Free You Are Here by Donald Breckenridge

lower shelf, “anyway, I got this today,” she held the neck of the bottle in her slender right hand while suggesting, “perhaps we can find something to celebrate.” The earnest conviction that shadowed James on the F train had finally entered her kitchen, “How about the end of democracy in America?” “I’m afraid we’ll have plenty of time to do that,” Janet placed the bottle on the counter by the vase, “Wouldn’t you rather drink to us?” He was almost comfortable enough to launch into a candid conversation about how wonderful it felt to be falling in love, “that sounds like a perfect place to start.” She took two thin flutes out of the cabinet above the sink and placed them on the counter, “I’m glad you agree,” then peeled back the gold foil on the bottle before loosening the wire holder and carefully twisting off the cork, “with me,” a muffled pop, “everything has been dominated by the election…” was followed by the wisp of pale smoke that wavered over the open bottle, “and it is so boring.” The light amber wine infused with tiny spiraling bubbles rapidly climbed the flutes and after the blooming foam gradually subsided she slowly filled them. Janet leaned forward and smiled, “come on you,” before taking the bottle and her glass off the counter, “I think you’ll find that the light in the living room is much more generous.” “Yeah but,” he grinned, “it’s even better in your bedroom.” Kissing him on the cheek she replied, “the night is young before it’s old.” He admired her walk as she crossed to the couch, “So why are Gerber daises one of your favorite flowers?” After placing the bottle on the side table she sat down, “I like how bare the stems are,” leaned back and crossed her legs, “plus my hair was almost that color last spring.” He studied the black and white Warhol silkscreen of Jackie Onassis hanging above the couch, “Like that actress we saw last Friday?” She grinned, “but it didn’t look as cheap as her hair.” The lamp beside the armchair threw his passing shadow over the painting.

First Friday in July

    Â 
    â€œW hen was this?” Heat vapors wavered above the yellow sand, “Monday night,” as the smell of marijuana, “the day before he went away,” and a faint reggae rhythm drifted by. “When was your last period?” Topless women were sprawled on colorful towels, “A few weeks ago,” and groups of men wearing thongs lounged in beach chairs. A few children by the shore, “So you’re probably ovulating,” were playing before the breaking waves. Two women were swimming beyond the breakers while a surfer drifted past the sandbar while waiting for another ride. “Why didn’t you get the morning after pill?” Stephanie and Karen were in their bikini bottoms while sitting cross-legged on a white sheet. “I didn’t have the money but I’m pretty sure that I took care of it in time. ” The afternoon sky was cloudless. “What do you mean, ‘took care of it?’” The hazy blue line above the horizon, “I took a bunch of birth control pills the next morning,” was broken by the silhouettes of two motionless oil tankers, “and I told Alan not to worry about it.” Karen was livid, “that isn’t like you at all,” after learning that Stephanie had been let go from the temp agency last week for missing too many days, “what were you,” and was spending all of her time with a married man who drank like a fish, “What are you thinking?” She merely shrugged, “you shouldn’t worry about it either,” and was reluctant to convey the growing host of doubts she had about Alan, “although at times it seems like things are happening way too fast,”