“Sing to me, Picasso,” I whispered. And he did. His own funny, lovely version of “My Spanish Guitar.”
_________________
by s smith
The collective rays of the September sun bear into her back and shoulders. It is an intense, deep-heat treatment. Slowly her
anger at Jack flows out of her, down her brown arms, into her fingers, and into the deeper brown of the earth. On hands and
knees she labors, using the small shovel to turn the dirt. The smell of earth is like fresh-cut, raw potatoes. Subtle and
sustaining. It is aromatherapy and the sun is the masseuse.
Small beads of sweat, like delicate pinpricks, spring across her forehead and along her top lip. Short breaths softly escape
through her slightly parted lips each time she bends, stretches, and digs. With each release of breath goes another angry
thought: Jack’s words urging her to sell her grandmother’s home; Jack’s smug assurance playing along the corners of his mouth
when he smiles. He is so sure that she will leave this place and live a life of urban bondage.
She develops a comfortable rhythm—bend, stretch, dig—planting bulbs of narcissus, jonquil, and gladiolus. She continues a
rhythm developed by her grandmother, continued by her mother, and passed down to her. True, she and Jack do not live at this
house and have slowly allowed the four-hour drive to become more burdensome. But knowing that the place was there provided
a foundation for her. And she never misses a September planting her bulbs. She remembers the joy on Grandmother’s face as
the blooms and fragrance signaled the beginning of spring.
This year she has carefully prepared the soil, just as Grandmother showed her, adding just a touch of vermiculite so that
the right amount of moisture would succor the bulbs. So intent on the digging and careful planting, she jumps when she feels
a trickle along her side. She laughs as she realizes it is a rivulet of sweat.
Sitting back on her heels, she gently dabs the sweat on her brow by pressing the back of her forearm against her head. This
only spreads the sweat, however, since her forearm is also wet. She enjoys the sun massaging her scalp with its filament fingers.
She closes her eyes and silently blows out the last bit of tension she is holding. Sweat trickles down her back, slowly, like
fingers playing gently along her spine.
A minute turning of the soil draws her eyes toward the damp, cocoa-brown-colored dirt. A pink, questing head lifts from the
soil. Eyeless, it waves about before diving into a patch of dirt next to itself. She watches it as her sweat rolls down her
back and meanders down her cleavage. Her shirt begins to cling to her as if shrink-wrapped. The worm’s body, a rich magenta
muscle, smoothly enters the earth. It hardly disturbs the soil, she thinks. She wishes, just for a second, that her efforts
at gardening were so graceful.
Bending forward to continue with her planting, she pauses, not wanting to harm the worm or his mates. Funny that she had not
considered them before. She sees another pink head rise from the soil, twisting about. She does not know if it is the same
worm or a different one. Curious, she gingerly digs with her hands. The grains of dirt scrub her flesh with a gentle roughness.
Soon she feels a rolling movement against her palm and freezes. Looking carefully, she lifts the dirt and lets the earth sift
through her fingers. Two magenta bodies remain in her palm, coiling and twining together, seeking the soil. Their heads press
insistently into her palm. Their bodies turn and stroke her hand.
Fascinated, she watches them contract then expand, moving until they, like the earth, slide through her fingers back into
the fresh-turned dirt. What must it feel like, she thinks, to feel the soil all over your body? The worms writhe as if in
extended ecstasy. They ride the dirt, rolling and turning endlessly. Their questing heads search and search for the source
of their delight and they dive into the dirt with exuberance. In a minute they have sensuously wiggled their way back into
the earth.
Sweat trickles from her scalp and rolls down her neck and over her breasts. The fecund smell of soil wafts into her. The sun
has climbed higher. The crest of dirt shows dry, tan patches like an ocean shows whitecapped waves. The sweat travels down
her stomach. It feels cold against her skin. She licks her lips and tastes salt. She savors its flavor.
Sighing, she takes off her shoes, pushing each heel with her toes so that the shoes fly away from her and thud against an
uncultivated patch of ground. Careful to avoid the earth in which the worms have entered, she puts her feet into the cool
dirt. She wiggles her toes in the soil, enjoying the rough crunchiness.
The sound of muffled steps causes her to look up, squinting into the sunlight. Jack is just a dark silhouette against the
sky. They are frozen for one of those timeless seconds. Jack looking down at her, feet covered in the soil, and she looking
up at him, made faceless by the bright sun’s light. The quiet in the garden is like the hush of a cathedral. The sound of
birds and the buzz of insects seem to intensify the sanctity.
To her surprise, Jack bends and puts down a bucket and a gardening shovel. In two strides he is sitting opposite from her.
He begins to remove his shoes. She watches his hairy knuckles as his caramel-colored fingers loosen each lace. Once freed,
the yeasty smell of his feet mingles with the loamy scent of earth. He digs his toes into the soil and leans back, resting
the weight of his body on his hands. The black hairs on his toes are in stark contrast to the pale, ginger-colored skin on
his feet. His feet, obviously, have been hidden from the sun for some time.
The cooling dirt and the twittering of sparrows carry the weight of words, the need for words, away. Through the dirt, Jack’s
feet creep toward hers. Their toes touch. Jack’s foot rubs the gritty dirt against her instep. Sweat has sealed her blouse
tightly against her back, and her skin is suffocating. She pulls the blouse over her head and tosses it away.
Jack’s foot continues to massage hers with the rough dirt. He almost smiles as she throws her blouse away. Slowly his foot
works its way until it rests on her calf. He looks at her, waiting. Smiling, she leans toward him, as if to kiss, then gently
rubs her dirt-covered hands against his cheeks and over his neck. The dirt mixes with his sweat, creating muddy smears over
his skin.
“Umph!” he says. Picking up a handful of soil, he sprinkles it over the top of her head, as if it were baptismal water. It
tumbles over her face, onto her shoulders, down her chest, sticking to her sweaty skin.
Her response is to lie down and roll in the drying dirt. Over and over, back and forward, until she is dusty and muddy. His
laughter cascades over her like sunshine. Her mahogany flesh prickles with warmth. She sits up and leans toward him until
her face is resting in his lap. He smells of earth, and she sighs.
Lifting her face, Jack looks into her eyes. He smiles. With both hands filled with soil, he tenderly holds her face in his
hands. He kneads the soil into her cheeks. She presses her face into the scratching grains of dirt, eyes closed. Suddenly
she falls forward. She catches herself before she falls, palms digging into the dirt where Jack had lately been. Lithely he
stands above her, offering her a hand. He leads her to the garden hose, smiling.
The cold water causes her to breathe in quickly. It flows down her scalp and over her body. She begins to shiver in the warm
sunlight. Jack steps toward her, awkwardly holding the water hose, pressing it between their two bodies. It bubbles like a
fountain under their chins, held in place by his chest and her breasts. With a free hand, Jack unfastens her pants. Wet, they
fall heavily around her ankles. Water splashes her in the face as Jack struggles to pull his T-shirt over his head. The water
hose gets free and scatters iridescent drops around them. She helps him shimmy out of his pants. His boxers sag with the weight
of water. His member, languidly rigid, bobs against the wet cotton.
Picking up the lost hose, Jack turns and sprays her. Sputtering, she lunges at him, but he dances away, the hose again flying
and scattering water around the yard.
The sun shines warmly on the flower bulbs. They sit neatly in a tray, waiting to be immersed in dirt, where they may thrive
until spring calls their flowers forth. The water from the garden hose flows and creates a small lagoon. From inside the house
the sounds of quiet sighs and the patter of water hitting bathroom tiles mingle and add to the occasional chirps of birds
and the steady drone of insects.
_________________
by Eric Jerome Dickey
The sun was setting as the last of the golden-brown leaves fell from the trees. A few had refused to change from green to
rust colored, even though it was time for a new season. A mahogany leaf caught my attention as it was carried away by the
winds, blown out of my sight, beyond reach. I wondered if it had voluntarily fled its haven, or if some force had expelled
it. With closed eyes, I imagined where it might finally land as it pirouetted and fell three floors below.
Then there was a knock at my door. My heartbeat quickened, my palms so wet. She was here. I wiped my hands on my jeans, counted
to seven, opened the door, and she stood there in the dim lights of the hallway.
Her black hair in a bob with a hundred strands of premature gray adding salt to her cosmopolitan and conservative look. Her
dignified, schoolgirl smile actually widened when our eyes met; then it vanished, as if the memory of what had happened between
us had returned in full force.
I saw her, and then I was sixteen again, staring at the wonderment of a woman, my hormones out of control, making me realize
how much of a man I was, how much I was a primitive who had bowed down to social order, wanting to touch the breasts of a
woman, of that woman, to invade her mystery.
She whispered, “Never thought I’d see you again.”
Her hands were folded in front of her, as if she wanted me to see the wedding ring on her finger, drawing a thick line.
I asked, “You coming in?”
“You wanted to talk.”
“Yeah.”
“So talk.”
“You promised me that when things slowed down we’d get together, maybe meet at a coffeehouse, get a cup of cappuccino, and
talk, see if we could try again—”
“Things changed.”
“You married him.”
“Yeah. I did what was best for me.”
“And I had to read about it in
JET.
Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugged. My heart was in her hands, small hands that were slowly closing into a fist, and she shrugged like it was no
big deal.
She’d been married two weeks. A big diamond was on her finger.
She came in, didn’t take her coat off, strong body language that told me this would be a brief encounter, and drifted toward
the window.
She said, “It’s cold. Don’t think it’s ever been this cold in Palmdale.”
“Yeah. Ice was on the freeway. It’s a record low.”
Then a moment of silence as she watched the tree outside my window.
She said, “Only one leaf left. That’s weird.”
“Yeah. Weird.”
I moved next to her and we watched that leaf struggle to hold on.
I asked, “Are you happy?”
“On my honeymoon, I was in Maui.”
I made a
hmm
ing sound, the tune of jealousy and envy.
She went on: “You ever see the golden sunset in Maui? Ever watch the sun sink into an endless body of clear blue water?”
“No. As far as we ever went was a four-hour ride to Vegas.”
“Well, it’s life changing. You see it, the colors, the majesty, the hugeness; you feel so small, feel the power, experience
the tranquillity, and you know there’s a God.”
“Sure it’s not the mushrooms?”
“Hush.” She sighed and her smile turned upside down. “I was in beautiful Maui, a ring on my finger, a man who told me he loved
me more than anything, and in that moment, when contentment should’ve been the blanket that kept me warm, I was chilled by
my own restlessness.”
We watched the leaf for a little while, afraid to put our eyes on each other.
She whispered, “I need closure.”
“That closure have anything to do with me?”
She nodded. “Has everything to do with you.”
I nodded and smiled. “Sounds like that old song.”
“What song?”
“The one about—are you gonna stay with the man who loves you, or are you going back to the one you’re in love with?”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Unconditionally?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to want me to be happy?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to hug her. But she kept herself feet away, arms folded, closed off from my world, the world we used to share.
She chuckled. “I think about you, my stomach jumps, my coochie jumps; all kinds of things happen to my body. Today, knowing
that I was going to sneak away and see you, well, I went through two pairs of underwear today.”
“Is your coochie jumping now?”
She cleared her throat, looked at her watch, sighed again. “This is the only time you’ll ever see me. I came here because
I want you to respect my marriage.”
“Cut the bullshit. You came because you want to see me.”
“Stop calling my job. Don’t ask my parents about me. Set me free.”
“Setting you free will only make me a prisoner.”
“Love me like you say you do. Let me go. Please.”
All that mattered was what was in this room.
I moved into her space, unfolded her arms, put them around my shoulders, put my hands around her waist, my warm cheek against
hers.
She said, “Please, sweetie, don’t do this.”
The moment our flesh was reunited, I kissed her lips and her tongue eased inside my mouth. She quivered, moved her flesh closer
to mine. I closed my eyes, my breathing desperate as I held her so close that I couldn’t tell where she ended and I began.
My hands traced along her waist, found the snap at the top of her jeans, then the buttons below.