Underlying

by Jane Jay


Whenever I talk to Patrick about Laura's death, he uses the verb "pass." Written it looks like dying's an achievement, but he says it softly, to express his tactful condolences.

I say "die." I loved her in nearly all the ways I can love somebody. I put dirt in her grave with my hands.

Ebb

by Jane Jay


Looking back, it's not illogical. Some physicist -- Einstein, maybe -- said the future affects the present just like the past. But, of course, humans perceive things differently.

We'd discussed my writing. I remember thinking I should write something for her. But I didn't mean to write a eulogy. At the time, I didn't mean that at all.

Delivery

by Jane Jay


Some flowers came today. I liked thinking they might be from you — from one of my lovers — one of my fuck-buddies (I want to say "from one of the people with whom I've had sex recently" but that's too many words).

Turned out they were from my mother. I don't even really like flowers.

Objectivize Me

by Jane Jay


In pediatricians' offices there are sometimes pictures of faces illustrating the scale that doctors ask their patients to use when they evaluate the degree of pain they're in.

Please, just measure it for me. Stick a glass cylinder in my mouth – or really, wherever you need to – and prove me wrong.

I know you can.

Green Grass

by Jane Jay


In my dreams I am a one-man woman. I am loyal to a fault. No one else has ever turned my head. I live on a small farm in a small town. My mother taught me everything I know.

I never wake up with the same person I've fallen asleep with. Myself, I mean. Myself.

Tell Me, Is This Fair?

by Jane Jay


It is deeply disturbing to be as moved by Justin Timberlake's latest album as I am.

It makes me feel
teenaged, reminds me of turning an ordinary sentence into
poetry
by
means of line
breaks.

It makes me dance in elevators and on the subway, sexy and powerful like I didn't know I was then.

Hooked

by Jane Jay


The man at the post office gasped when I told him how many stamps I wanted. Later, the coils of 100 stamps each seemed to have an oddly organic shape, like barnacles that grow on rocks at the beach. For some reason, looking at them like that makes me deeply glad I am a carnivore.

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors, Please

by Jane Jay


Both the advantages and disadvantages of New York's subway lie in its primarily being underground.

On one hand, millions of people can ride somewhat comfortably underneath millions of other people, without distractions like yellow cabs and pedestrians and ambulance sirens.

On the other hand, I miss seeing the winter sunrise on my way to work.

Fly Away Home

by Jane Jay


Today at brunch there was a ladybug in my hair. She had a huge number of black spots on her back. The number of spots a ladybug carries means something, but I don't know what. I've been getting that feeling a lot lately.

I made a wish before she flew away, but forgot it instantly.

Prelude

by Jane Jay


“Band-Aids?” Andre asks drunkenly, with a raised eyebrow.

“Well... in case I need one.” I answer, frowning, because I don't know how to say "my shoes sometimes bite my feet" in German. Or - no, actually I do. I just can't say it fast enough.

“Most people,” he says, “keep a condom in their wallet.”