Meeting at Night

“This is how you set a table for breakfast. Pay attention.” Mother. I’m leaving town for good with Alan in three hours and now she decides to teach me things I apparently couldn’t have learned twelve years ago when I threw tea-less backyard tea parties for the neighborhood girls, or two years ago when I still took classes and gave a fuck about learning, or three months ago when she found out I loved Alan enough to follow him across the country without a ring on my finger. “Smooth the tablecloth, all the edges. No man likes a lumpy table for breakfast. Bad luck to start his day.” Her hands. So dry and worn I wonder why blood even bothers pumping its way through that fat vein on top. How does blood feel after traveling so far only to find desolation? I guess blood turns back and forgets so quickly that it just makes the return trip again and again.  “Always best to have some juice, set it in the center of the table in a glass pitcher, that way he’s never confused what k

She wasn’t there, but her heart was on Little Mort’s miniature steel table, which stood beside the full-sized steel table of Big Mort. No bloody mess; just another dried up heart, severed at the valves, the heads of a dozen multicolored push-pins poking out. Little Mort’s third heart. When handing his son a heart, Big Mort would tell where it had come from. For the first heart, he said, “This is a politician’s heart. Notice its blackness.” And the second heart: “This came from a lawyer. Feel how cold it is.” For that third heart, Big Mort looked squarely at his son. “The heart of a prostitute. It’s empty.” But Little Mort didn’t know the word “prostitute” from any school books or spelling tests or TV shows he watched with his dad in the den before bedtime. He had to Google it. Noun – a woman who engages in sexual activity for payment . However, this did not sate his curiosity: it rather prompted more. So he clicked on the “images” tab. And scrolled down and scrolled still furt

Jerry Kragthorpe never ate a donut in his life; he always had at least two, often three, on special mornings four. So, Alexandria Jenkins—morning shift at Happy DoughNutty Coffee—was understandably stunned by his order one brisk Tuesday. “A small coffee, no cream, milk, or sugar, just black, to go.” Alexandria turned slightly away, shared a blank stare with Mary, whom she had already signaled to start making Jerry's usual triple caramel latte the second he stood in line. Mary poured the cup down the drain, shaking her head, eyes aghast.  Alexandria turned back to find Jerry practically gawking at the glass display case. What’s wrong today?, Alexandria thought: his favorite double German chocolate crullers are right there. “One small black coffee. Is that it?” A startled Jerry snapped his mouth shut.  “Uh, yep. That's it.”  Jerry tongued a dollop of cold sweat from his upper lip, and Alexandria could plainly hear him tapping the toes of both feet.  “Tha