the habit of being

At Barnes and Noble:

Reading Tropic of Cancer. Miller writes a life in which his living is entirely filtered to the life of a writer, an artist, he says. I should live like a writer, even if I never write. James is sitting in a striped chair reading Henderson the Rain King, probably realizing he is Henderson. We’re all Henderson.

Here: Asian man reading a how-to book. Old man with pink skin and white hair, who was here last night too. Notified me when he turned off his phone. Everyone has a cell phone except us. Man in the mall wants to give us a free one.

. . .

There: I try on a $340 dress, and the ribbons wrap around me like my torso is a ballerina’s ankle. Saleswoman says it is made for me and I love her. James is sitting on the little couch. I turn around and turn around. Natalie Portman on the cover of Vogue. I look at myself, naked in the triptych mirror. I have a Venus body. My breasts are pretty; my nipples don’t know where to hide. James doesn’t look at me much. Bad sex this morning. It was cold. I didn’t want it. He lost his erection and treated me badly. I yelled at him. I cried for a long time. There was also a red dress, only $70 and probably more flattering, really. I feel bad trying things on because I stink. Haven’t bathed in over a week. My pants are designer but full of holes. Both knees and the ass. Badly patched with Kristie’s Chinese silk and some misguided attempts with duct tape. One leg said “Vienna or Bust” for a day. I make bracelets with string. Someone handing me a sample on a toothpick thinks I am from Paris because of my Eiffel Tower necklace. He’s not the first.

. . .

Where am I from? I’m from… here. I grew up in Georgia. James was looking at me when I wrote that. His hair is longer than chin length but still inches above his shoulders. I always fall in love with people who have long necks and beautiful eyes. Not to say that’s the reason, but I imagined my palm on his neck, and on Jennifer’s. His beard is getting long. His mustache goes in my nose when we kiss. His facial hairs get in my mouth and I have to stop and pick them out. Our hair gets curly in the mornings after rain. My shoes are falling apart. I have one of the soles taped on with duct tape. Half of one heel is broken off. Hurts to walk. There is talk of a “new shoes” fund.

We already got the new tent, yesterday, after spending a couple days covering the twelve miles or so to the REI. Now in posh shopping area - Borders traded in for Barnes and Noble. We’re “premier” members of the Perimeter Mall. I put on mascara and glittery eye makeup at Sephora. Three months without makeup. I, sadly, didn’t feel much prettier afterward.

. . .

We’re going to live in the woods - eat rice and grass. Set traps for rabbits. He’ll slit their throats. Moral killing. “Just me and my food.” I’ll write. Everything will be about writing. No more love, only writing, something “good.” More metaphors and less I’s. Not sentimental, not idealistic, not fluffy.

The Giving Tree kills me. James and I are reading it together (not now) and his hands smell like pomegranite salt scrub and first I’m the tree and then he is and then it’s just sad. That’s how it is for me, being the villain and the victim, never as good as the tree but I get self-righteous at times, thinking I’m trying to save him. He says he’ll kill himself eventually, whether I’m here or not. He asks what I expect from him. Says he feels horrible about every horrible thing he does to me everyday. This was last night he said these things. The suffering will say anything. I even tried to kill myself, after he wouldn’t listen to me suffer out loud anymore. That was a long time ago. No more writing melodrama, K. He’s looking at me and his eye is blue. The other one is brown but I didn’t notice. Enough.

We’re out of food. Completely. The old man’s face is bright red. He has nice boots. They look unused. The Asian man is reading Kitchen and Bath Ideas. Henry Miller is calling women cunts and making me want to write. He’s in Paris, like my necklace. I’m sure every woman who reads this book wants to be his lover. James thinks he’s a bad lover for me because it’s hard to get inside unless I’m using my vibrator. Thinks he doesn’t turn me on. We have really amazing sex sometimes though; he was just depressed. I growled and said I wanted it rough. I talk during sex now. He likes it. I say “I want it,” “Give it to me,” and whatnot. It’s fun. I ask how it feels and he says it feels great. Wet. Tight.

. . .

He’s walking to Publix to get fruit and yogurt. I’m meeting him outside. The store will be closed. The man with the pink face listened to our conversation. We’re an oddity, a freakshow. The old man mutters to himself a lot. I wonder if he isn’t a bit of a freak himself. He was here last night too, afterall. Tomorrow is my 19th birthday. We haven’t used the tent; our current camp has too many spiky plants. It’s award-winning, and we got 20% off too. Thirty extra dollars. We’ve been spending it diligently on food we can’t really afford at the Perimeter Mall. here’s a Hovan Gourmet. The man who made my number three value meal commented on my St. Jude necklace, said he had his picture. We saw Catholic schoolgirls in blue and green pleated skirts while we ate. There was a man playing a piano in Nordstrom’s. We’ll make an animal trap out of sticks, get a book on edible plants. We’re going to Utah.

I have three or four tiny ant bites around my left eye. James is allergic to ants; his bites swell and become grotesque. We went to Applebee’s and to see the Lord of the Rings movie back in Norcross or Duluth or wherever we were. Luxury. I gave him my first completed bracelet. We got the book on how to make them in Duluth too. Travelling and Hungry stories. James is back, record time. I saw him behind dancing leave through the window into the dark. Says he’s too tired to walk. Didn’t make it to the store. Wake me up when it’s time to go.

. . .

The Asian and the pink faced man are gone. There’s New Agey music the background. The time is now 10:45 PM. Store and cafe closing in fifteen minutes. The play-by-play I should reject for moving prose. Never write about writing. Once upon a time there lived a girl. She had many beautiful symbols that glowed, and she wore Mikimoto pearls because she was loved….