The air smelled lemony. The worst kind of air and smell because I find myself nosing my way to people–perfect strangers to determine the source. So far I’ve never found out.

I heard this question as I jogged a couple of people walking home from work. Suits, pantsuits, pencil skirs. A whirle of arms and briefcases.
The male jogger had asked the female this question.
I tried to slow down, to hear the response from the woman.
But there was a pause.
So I paused. I stopped running and walked over to the curb, pretending I needed to tie my shoe.
Finally she said. “Because I asked for it.”
He started crying. Right there in the park. They passed me. I followed behind them.
I had to hear more.
Do you mind, she told me. For she was onto me. “This is private and personal.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just really want to know why you and not him.”
“That is none of your business!” she said.
The man cried harder.
“Is it because your mean?” I asked meanily.
“No,” the man said, wiping his eyes. “It was because I am. We’re divorcing because I cheated on her.”
“It’s not his business,” she told her future ex-husband. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s not my business,” I repeated. I started running again. It was very difficult to find my previous strength. His failure or perceived failure had become mine. And I had not cheated on anyone.
Lately.

The museum wants your good behavior. But you are unstoppable. You explore and giggle, ridicule and flounder, among the frontispieces, tapestries and many, many buddhas.

Projections of twinkling stars, interlaced with messages typed on a digital pad, fling up and float on the the underside of a spiral staircase. Stairs with stars.

With mine. And my mischief.

Something that matters, really matters is probably gross, to you.

A butt crack you care about is sad and inviting, cleaner than a computer keyboard, capable of more language than you’ll ever be able to translate. The language of crevice, of cloak and dagger.

Your own butt you cannot communicate with, the way others can.

And do.

Gone are the days of pissing in one continuous stream.

Its call sounds like no other. Guttural, animalistic but gentle. When you listen to the intake of breath and what follows. What follows is an invitation, opportunity, to move. You kneel down, open your mouth and disgorge directions. But, I can’t do that, you say as your last truthful sentence: I’m one lost one here. You should be telling me.
Give me directions, he insists.

You do. You make them up as you go along.

He tells you to stand up. You do and he takes your hand.;

We are going to follow your directions, he says.

No, you please. Please no. Shit, I don’t know where we’re going. Shit.
Why should I be the one to lead? he asks.

Because you can’t leave it to chance, you counter.

But this is chance, he insists. Now be quiet and listen. What do you hear? What do you see?

A park.
Do you like parks?
Yes.
Then fucking go there.

Oh, you think. Well that was easy enough.

1. Because they are better than one.
2. Because there is more to have,  stupid.
3. One is soft, easy. The other provides all the excitement I’v ever wanted.
4. I can jump from one to the other rather easily. As easily as logging onto a social network.
5. They are social networks, in fact. The world is a social network, dummy.
6. Stop calling me dummy.
7. If you don’t want me calling you names, then jump into the other life. I won’t follow.
8. Okay.
9. Okay.

Being carried matters so much. Floating is even better. Salivating over hill and dale of piping hot conversation on a cold day of single digit temperatures.

The zest comes small like a gnat that once to be batted away; even though it is coming with news of some great discovery. You listen but all you hear is buzzing.