new years eve confused

Front row seats for new years eve. Waiting for the fireworks. You show up sometime after nine. I call you Lily.

"Lily," I say, "are you ready to kiss me?"

"My name's not Lily," you say, "but I'll still kiss you. Just say when and where." You brush the hair out of your eyes.

Dick Clark's on TV, but we're nowhere near a TV. Instead, I look into your eyes. They're green, blue, brown, and red. In the right light, they sometimes look gray, like the insides of some TVs.

"Lily," I say, "I think we need to buy a TV."

"My name's not Lily, but I'll buy you a TV anyway."

There's a ball dropping somewhere, but we can't see it. Instead, I ask you to sit on my lap and whisper something in my ear. You countdown from 10 to 0. At zero, you look into my eyes.

"In the right light," you say, "I can see Lily in your eyes."

I think you're right.

"Lily," I say. "I think I love you."

"I love you too," Lily says.

We hold each other into the night, way past midnight. Lily falls asleep around three. When morning comes, we're still in the same moment. The skies are gray.

Still asleep, I wonder what color Lily's eyes are.

really, really grown up

First day of work. You wear jeans and roll a tight spliff on the bus while the other commuters stare at you. You smile proudly. I got a job at the bank, you say. You transfer to a streetcar and take that downtown. With the spliff in your ear and your briefcase in hand, you exit. The sky is bright, and the skyscrapers are really, really tall. You light up the spliff and start walking toward the bank. At a red light you put the roach in a baggie and the baggie in your pocket.

A few red lights later, a man walks up to you. Anything is something, he says, holding out a paper cup. He smells really, really bad.

You reach into your pocket and hand him the baggie, then you turn around and walk back toward the streetcar. Back home, the fog is really, really thick. You eat a chocolate doughnut and stare out the window at the fog. After that you roll another spliff, grab your briefcase, and run to the bus.

clouds and other things unseen

1. Your dad waited for you at the bus stop.

2. You spotted him a block away, but decided to get off anyway. You ran in the opposite direction. He ran after you. Much quicker, he caught up to you and tackled you from behind. You wrestled on the ground for a bit. Him: punching your stomach. You: biting his ear, spitting, yelling -- all at the same time.

3. You pushed yourself away and got up. He did too. "What are you doing here?" you asked. "I thought you were dead." You noticed a single cloud in the sky. "Your mother has cancer," he said. "It's time for you to come home." The cloud circled his head like a halo. "We are home," you said. You started walking away, but he grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back. "I'm tired of your games," he said.

4. "Come with me," you said. He followed you up two steep hills. The cloud came too. "We should have taken the bus," he said.

5. "We're almost there."

6. When you reached the cemetery it was his turn to run. And the cloud, which, it turned out, wasn't a cloud after all, chased him.