed him one of the egg patties. Camus munched and chewed now with the manners of a mutt, looking up for a grateful moment, then back down to keep chewing comfortably. Dave turned back to the pot of noodles. His thoughts turned back to the woman cleaning the living room, the one who always forgave and always forgot the worst parts of his humanity.

God; she’s a good reason to keep going, but I need more. I need a deeper understanding. Where can I look? You know, I should pray more. There’s value and comfort in reminding myself I’m not the most important thing in the world. There’s a fruitful meditation in just saying thanks for the little things.

Sometimes though, it feels as though the same thoughts which bring comfort are the same ones that feel so damning. Maybe, thoughts aren’t the answer. Yeah, maybe thinking isn’t really the heart of wisdom, after all, there’s more to being a person than the surface of my psyche. I don’t know, man; I wish I were an authority. I wish I could speak with conviction. I wish I were a Mozart. Just live and see, man. Learn to work and wait.

The pot boiled over. Dave blew on it, his gentle gust pressing back the violent froth like the gust of heaven taming the flames of hell. He turned down the eye. He closed his eyes and leaned back a little. He was tired. He wavered back and forth and considered how that felt. Everything was dark and mildly gone, like the moment before sleep. Keep going. Let’s see what happens. Learn to work and wait.

Dave poured the farfalle into the strainer precariously balanced somehow between two sinks full of dishes. He realized he should have loaded the dishwasher while the noodles were boiling. Oh well. He shook the strainer a bit to get the last bits of water out that he could.

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They didn’t have any pasta sauce, but they did have sausage patties and slices of cheddar cheese from pre-made breakfast sandwiches. There was a bag of ‘Mexican’ shredded cheese sitting in the fridge. He mixed these together in a faded red pot with a dollar store plastic spoon that bent under the weight of the pasta. The dog stared, this time with foolish anticipation, which differs little from doggy wisdom.

The noodles clung to each other in the sticky mess, little strings of gold lacing between them. My brain feels like this pot; it’s just this big mess of wonderful things that I don’t know what I’m doing with. I like these things, but don’t expect anyone else to. Don’t see why anyone else would. It’s just a mess of odds and ends. It needs some tomatoes…

He procured the last two bowls from the cabinet. Good thing these are clean. He scooped out an unhealthy but filling serving into each bowl and exited the kitchen.

They ate. They laughed. They watched Frasier and Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and they sank into the bog of a hazy evening.

Dave looked at the paintings hanging on the walls. Those landscapes were joyful hours spent with his wife. They were snapshots of scenes that had taken place on stage, in the living room. To him they were meadows of joy and tenderness, cloudy frustrations cast off from the heart, and cliffs measuring the elusive depth of memories.

They were just set pieces to anyone who hadn’t seen the previous act; the thought approached Dave like a hooded man on a dark street. Because they only mean something to us, do they objectively mean nothing at all? He ran from the hooded man. Reality wanted to swallow, smother, and strangle him. He looked to the black walls of the theatre: I’m afraid. Is this all there is? I’ve got to get out of here!

Elizabeth factored into his decision to stay in that dark theatre, but she, like him, was just another member of the audience or another small actor on a large stage, and even these set pieces couldn’t prove to him otherwise. I still can’t figure why I’m in the theatre to begin with.

It was long past dark outside. The wonderful, crisp chill of late autumn seeped into the duplex. Elizabeth complained, but Dave relished the cool comfort. He sleepily dismissed her whining.

Camus loudly chewed on a kine shin bone, smacking and crunching. Dave called him into the kitchen and closed the gate for the night. Camus reached up to the doggy gate with his front paws, his dark eyes staring longingly at his master. Dave grabbed the shin bone and handed it to the dog, who graciously grabbed it with his mouth, then turned and went to lay down.

The couple climbed the dim stairs to their bedroom, nearly submerged now in that hazy bog, the swampy Thanksgiving evening that had turned to the wee hours of Black Friday. But, for all his exhaustion, Dave couldn’t sleep. Elizabeth went out like a candle, snuffed by the night. A smoky snore slipped from her face.

Dave got up and went to the shower; he forgot he needed to do that. His hair was still greasy and filled with little knots of fructose. Even more syrups and sauces speckled his arms now. His armpits reeked now like two dead animals. He was gross all-over and knew it.

He hoped a flash between hot and cold water might make him feel a little more sleepy. He’d read that somewhere; a hot and cold shower can put a man to sleep like rocking a baby in a crib. He remembered how he wavered back and forth over the boiling water and realized he was doing it again under the spout of warm water.

He stepped out of the shower feeling a little fresher and a lot damper. Dave scrubbed his hair as dry as it might get; he sighed when he noticed four of his hairs wrapped in the towel fibers. It might be going slowly, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going. Wish I could renew my lease. Oh well, I don’t look like Alain de Botton yet.

Dave brushed his teeth, spat, and rinsed the blood and toothpaste down the sink. I should floss more. He stepped out into the cold hallway then into the bedroom. He laid himself down, still a little damp. Dave looked up into the darkness, a black ceiling looming overhead.

If I smoked I’d have a cigarette, he thought. I feel like I just need to think. I just need to figure this out. I need to come up with a reason to get out of bed tomorrow. Maybe I’m just spoiled. Maybe I’m just soft and ungrateful. I feel better than I did earlier. I feel better than I did yesterday. I hope I don’t feel worse tomorrow.

What time is? It’s 4am. You’d think it’d be darker outside. It never gets as dark as I imagine it should. The sun is already coming up, slowly. Just because it’s slow doesn’t mean it’s not happening. I hope I don’t feel worse today.

Well, if I can’t sleep, I may as well write:

Gleamed from the Dancer ~ The Dancer

What are you trying to say?

What are you trying to say?

Don’t say it.

Mean it.

Rhymes in schemes,

Breaks, and meter.

Alliteration is my favored

occupation.

What do you see when you see me?

I’m imagery.

I mean:

symbolism.

What are you trying to say?

What are the words trying to say?

Can they tell

us anything?

Mute slaves or wild dancers?

Turn the page to see.

I glow faintly in the night,

snuffed in the earth

and chased by wolves

that wish to know me.

They see me, but

seeing isn’t all there is.

Perception goes deep into the brain.

They want the lightning to

see in the dark of the night

to see through

the tangles beyond their

tribal village.

We left the village long ago,

and built the City in the tangles

of the dark land beyond hope and reason.

You must go, wise warrior, outside

the City limits to seek

what will be

a chance to live again.

Return to the Garden,

my noble friend.