Hannah

Her body was one of the most beautiful creations I had ever seen. With my ring in my pocket, her face became as easy to stare into as her name was to say. Hannah. She had soft brown hair that gently brushed her shoulders as she looked from right to left and back again. Her eyes were the color of the deepest ocean, and her lips shone as bright as licked red candy. I would do anything for her.

Slowly she moved, always focused on the task at hand. I will never forget the feeling of her fingertips gently massaging my scalp as I sank deeper and deeper into a state of harmonious bliss; a feeling previously known only to the gods. With my eyes closed I would imagine making love to her and gently kissing every part of her body. After pulling myself from this state of ecstasy I would look her in eye, and as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, she would begin to smile. Slowly.

Sometimes she talked with more grace than any woman I have ever met. Sometimes she didn’t. But no matter what she said, I grew more and more fond of her with every word. Every now and then she would say something profound, pulling my eyes open and demanding a long hard stare of amazement. Every now and then she would completely stop what she was doing, begin talking with her hands, and completely lose her place. But this didn’t happen often. Only sometimes.

Her long, deep breath was always a dead giveaway that she was finished. I would rise from my chair and walk (breathtakingly close, might I ad) with her to the checkout counter. I would pay her for her services, brush any remaining hair from my shoulders, look her in the eye and say “Thank you, Hannah, I’ll be back soon.” I would walk slowly to my hot car and slide my wedding ring back onto my left hand. Every week I left with an even deeper love for her.

Sleep

Unable to sleep, I rolled onto my right shoulder, finding myself face to face with the back of the woman I love’s head. I tried to put my finger on the event that started it all, but was unable to come up with anything specific. I do know however, that if the dirty dishes still sitting on the kitchen table had ears, they would most definitely be ringing all through the night.

I just don’t understand it; I said to myself, everything was going so well. Was she right? Was she telling the truth? I know that sometimes confusion turns to frustration, frustration to anger, and anger to untrue generalizations, but what I don’t know is whether or not this was one of those situations.

“Do you love me?” I said in a barely audible whisper. The sound of my voice was so out of place and unexpected that I found myself startled, looking briefly around the room for someone else. I waited patiently for a response, but heard only silence. I stared at her for longer and pictured her smile.

“Do you love me?” I said again, this time a little louder than before. Again I waited, but heard no response. I closed my eyes and imagined embracing her in my arms, squeezing her with all my strength until our bodies fused together as one.

“Do you love me?” I said again, a little louder still. I waited for quite some time for a response but heard only the sound of her breathing across the top of the pillow. I shut my eyes and tried to re-live the first time we touched. I remember the look of excitement on both our faces, and the electricity between our fingertips that surged down both our spines; our eyes open wide and bright, as if we had just discovered something life changing.

All of a sudden I heard her slowly draw in a deep breath, only to let it out a second or two later. With her eyes still closed and her mouth slightly ajar, she rolled onto her left shoulder. “Did you say something to me?” she said in my direction, her eyelids still barely touching. “I love you,” I said to her abruptly, before she could finish sounding out the last word of her sentence. “Oh,” she said “that’s nice.”

She rolled back onto her right shoulder and within seconds, fell asleep.

For the rest of the night, I laid awake. Alone.

Tony

After 20 years behind the wheel, the tourists at 5 p.m. seem almost the same as the locals at 2 in the morning. The only difference is that the tourists feel some kind of obligation to tell me why they're in town and what they plan on doing. Buckled safely in the back seat, they talk for miles on end, despite my lack of eye contact or responsiveness.

No matter where they’re from, the stories are all the same. Being here means they have somewhere not to be. Being here means forgetting about goals and accomplishments for a couple of days. But no matter where they want me to go, it is always my job to get them there.

The transition from tourists to locals is always gradual. By about 1 in the morning, my destinations begin to shift from upscale downtown hotels to shabby studio apartments way east of the highway. But no matter where I’m sent, the only way for me to make a living is to get them where they need to be.

I typically call it quits when the irresponsible give way to the ambitious. Right about sunrise I find myself in bed, fully clothed, asking myself about the corners I sped around, the people I met, and the pick-up trucks I cut off on the highway. But every night, the only thing I can remember is lying in that same position the night before, asking myself the exact same question.

A Portrait of a Sailor

I remember waking up in the middle of the night and wondering why my legs were wet, but I don’t remember closing the roof hatch. My cabin was a little wider than shoulder width, and the bed left my feet dangling over the edge. The roof hung looming about two feet above my head. My eyes opened slowly, and with the first glimpse of sunlight came the usual splitting headache.

When I finally did get up, I put the kettle on and poured some coffee into my French press. I splashed my face with some fresh water from the sink and took a look at the seas around me. It was at that moment that I found some very odd things to be true.

Not only was my mooring line now half of what it was when I fell asleep, but the island which I had sailed to yesterday had disappeared. I closed the hatches in the cabin and found some towels to soak up the water dripping from the radio. The usual red “on” light was no longer glowing, despite the contradiction made by the position of the switch. Under the radio, three smeared sheets of paper rested under a rock in the exact position I had left my charts last night. I tried to dry them, but soon realized that they were now useless. I went back over to the stove and poured myself a cup of coffee.

After shuffling through last nights empty bottles, I made my way to the cockpit. I stood at the helm, and positioned my bow directly into the sunrise. My compass read fifteen degrees west. I knocked on the glass, thinking it was stuck, but soon realized that the insides were void of all liquid.

With a rock steady hand, I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. “Hm,” I thought to myself, “this coffee is fucking amazing.”