probably, I guess so

by Amy Turn Sharp


I am listening to Adele and feeling very British and pale. I imagine that I have on rubber Wellingtons that fit my muscular calves and I walk around the streets of some Northern city and all of the people that I love are inside of a pub two minutes away. It is twilight and when I open the heavy wooden door, the light slices through all of my angst, and shines against my face. I am illuminated and the heat is holding up my chin and there are several pints with my name etched on the cool heavy glass in golden inks.

And every single person that I love is there. Even the dead ones. Even the ones I don't know anymore. They are all there and everyone is mesmerized by one another because at the very root level- I am an amazing matchmaker. I can see through walls and clothes and I know when the heart beats like bongos under cotton. And we all take little chances with each other. And they all say my name.

And I was trying to argue with a scientist recently. I don't think anyone should argue with scientists because they will never let you be right unless you put Schrödinger's pussy in a box and pinky promise that you understand. I think they don't like it when you throw out pure love and tell them that things can't always be solved. They will always doubt your sincerity and mix your metaphors until it is both comical and angry at the same time. Like the way toddlers think. You just wanted to say that people must think differently. That people walk outside onto sidewalks in the sun and some people just think about you in pictures. Some in songs. Some people have words that hang like long ropes across their frontal lobes. Like little nooses. People are so different and some are just stuck. Arrested. Broken a little. The past and the future come together awkwardly and there is no small pill to make it go away into the ether. I think all the doorways of the mind are slightly cracked. That's how the light gets in. Whores hang outside of all of them, slowly tempting you inside with promises that never once meant anything. They do. I go round and visit the rooms marked "past" all the time and all you can see is the red lipstick. You are fine with little lies.

I open the door. It is heavy but the promise of a cold drink and the people make me pull it like a tiger. I am inside now. The past and present exist because I see it like I see the rain make little rivers down the frosty windows. I see it and I know it is true. There is a large chance that I will never leave here.