Daily Journal Entry #18

I swing my feet down to the floor and slide them into my fuzzy green slippers that make it look like anything below the ankle is a gardening disaster. I stand up and stretch while I walk across the room to the bathroom. I glance over my shoulder, my hand on the door knob of the bathroom, and look at my roommate. She’s sleeping so peacefully with her tongue lolling out of her mouth like a dog and her gut peeking out of the bottom of her too-tight night shirt. Like angel, she sleeps. Like a fat, dirty, hairy angel…with a dandruff problem.
Last night was awful. She’d taken off early on in the afternoon and by seven, I still hadn’t seen her, so I assumed that I’d be alone for the night. Not a problem with me, I didn’t care who she was spending the night with as long as she wasn’t here. We don’t really get along, she and I. She’s of the partying-drinking-drugs variety and I am, well, not.
I don’t think she knew I was in the bathroom last night when she and her friends came in to the room and kept referring to me as “the freak” and “social recluse”. I sighed and waited until they’d left—off to reek some more havoc, I assumed—before coming out. Who knew that studying and actually getting an education made me a loser?

Daily Journal Entry #17

She’d never been one for fancy food. Caviar? Nope. Escargo? Puhlease! You could call it a simple palate; you could call it a lack of education in the ways of culinary masterpieces. But whatever you call it, just make sure that dinner is recognizable, please. A simple cheeseburger would do, just cheese, mayo and ketchup, no need for all the fuss of lettuce, the excessiveness of a tomato. Simple, that’s the kind of person she’d always been.
Maybe that’s why they’d always gotten along.
His tastes were similar. He didn’t need chairs, a table, or a nice cloth to cover it, he was fine with a picnic bench, a strategically placed ledge on the side of a wall. Hell, even a curb would do just fine. He’d always been a staunch supporter of the idea that it wasn’t where you ate, but who you ate with. He was always one to appreciate a good conversation, not a nice setting.
He could be anywhere in the world, eating anything in the world, but as long as he was with her, he didn’t mind.
Tantalizing smells wafted around them as the sat and peeled back the foil from their dinners—the flowers in the garden, the distinct scent of spring, and the faint, lingering stench of garbage. The park was quiet, but just outside its borders the sounds of the city could be heard. Cars idling, horns blaring, people shouting, and the timbre of pedestrians’ feet as they shuffled to and from their jobs and shopping malls.
They ate quietly, both watching that small cart with its squeaky wheels and yellow-red umbrella as it rolled away down the lane.

Daily Journal Entry #16

My legs don’t even touch the floor. I remember thinking that as I wiggled on top of the crinkly white sheet. I could hear the rustle of the paper echo off the cold, sterile walls of the doctor’s office. I imagined myself in a cloud…it was much easier to deal with soft smooth edges of my mind than the frigid, point edges of the counter, the table, the chair. Smells weird in here, I thought, sniffing the air and feeling my lungs swell with anticipation. The door swung open heavily, but the doctor caught it before it slammed against the wall. His arm hung cleverly out of sight but somewhere in my head I knew I didn’t want to know that there was about the syringe grasped between his knuckle-y fingers. I shut my eyes tight when he placed his hand on my air and let out the longest, most shrill scream inside my tiny five year-old body. No way are gonna poke me with that, mister.

Daily Journal Entry #15

Juan pulled is his tight tie loose as he walked out of the building, suitcase in hand. He wiggled the knot back and forth, and with one hand, slipped the fabric through and around before pulling the tie off all together. He crossed the parking lot determinedly, trying to make up for lost time. The meeting he’d been in had run over by more time than he’d allotted for and now Juan was late.
He reached deep into the pocket of his dark grey suit jacket for his keys, jangling them in his left hand as approached his sedan. Juan unlocked the door and slid inside the car smoothly, setting his briefcase on the passenger seat.
He took his cell phone out of his pocket and placed it in the cup holder before sliding his sunglass on and careening out of the parking lot.
He rose out of his bed, down the cold wooden steps and into the living room where Abuelo was positioned a foot away from the television screen. His thick grey mustached trembled as he repeated the prayers emanating from the television’s blown-out speakers. The Pope was on television, conducting a mass to the masses. His robe looked dull on the old television screen, but Abuelo was looking at him with a reverence and dedication that awed Juan.
“Dios me vendiga,” Abuelo whispered, making the sign of the cross over his chest. He closed his eyes briefly and bowed his head in a moment of silent prayer.
Juan waited by the doorway of the living room until Abuelo raised his head again and continued to watch the mass.
“Morning, Abuelo,” Juan said as he passed behind his grandfather’s wheelchair. He grabbed the handles and eased the squeaky chair back from the television, knowing full well that the minute he left the room, the wheels would pull the old man forward until his old drooping nose was mere inches away from the screen again. Juan smiled, kissed the old man on the cheek, and then walked out of the room.
“We’re going to need you to come in and identify the body,” the faceless voice announced though the phone.
Juan pulled the back of his hand across his face, wiping the tears from his face. “Is there anyone else? My cousins, maybe…”
“No, sir, they won’t come. You’re the only person. You’re it.”
Juan knew it, even before the officer on the line said it. He knew he was the only one. Abuelo only trusted him, only really loved him, only wanted to be with him. Maybe it was because Juan was the only one who cared, or maybe it was because Abuelo saw some of himself in his grandson. But Juan knew it, he knew he was the only one.
“And then, what about the…uh, the body?”
“Well, once the autopsy is completed and our investigation is closed, we will release the body to you, and you can proceed with the funeral arrangements.”

Daily Journal Entry #14

My roommate, Paige and I typically get along, and the first few weeks of school went swimmingly; both of us kept our things neat and organized, our lives divided by the invisible line in the center of the room.

Gradually, although almost too slowly for me to notice, Paige’s side of the room slowly began to lose its cleanliness: her clothes, book and garbage creeping ever-closer to that dividing line.

I did my best to keep our lives separated and thought the example of my tidy half would help Paige return to the organized, clean girl she’d been when we met.

Apparently, my attempts were in vain because about two months into the year, she’d stopped making her bed. All of my actions became about counteracting hers.

She felt it was acceptable to spill crumbs all over the floor. I started vacuuming twice a week.

Her crumpled papers and discarded pieces of homework began to edge their way onto my desk. I lofted my bed and stuck my desk underneath.

In the bathroom, she’d started to do her makeup while leaning over the counter so severely that her matte-powdered face hovered directly over my toothbrush. I moved my things out of the bathroom.

This pattern went on, our room subtly falling into and out of various states of disarray. I tried everything, from mentioning that her shoes were blocking the door to even vacuuming her side of the room occasionally. I mean, isn’t that what roommates did? You help each other out and try to keep your things in order, especially when you leave for the weekend, right? I thought so.

Daily Journal Entry #13

She's just about the cutest thing I've ever seen; her floral-print skirt billowing out while she twirls in a circle makes her look like one of those beauty pageant Barbies I used to play with when I was a kid. But the comparison to the toy stops there. Her mousy brown hair is probably more tangled than it looks, I think, watching her push it back from her face with the flats of her palms. She flashes her friend- who is a more accurate personification of a Barbie - a crooked toothy grin and hurries forward to the ball return to retrieve her lime-green seven-pound bowling ball. She squares her shoulders to the lane, the very picture of composure. Then she scrambles forward, abandoning all sense of decorum, and hurls the ball down the lane - or rather, into the air. It seems to hang airborne for a few seconds before it crashes down and hurtles towards the pins. She's still got her arms raised in the air as the ball crashes into one, two, and then three pins...which sends a ripple through the ten-pin formation, effectively knocking every last one down. She squeals in delight and runs back to Barbie...who is pretty much scowling. I shake my head and retrieve their drinks from the bartender, one fruit punch and one pink lemonade.

Daily Journal Entry #12

Marathons were never her forte and she had no idea why she'd agreed to the haf-day event. Oh right, that's why. She followed Maura around like a lost puppy. She followed her to and from work, followed her through the Dirty Robber, followed her to the master bedroom, followed her into orgasm each and every night. And now she was following her in the Boston Marathon, but in it all, she realized she could hardly complain about the view.