Straight No Chaser

Estrogen and Eventualities

xv.

shannon is coming to town, dallas. incidentally, she will arrive on the same day as dave, boyd, carter, leroi and stefan. she has been raised to resent texas but hopes the trip will be a life-altering experience all the same. if nothing else, she will find a way to slow dance to "two step," and fast dance to "out of my hands." and engage in groupie-style sex backstage, while boyd serenades her with his violin.

xvi.

shannon is on a diet of pretty much meat, salad, and broccoli. these days, she has no qualms with indulging the cravings, even though they include foods previously foreign to her palate; she has to smirk even at herself, in the mirror, shoveling down steak'ums and bacon strips like a catholic after lent. it isn't her fault, she reminds herself, shrugging off the weighty feeling that comes over her after every free-for-all. she's just doing her job, paying her ante to the greatest poker game she's ever played.

he watches from the doorway to the kitchen with arms crossed, adoration playing at the upturned corners of his lips. "what's so funny?" she demands with her mouth full. "you are," he replies as they collaborate on mountains of dishes smeared with steak sauce.

pillow talk is different these days, interrupted by her frequent attempts to get comfortable. he shifts along with her, holding her in the ever-expanding circle of his arms, wordlessly apologetic for her discomfort. "almost to the halfway mark," he reminds her sometimes, thinking, perhaps, that this helps things; really, doesn't he understand how it scares her? several months to go and so much growing left to do--she's always been tiny, compact, made do without the superfluous, no love handles, nothing extra--it frightens her and she cries, it thrills her and she cries; he blames the tears on hormones and he holds, and holds, and holds.

and catches her playing music she ordinarily finds unbearable: slow-moving ravel rondos with understated themes, with the volume turned up for maximum effect. always with her eyes closed, daydreaming; picturing the rhythmic and languid development of a tiny cerebellum and limbic system, watching the tiny cortex crinkle and fold around the somber notes. again, he holds her, coming up from behind, kissing her neck, setting her delicate body humming. "i'm glad it's you," he tells her, sliding his hands to where they belong. "mm?" she asks, smiling as their creation tap tap taps at his palm. "i'm glad it's you," he repeats, as awe buzzes between them like a current. "i know how you wanted this. no one else could do this like you." "oh, that," she murmurs, touching his face, imagining his crystalline features on an infant.

xvii.

shannon is a newcomer on the writing scene. hence the verbosity, overblown and ill-chosen vocabulary, overzealous use of adverbs. she still hasn't learned to modulate. CRASH! everything must happen all at once, with great beauteous melodrama, and it must set HER PERSONAL HEART aflutter for it to count. she is selfish with her characters--they are beautiful and deathly perfect, immune to all human disorder. she hates and envies them, and yet wastes every opportunity to give them their due. forgive her. blame it on her newness.

xviii.

shannon is explaining that the dirt donut is actually sprinkled with oreo cookies. something about biscuits. shannon is showing you exactly where she wants your cock. shannon is wondering why google compiles only the filthiest and most pornographic usages of her beloved name.

xix.

shannon is
intoxicatingly
happy with her fate.
sipping the sweet
ambrosia of
logic and reason,
she wonders why she
didn't think of this before--

overdose on indifference
and all the world's a
darling,
saccharine,
sanguine moon pie of a
blissful free-verse poem,
ahhhh.

xx.

shannon is among the world's least congested, in all physical senses of the world. she prides her sinuses on being perpetually clear and noiseless, forging pointed contrast with those of her father, whose heavy breathing drives her insane.

xxi.

shannon is gone i hope she's drifting off to sea in the raft we bought last tuesday at wal-mart where strange men pointed and leered but couldn't just have the decency to tell her god damn it about the hole in her pants "a nice piece of ass" said one and she was humiliated but somehow thankful because it could have happened later at the bp where the prostitutes lurk and while it sparks her morbid curiosity she isn't actually ready to sell it only to advertise it occasionally from behind

xxii.

shannon is off tonight, and apt to burst into tears at any second.

xxiii.

shannon is a living legend at seventy-nine. the fans have long since stopped expecting another opus and so remain satisfied with what they've labeled "the unfinished series"; at book-signings and on her university lecture tour, she explains (repeatedly, it seems; she must have delivered the spiel one hundred times, starting with yale) that this was by design--she isn't dead yet, and certainly could have penned another novel before her time. that last one ended the way it did by her explicit intention, charging up-and-coming young writers to take her place in the literary world. she will live comfortably off of the royalties throughout her remaining years. in truth, she didn't have to write that one, or any of the last fifteen, and now she's finished, and will wait patiently to see what becomes of the canon after her peacible retirement.

xxiv.

shannon is happy she had the transplant, because now she can function again. with marcus's heart beating in her body, she can smile ruthlessly at crippling pain, press on in the face of emotional adversity, and kick the world in the testicles without the inconvenience of remorse.

sometimes she wonders how he's managing, with hers. she's heard he quit school and is living in the darkest corner of his own basement, curled in the fetal position, whimpering his defeated apologies. they should have done this long ago, she thinks. she tried to tell him, god did she try, how hard it was. now maybe he believes her.

xxv.

shannon is felix's wife and kestrel's roommate. when felix is out of town, she and kestrel rut like rabbits on the berber carpet. he imagines it's sand and says it reminds him of home. sometimes they play moroccan demo cds in the background and eat couscous afterward. felix can't for the life of him understand why they laugh so hard when he lights up one of his camels.

xxvi.

shannon is resting. or, more accurately, she will be in twenty minutes, when her brain slows down. she can't imagine it happening sooner than that.

xxvii.

shannon is pure energy and is sex in motion on stage. purely by coincidence, the establishment where she takes up employment is aaron's favorite karaoke spot, and where he brings aaron every year for their anniversary dinner. shannon is on at eleven tonight. aaron and aaron spot her simultaneously from the front row. aaron gasps and looks away; aaron smirks and stares. aaron winks; shannon winks back. aaron fills a journal entry with the details, including about the couple's post-dinner debriefing session. shannon reels when she reads what they've said about her performance. somehow, she always knew it would be like this.

xxviii.

shannon is my best friend's sister, she is wickedly awesome cool. but, like, she's always stahting stuff, which is really awkwahd for me because i think she's wicked nice but i'm friends with both of them, plus she's got a nicer cahhhhh.