Jac Jemc - A Different Bed Every Time

Think about all that business touting medium as message, compare it to statues whittled away to their craggy essence at the art museum, remember shouting, “Just kiss her already” at the movie screen .

Back in her apartment, Minnie crawls into a leotard and huge black pants. She’s too keyed up to sleep. She puts some music on and dances, low to the ground and primitive. The phone breaks the flow.

Think how words become benign in languages you don’t know, compare it to the satisfaction of a twist ending, remember smashing your forearm against the doorknob accidentally and admiring the deep shades of the bruise .

“Minnie?” Daniel says. She asks if he got home okay, and of course he did. Daniel tells Minnie how happy he is they left. He tells her he can’t stand being around people lately but that he felt like he had to go to the work party, to put in an appearance and see if his feelings had changed. Minnie silently hates him for being the same as her, wishes neither of them were this self-centered. Her body bends to the memorized height of her couch cushions. They talk for an hour, and then Daniel asks Minnie what she’s doing. Minnie doesn’t answer. He knows. “Do you want to go to the Golden Nugget? I’m starving.” She says, “Just let me get my jacket,” and hangs up without waiting for details. Finally, she feels powerful.

Think the fulfillment of peeling dried glue off your hands, compare it to a reverse-reverse psychology, remember that your definition of criticizing ads has always been to underline the phrases you like and the words you don’t .

Minnie waits outside her building twenty minutes later, face scrubbed clean and her tousled hair scraped into a neat ponytail. Clear and flat. He pulls up in his blue car, hubcaps gone. Minnie climbs into the car, the stereo playing cheesy pop, not what she expected. They drive and listen to the music, and in a minute the CD stops. “Happens in the cold,” Daniel says. They ride the rest of the way getting by on grunts and quick exhalations. Both are overcome with nerve and reservation because they know the truth of the noises the other is emitting. They pull into the lot and no one moves.

Think of the tense of your calves before you jump in the shark tank, compare it to red eyes showing up in photographs, remember the definite end to the warmth from the heaters of this ’93 Grand Am when its engine is off .

Minnie is relieved that Daniel waits while she navigates the faulty passenger seat belt, but happier he doesn’t hold the Golden Nugget door open for her. Minnie hates chivalry because she doesn’t possess the presumption to demand it at all times. They sit down. It is empty and four a.m. The waitress takes their order. Daniel orders a skillet and a cup of coffee. Minnie orders chocolate milk, and Daniel’s face eases into a smile before he collapses with a whimper into his hands.

Think the orphanage of newspapers on the subway, compare it to Dutch elm disease, remember how easy it is to become a skilled liar .

“Minnie,” he moans, “tell me to take you home right now. I’m a mess.” Minnie squints at him and asks what’s wrong. Daniel’s forehead lands on the edge of the table with an “I don’t know.” Minnie smiles attentively, but she’s thinking, “Is this what I’m like?” Their food arrives. Daniel pulls himself together for the waitress, lifting his head and blinking at the light. Minnie stirs the chocolate into her milk and takes a big gulp. She licks the syrup off her spoon. Daniel pours lots of cream and sugar into his coffee and smiles at Minnie. She places the spoon in her mouth and sucks it even after no chocolate remains. Though it appears as if she is relishing it, her eyes nearly tip their reserve of tears.

Think the way going to see a shrink would be irreversible, compare it to the incapacitation of a fireplace with no chimney, remember the easy happiness you gained from dinosaurs as a child .

Daniel hands Minnie a black-and-white composition book. He tells her she is the first to see it. Minnie feels honored and skeptical in equal parts as she begins flipping through. The first thing she finds is an unfinished letter to his ex-girlfriend, telling her he misses the way her heels dug into his calves. Something twists inside her. She’s sure this isn’t where she’s supposed to be at all, but she stays. Minnie pages through the notebook, thinking she should have gotten this out of her system in high school or college. Daniel can tell she’s distracted and makes Minnie read a story aloud because he thinks she’s not actually reading.

Think the way you skip tedious sonnets to get to “For I am shamed by that which I bring forth / And so should you to love things nothing worth,” compare it to being wrong about something you fought so hard for, remember how a friend of yours told you he used to run through Central Park in the middle of the night to test fate .

Two hours later, Minnie is arranging silverware into architecture. Daniel talks about Hegel and the waiter bussing the table across the section appends Daniel’s reference, eager to show he is more than a night-shift employee. The waitress brings the check, and Daniel takes it. Minnie decides not to quibble over the price of chocolate milk. Daniel pays the bill while she runs into the bathroom. A moment later, she looks at her bright face in the fluorescent mirror. She smiles, exaggerated and toothy, and then her face unfolds itself into blankness.

Think of scars from impatience with scabs, compare it to the exhausted, disoriented genius of the last minutes of a football game, remember how you can now completely ignore the ceaseless purr of electricity everywhere .

Daniel is talking to the cashier when Minnie comes out of the bathroom and she waits for him to finish his conversation. Minnie’s biceps tense to cross her arms as Daniel holds the door open for her and she explodes into a sprint to the car. Daniel takes his time finding his keys and easing into the vehicle.

Think Aesop’s character foils, compare it to the tackiness of the concept of souls, remember the tension of condescension .

Minnie watches him reach across the passenger seat and unlock her door. She thanks God he doesn’t pull the handle. She jerks in as the cold quickly immobilizes her joints. The engine starts and they drive in silence until suddenly the CD kicks on again and it’s the same sappy pop song. Minnie laughs. Daniel says earnestly, “This is the saddest song in the world.” Minnie can’t help herself and disagrees. Daniel says they will drive around until she admits how depressing the song is.

Think the swipe of a credit card, compare it to the minor distortions of the shadow of bricks on the mortar separating them, remember how this song was sappy the first time you heard it and some things never change .

Around the fourth rotation, Minnie finally admits the song is heartbreaking because it’s 6:30 in the morning and she never seizes moments this easy. Daniel takes her back to her apartment. Minnie sits in her seat silent for several minutes. He asks her what she’s thinking. Minnie says, “Really?” and Daniel just looks at her. “I was counting the number of times you said the word pertinent tonight.” She smiles tentatively. He frowns and turns away, nodding. Minnie takes her time getting out of the car. Daniel says nothing.

Think needing permission to be happier, compare it to stopping yourself before you say something stupid and then saying it anyway, remember all you’ve wanted in this world is for one person to call you “home.”

Minnie disappears into the vestibule door for the second time tonight and calls his house before he gets home. On his answering machine she reads a story about being able to figure out what’s good and what’s bad.