"I get worried when I don't know where you are."

"I know how to take care of myself."

"I don't like it when you storm off like that. I worry."

"Fuck off, will you? I needed some space, some time to think.

"I made you some meatloaf."

"Thanks, babe. I love you, too."

The Princess and the Minotaur

"I used to think your standards were too high. Now..."

"What have you got against Bigfoot"

"That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, you keep setting up obstacles to getting what you want. It's not just Bigfoot, it's everything you do. The hair, the clothes, the lunchboxes for Christ's sake. You're 31. What are you doing?"

"How long have we been friends? And pull over there, yeah, on the left. No one's coming, so go ahead and cross it."

"It's double yellow. About twelve years, or is it 15? Yeah, it's been 15 years, 'cause we started hanging out after I ditched Julie. Make it fast, alright? And get me a coke!"

She took her hand off the door and half-turned in the seat. "It's a labyrinth. Think about it." She swung the door open, stepped out, and bent down, one hand resting on the half-rolled-down window. Her left hand pinched her skirt close to her knees against the wind. "There's change on the floor; get one out of the machine." She pushed the door shut and dodged the cars in the parking lot as she half ran to the gift shop.

Lee flicked aside the cds and empty Thirsty Thirty-Two cups looking for change. Seventy cents later he got out and made his way to the soda machine. He leaned against the machine, holding the icy bottle in his hand and squinted at the constant trickle of road-trippers crossing the lot. Is it really a get-away if you never get away from pavement. He wondered. And what is a labyrinth? Does she mean the lunchboxes? Why can't she be serious for a change? Guys don't like it when you're weird all the time. A little, that's fun, but man, when it won't shut off it's embarrassing.

"That was quick. Did you get it? Have some coke, it's still cold. Mmm."

[To be continued...]

Vortex

I knew he was the man for me when we spent four days together in a car touring California's Redwood Hwy. No vortex was too small for us, no chainsaw-carved redwood statues of Bigfoot and black bears too hokey. All the campgrounds were closed for the season so we slept on back roads and ate breakfast in greasy spoons. True love found off-season.

The New English

savory rosted sparagus shrimp

spacy pesto

[That's off the specials board at a restaurant I delivered to today.]

I'm pencilling in another skill on my character sheet: Mangle L1 10%. Because while driving to Target and trying to remember the word participle, I explained, "You know, to bring: brang, brung. Brung is the...?"

"The ebonics? It's the past participle, and it's brought."

"Are you sure? Really? I'll have to look it up in the Big Book of Words when we get home." Heh, they weren't in there. Just bring and brought. What do you know?

"Miss Marsha wants me to get the book."

I'm in a barber chair surrounded by querilous students; if one of the few adults in the building wants Marti to get me the book I am not about to argue.

Marti comes back cradling an oversized catalog of fashionable hairstyles in her skinny arms. "Look at these pictures and find the one that's closest to what you want. That way you and me is both on the same page. That's what Miss Marsha says." It's the same book I've seen in countless shops sharing table (or rack) space with Cosmo and Entertainment Weekly and American Salon. This one, though, is titled "Funk-ti-fied Hair Styles" and is as clearly unsuited for my straight, fine, white hair as the student's Caucasian mannequin heads are for the predominately black student body and clientele. But I figure Miss Marsha, who sounds like a police officer instructing you to put your hands on the steering wheel now, she knows something. And truthfully, I'm willing to let my amusement take me with the flow, so I start paging through sections. I mark a couple of pages with my fingers as Marti and I comment on the red-and-white mohawk and the false-eyelash plumes.

Miss Marsha works her way down the row of students and I show her the two disappointingly unfunktified styles I've chosen as being the closest to Mia Farrow's circa "Rosemary's Baby," an explanation I didn't even try on Marti. She shows Marti how to start and continues down the line. Marti tells me how she'd like to be in high school again. "You know when you in high school and all you think is, When I'm 18 I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do that. Well," she shakes her head. "I got $500 and all I'm thinking is Now I can buy some groceries. None of that 'I'm gonna buy me some clothes.' You got it good in high school but you just don't know." I smile because I'm thinking, Honey, wait until you're 40.

I get back to my car before Parking Enforcement does. I didn't think a cut would take six quarters' worth of time but of course that's part of the gamble involved in a beauty college cut. I didn't crap out with Marti, though I am looking a bit more like Linda Hamilton than I would prefer, but hey I can always hit up the Piedmont for some funktified accessories. It'll grow out and six or seven weeks I can roll the dice again.