Prompted by the sound of the alarm clock going off, I stared at its facts, undaunated and naked. It was 3 a.m.

Only 3 a.m. That’s all. As if that fact were useful, as if any good ever came from 3 a.m. Well sometimes good things can occur at 3 a.m.

I know I wanted to belive that. So I sat up, turned off the alarm and waited as I had so many of those middles-ofs-thes-nights befores.

“It’s okay,” A voice said. “I’m here.”

“Who said that?”

“You did, stupid.”

“No, I didn’t and don’t call me stupid.”

“Charlie, who are you talking to?”

My girlfriend sat up next to me.

“You know the basics,” I said. “Why can’t I?”

“What basics?  What the fuck are you talking about?” She was usually quite calm–downright aloof during these moments.Which came with more regularity each passing week, month, etc.

“The basic, you know,” I said, throwing off the covers. “The decorum of life, a mode of responding to those  things  that go bump in the night. You always sleep like a baby.

“No I don’t,” she said. “Bumps, basics, babies?”

Is a client. A series of revolving-door of people sleeved with crises, and askings.

You are there to serve. That’s what you’ve been told.

It’s like that with everything. Everything comes to you, constantly, by way of moontides and meanderings. There’s no need to put yourself out there. It’s all coming to you.

They’ll knock, barge in. When they show up, just stare at them and tell them to watch some Netflix with you.

The donuts you choose from the bakery are always from the top shelf; the man behind the counter, in the hairnet, obliges. You thank him. His slight grimace says None of this was worth it. Donuts are a dime a dozen, a flash in the pan, an orgasm. Too quick, not worth it.  Like a brief kiss.  The donut lands on the lips, goes threm them, into the mouth and beyond. The worst kiss ever.
You are left wanting more.

I can’t. A lot of people would be hurt.
Two. Only two people would be hurt.
But it’s never like that. It would be more. Because the two people you hurt would tell their people and they would be hurt.
Hurt spreads like wildfire. Best not to start one. Not even a spark.
Especially the spark.

They are so noticeable. People swimming past them, gawking as they splash by.
The floater just floats. Questions float up to the floater.
Why are you just floating.

“Did you hear? She’s decided to float.”

“What a shame, and with two daughters.”

“No the daughters aren’t floating. Just the mother.”

“I heard daughters were coasting.”

“That’s even worse.”

I was amazed at how much they read. I said it aloud and the table got quiet.
No one asked me what I was reading. And it isn’t there job to ask.

So I told them. I am reading Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, and perusing old National Geographic magazines.

More silence. 

I know it isn’t me. These people know me. The host doesn’t just invite anyone to her dinner parties. I think I just jumped in at the wrong time. Like the hosts new kitten, hopping onto the well-appointed table to take a swipe at the lamb and roasted vegetables.

I do. It is my calling card. It can either lift me up into the stratosphere of popularity–however short as it takes to have my friends eat it.
Or I can go Vegan and let the tofu version sink into their stomachs before revealing it’s true dominion.
Ah, just eat the damn pie and shut up.

I get to tip big and ride to museums. I just discovered the painter Delacroix. Where has he been my entire life. Well last night he was at the Met. He’s been there for awhile but it doesn’t count because I had never seen him.

And my the first painting I saw of him made me weep. I won’t tell you which one. But you’ll know and you’ll see and you’ll say “Doesn’t do a thing for me,” In which case I’ll never want to speak with you ever again. Especially if your that friend who texts me from Miami to gloat that they are in Miami for Thanksgiving.

Relax, Binda. I’m of course not talking about you.

Windra Thrope was a seven year old girl who lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue.

More than anything wanted to know who her father. There were rumors about him, mostly from her drunk mother who claimed he abandoned them before Windra was born.

Kids believed a lot of things. But that did not stop from wanting to meet her father. Someday. One day, when her mother was drunk she heard her mother speaking on the phone long distance to someone named Milkie, which she thought a strange name.

Little did Windra know that Milkie would change her life.

And where to do you want to go?

Nowhere. Just here is fine. For now.

I like the surroundings, the air, my bed, my chambers, furniture, toiletries, refrigerated items.

I like listening to people laugh and plan for the holidays. I like knowing that I have arrived, for the moment. Not standing still, just here. That’s fine.