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breakfast at dawn (and all the places they used to go)
2022

George slid out from between the rough cotton sheets, careful as ever to not pull or prod his sleeping Joan as he sat upright at the end of the mattress. Amidst the unending darkness of the blackout drapes, his bare feet lightly grazed the rough wooden floors and discovered the handwoven rug his mother had passed down to him. He slid his feet into cheap slippers. As he threw on a pair of oversized, overworn jeans, just slightly too loose around the waist, he grabbed the tattered leather belt and slid on his favorite shirt of Joan’s - a pale tan hand knit sweater that provided just the right amount of room around his slight torso so as to not highlight his tall and slender frame, but not so loose so as to force him to tread water in order to stay afloat in the endless sea of fabric and sleeves, lavender dreams, slippery things that slip between his fingers every time he tries too hard to hold on to a dream or a moment of a thing that could solve all his melancholy and nostalghia driven paranoia streams.

He felt his way to the door, careful to not get caught upon the dilapidated threshold as he seemed to do every time he was too distracted to mind himself: when carrying his body up to the bedroom after a night at the Neon Skyline, or rushing out to make it to his morning shift at the café on time. The door, hanging off its hinges, meandered to a (for once) quiet close, marking George’s freedom to meander the house at a pace somewhat faster than that of the trickle of shared month-old pomegranate molasses. One foot in front of the other, he floated to the kitchen, passing through the narrow hallway that splits 43 Bedford Ave. into two halves. He rounded the counter to grace the patiently awaiting walls of crumbling plaster, the cabinets relying all too much on their rusted hinges, straining and bowing under the weight of almost fifty years, their faded and uneven chromium oxide green varnish the only indication of life left among the stray panels, now nothing more than scrap wood. George strained to hear the piercingly mellow call of his cherished espresso machine as he brought it back to life from a deep sleep – it needed his touch every morning as he needed it. The pressure of the tamp forced the grounds down, packing them away, ready to be washed over and transformed into something new. It seems that the cacophony of their history is drawn down into a rich, velvety under tow that gathers only then the best moments and as soon as it’s graced your tongue all the truth of what was there before is gone – no more fields of green and adolescent dreams, separation seams that regress into nothingness, time alone away from it all in a pipe dream of adolescent sea-bream discourse about contemporary cuisine and childlike gleam, the freshness of salt air that makes the hair so tangled, knotted, rotten to the core.

As George pours the freshly steamed milk over the espresso into his favorite yellow porcelain mug—fine hairline cracks reaching across the entirety of its exterior—he sees the remains of what will have been their last evening together. Haphazardly left open on the thick walnut tabletop, the finely reproduced plates of Morandi sit nestled between the open pages of the thick retrospective – his favorite gift from Joan. The ‘light’ paintings feel almost as present as they did in Madrid, the first time he truly felt simultaneously drawn within and withdrawn from himself. It is too hard to differentiate between the two. The chilled autumn air pierced his thin overshirt as he walked down the short stairwell marking the culmination of the exhibit, a life spent painting that is more so a painting spent living, the life behind every delicate vase and pot, portraiture that has never been better achieved than in these still lives of at most four objects resting on the same desk, time and time again. A short stack of poetry sat ordered neatly at the end of the table, ready for Joan’s departure. On top of Ginsberg lies a book of sketches, drawings of the road and the tale of a good blonde all lying through their teeth, sports jargon so outdated, overrated, a whole pile of run-ons that are over sedated, negotiatin’ degrading. It all seems a Little Wild. George’s drawings lay strewn across the other side of the table, past the recycle vase filled with the delicate baby’s breath. Eighteen attempts to make something she would like, something to remember him by. Eighteen ways to say one eighteenth of one goodbye. As he pushed the drawings off his cherished farmhouse table and nestled further into his favorite Cesca chair, the floorboards above the dining room creaked and hollered as Joan removed herself from rest.

It was a fun game he was often given the chance to play (as George was always up first), guessing where or what she was doing above him based solely on the call and response of bare feet on wood, the straining of the wood beams under any weight at all. He imagined the twist and pull of the planks on each other as they puckered under her footsteps, the cracks in the pavement filled by the inevitable, the somber strokes of getting wrapped up and chewed out, and the temporality shifts as the layman lifts up brick after brick, brick after brick. Joan never much cared for his insistence on light-footedness, not out of disrespect to the rust-red façade single he cherished so, but there was always something on her mind, some impetus for her to rush in and out or between the bedroom and down the stairs in order to consult one of her many anthologies of short stories to pull from it some convoluted quote somehow pertaining to whatever odd topic they were conversing. But not today. George heard barely a squeak from the leaning stairs as she slowly carried herself along the descent, gently dropping her overly stuffed duffel at the door before heading towards the kitchen.

good morning, Joan’s casual, sweet tone.
morning, how’d you sleep?
just fine, i guess

She rushed aimlessly to the sun-stained, white-turned-yellow plastic fridge, the bright pink of her sweater a distinct glow amongst those aged green cabinets. George watched her eyes scanning each shelf as she reached to expose the contents of each drawer, eyeing the innards of the clouded facilities before stretching her fingers across the width of the carton of eggs and placing them on the counter.

eggs?

George jumped out of his chair and traversed the rough planks to arrive at the kitchen, flipping on the under-cabinet lights as he dropped his beloved mug in the bare sink and grabbed an avocado from the pressed-crystal-hand-me-down fruit bowl, again from his mother. Joan whisked together the last remnants of her self-same delusion in a miniscule bowl, a cadaver of dreams she unwound and strung across the room in some selfish, selfless act of give-and-take, the small fork breaking each yolk as her wrist—remise of maladies and blushing bliss—spins around the rim and finally tosses the (again, hand-me-down) antique silver fork into the sink. George brought his arms around her waist and held her just tightly enough so that he could never let go, resting his chin in the space between shoulder and cheek, nudging the strands of blonde away as he came to rest.

how are you, really?

A pause. George could feel Joan’s opposite right shoulder twitch, her unease so dreadfully palpable. She didn’t want to respond, she couldn’t bear the tear in her throat that always impairs her usual flare alongside that confident glare and steadfast, all things may pass, overtone as the sand blasts with heat to glass and that ceiling will never last, not with her around. She placed her palm against George’s forehead, her fingers stretching into his unkempt bangs, lifting his head as she spun around to face him.

i can't do it, hell i don’t even want to leave anymore. what’s it all for anyways? some dream job that’s going to solve all of my problem and make me so happy and all of a sudden i’ll be the bright star in everyone’s eyes but i don’t even want to do it i can't bear to leave you and all this and new york’s not even that great anyways and i simply can’t bear it i can’t do it george i can’t

Her arms wrapped around his chest, her fingers gripping to his sides as the remnants of whipped yolk and whites dripped onto the previously bare sink from the tarnished gray-black of each pointed tine. With The Ooz she’d lose everything she’d known for the past three years, the disappointment at cheers and the sonic stream of slender dreams, omnipresent fiend for any reality deemed better than the present. But it’s so easy to forget all that in the moment: in time she’ll find someone better, in time he’ll stop wearing her sweater, in time he’ll cry on the landline at nine when she’s not even there on the other line and he’s got nothing better, wishing he'd never met her, wishing he’d never met her. Donating her sweater, trying not to remember, trying not to remember, wishing he’d never met her, it’s already December, trying not to remember, sending another letter, dismember the sender, dismember, remember.

listen, you know you have to go
you know i can’t
joan it’s been your plan all along and this is an amazing opportunity for you, you’ve said it yourself
george, please

George felt the pierce of a single tear upon his cheek. The salty smear spread between their skin, his unkempt stubble a sponge against Joan’s smooth dove face.

don’t leave me until you have to, he whispered in her ear
i would never
let’s just finish breakfast and act like everything’s normal, for one last time?

Joan let her hands fall as she turned to grab the freshly beaten eggs, fumbling with the clear bowl to feel like she’s doing something, knowing she’s doing nothing, but that feels better than actually doing nothing, letting the thoughts seep in and once they start there is no stopping them and it’s all downhill from there: must save that for later. She grabbed a pan from the hanging rack next to the stove, the one that (though not non-stick) seemed to work best for sticky, tricky things such as eggs, and poured over it a dash of olive oil as she placed the pan over medium high on her favorite burner.

All the while George finished slicing the avocado into thin lengthwise portions atop the pale, coral, recycled cutting board, a gift for himself. He noticed the small stain of yellow and green across the front of the sweater and tried to clean it off. He couldn’t. If he washed it there’d be no chance of ever returning to sender, if he gave it in this state there’d be the chance that she’d find that same stain whilst unpacking her boxes upon boxes of secondhand or hand-me-down sweaters and jeans, a reminder of that time when he squeezed into her skinny jeans and shrank into one of what he called her ‘baby shirts’ – the slinkiest little tight sweater that barely stretched across his chest. His heels crushed the straps of the backs of her thrifted heels as he gallivanted across the bedroom, with a walk so desperately and aggressively plastic, the sweater straining against his ribs as he puffed his chest out and walked breast first back to the confines of the backstage of the runway.

She couldn’t help but deflate and give in to the anticipation and regret of the notion that they’d lost it all and could never get it back. She craved his touch, his song, his footsteps in the dark that she knew he thought she never noticed, or the way in which her heavy-footedness was to get his attention, so he couldn’t ignore the fact that she was there. Now she’d never be there ever again.
Joan took a belabored breath
her chest hurts
it’s heavy
it’s longing
it’s envy.
It’s lust for love and dying before she’s ready.
And crying at night for longer than she ever planned, empty.
The vessels of doves of cadmium red light hue, amidst the blue slew of stone and rock jetty, the
crumpled brown velvet atop thin pegs, unsteady.
Of a time when they could laugh and scream at the top of their lungs and the embers of sunsets
on fields of unrest, her satin sundress as it flies above the stars when eyes rest, or a glance at the
empty space between her address and that of a day less, for that she’s not ready.
Why does it have to be so heavy?
(All she wants is) head empty, head empty.

George portions the rough scramble before slinging the fresh slices of avocado onto the plate, their curvature reflecting that of the thrifted china, their alignment poised in parallel. He shakes the sumac onto the eggs, evenly topping the steaming pile of pale yellow with that pleasing subtle citrus. The deep red sinks beneath and sits upon the fresh eggs, juxtaposing the slightly un-ripened yellow-green of the thin slices of avocado that are just moments away from touching the pale yellow and breaking the ordained order of things. Joan has already grabbed two forks and napkins and is sitting at the table, following his every move with those subtly attentive eyes. To his demise she sighs and glances out the window, escapism from this shit show, a greenlight you could never see through the window, the Swan Lake past the rubbed brown brick façade of the mansion lot that sits behind 43 Bedford Avenue. The lemon tree is reaching its tail end; there shall be no more picking each little splendid fruit at random, deciding that the recipe could in fact use a fresh squeeze just moments before plating. Their sheen of less splendor, the taste somewhat more bitter, the moments never linger, emotions beyond the ring finger.

so?
…so? Joan continued staring at her plate, twirling her fork aimlessly
what’re you reading on the plane?
just another patti smith
ah nice. did you see that mapplethorpe photo is up for auction?
ugh god i know- some fool’s going to dish out a year’s rent for some silver print he probably didn’t even make to be seen anyways
but isn’t that beautiful- that all this art that was lost in time can suddenly be brought back to life and shown and known of and we can get the bigger picture?
how would you feel if i hid away your drawings for fifty years and then sold them off for my personal gain and these thumbnail sketches you made for a painting you didn’t even make for anyone but yourself suddenly become the definitive works in understanding the history and work of george moore?
yeah, yeah, that’s fair. but the thought that anyone would ever even think twice about any of my art is ridiculous

Joan flashed a smile across the table as George laughed into his bite of sumac-red-stained eggs; one of those silent laughs where his chest looked as if someone was pounding from underneath it to escape, his shoulders rocking forward and back, a somewhat forced attempt at humility though she knew he truly didn’t believe in his work- at least contrasting the way that most artists secretly do. The only work of his that hung in the house was in his upstairs studio (second bedroom, really) where his drawings were held up with dirty pieces of tape or thumbtacks, carelessly thrown onto the wall in order to achieve some sense of objectivity when he looked them over for weeks and weeks at a time, before tossing them in with the hundreds of others in his portfolio he hid in the closet. His paintings sat unfinished for months at a time, leaned in stacks against the plaster walls that are in the roughest state in that now somewhat-well-lit room. After a year he decided to tear down the wall between the two spare bedrooms and create a large studio parallel to the bedroom across the hall that ran the length of the house – he still remarked that he felt cramped and limited by the space, somehow forgetting that he had to make do with his entire life crammed into a 400 square foot studio apartment on the other side of town when he first got out of school. Regardless, there was always an excuse as to why he wasn’t making what he deemed to be his best work. As they sat across from each other, steeped in silence, waiting for the other to move, Joan waiting to break into a thousand pieces and be swept away like the neighbor’s treehouse in the storm just a few weeks ago, each 2x4 being thrown across the lush backyard and over the fence into the unknown of the overgrown hedge as the aggressive wind slammed against the decrepit shudders, clanking against the original single-paned windows and the metal locks holding them shut. They seemed to make do, at least. George grabbed both plates as he scurried to the sink, dropping them in amongst the now dried whisking fork and placing the remnants of preparation atop in some sort of cypress circus act.

i don’t want you to leave either, he finally admitted

Joan glared at him for what felt like an eternity. She could say it, but not him. They both knew she had to go and she was going to go and one day they would convince themselves that they both were better for it and even if there was in fact something there it wasn’t right at the time and she would find someone better, maybe even a successful financial wall street guy who’s parents loved her and thought it so unique that a young woman from Georgia could make it in the big city and how fun was it that they’d met at a nightclub in Soho(?!) it’s just so great and her mom will never have to think “she’s so smart but why is she with that bohemian” every time she thinks of her daughter or even have to force it into every conversation regardless of subject and their wedding, just perfect, on the far side of P-Town just past the pier and it’s two days after the white party and the weather is just perfect in the late spring and in a year’s time they’d buy a brownstone in Brooklyn and another after would come their first child, as soon as it’s time for schooling they decide to relocate to somewhere “quieter and safer”(her words) and Greenwich is just splendid for their idyllic upper-class safe haven, the perfect backdrop for dinner parties and hosting friends and family from out of town(the city) and eventually graduation parties and back-home-from-school-reunions and they’d move out to the Cape to relive their young adult innocence and they’d lie together, once and for all, now and forever. How had she written the story without asking for the title? How had the bridal showers consumed the tidal power so that she’d glance at the door every time she heard the disarming ring of the copper bell-thing thinking it was him, here to smear the confrontation of those lost three years they knew they could never get back; they watched it fade to black, the same sky on their backs at night, the same lies and they cried and cried, the long strides of walking home alone, the side to side of the puddles’ sigh
as they watched together, singing the tune to dismember, remember.

She forced herself into the deep brown velvet of the oblong sofa, her face entering the space between pillow and cushion, the decade old faint smell of incense, violet, incandescence, thyme well spent. Joan reached for the stark-white throw blanket that his grandma had knitted for him, yanking the out of place fresh absence of color over her back and thighs. As George approached the edge of the couch and sank his palm into the small of her back, she began to cry. The rainfall stalled and the lights all turned to green and the red sheen of that 2018 halted from a snail’s crawl in front of the house. Joan’s sister was here, her head clear, the unease of the presence to please outside as she steered, up, up, and away. Joan’s tears smeared across her ear as she held her hand to the windowpane, watching the pain and the rain and the plane. George stayed next to her for hours until the rain receded and the sun depleted. He couldn’t begin to remain the same, he mistaked the pain for her presence, in vain. Between tears he screamed for years upon years, they spoke at night amongst candlelight fears. Her essence tucked and held between his ears, fast asleep they conversed on the couch as she’d reappear.

nonfiction / essays

poetry

prose