Taittinger

"Excuse me,

I need an employee to unlock the fine liquor, please." She hurriedly asked.

What a big girl, not even accountable for 21 birthdays, yet here she was, inquiring.

"Who are you trying to kid, kid?" I thought.

But her eyes were too grey and her hair was too straight for dishonesty so I played along.

"I'll be 'round in a minute, dear."

So I finished bagging the pop-tarts and dryer sheets.

She was crouching next to an ancient man, examining the luxery champagne through the plastic barrier. I open it.

"I don't want Nappa Mumm's! I want french, La France. What's this bottle say?"

His decrepit arm could barely hold the bubbly to his tired eyes. She steadied them by holding the neck. I flinched at the near spill of $169.

"Nope that's not authentic either, Nappa again."

More grabbing, more flinching, more steadying.

What patience.

"1996 Taittinger, see? It's french! Not Mumm's, but it'll do right?"

And she held his hand in one champagne in the other as they returned to the register.

She helped him with his wallet, slid his card, and even signed for the damn alcohol.

And like a fluttering moth, she was on her way.

I watched her load him into a white sudan, and drive away.

Such a big girl.

I saw her again, once, alone this time, at the gas station. I wish I knew what business she and those eyes had on this planet.

Routineagers: If.

Dear Johnny,

Hi, It's just Amanda Hathes, your good old friend. So in all honesty I'm writing you this letter (it may not be appropriate to call it a letter just yet--actually--because I'm not sure how long it is going to take for me to say what I need to say, so we'll see...) because I'm not happy with the way things were left off the last time we saw each other. I normally don't do this, and by this I mean write rambling letters, but I have this feeling of regret gnawing away deep inside of me and I fear that if I do not give this feeling an outlet, it will consume me. OKAY that was a little dramatic, but you get the idea. So I guess this letter is a trial run on dealing with conflict because to tell you the truth, I'm way better at communicating in writing than in person, I never write with out thinking and say things I don't mean, or forget what I was going to say in the first place and fib a little literarily... No, that doesn't happen when I write. So here I am, candidly, explaining why I am writing to you. Oh lord I've already wasted a ton of your time rambling, hopefully my little asides with press the hint of a smile on your lips, the way a good letter would (are you smiling?). Hopefully anyways. Back to business, the bottom line is, Johnny, as you may already know, I really like you. Now, I don't mean that in the saccharine "Amanda and Johnny sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g." kind of way, not at all. I mean it in a, "Wow, I find myself superbly content when I'm around you and am compelled to be a better person, the kind of person that could compel you to be a better person and we would both take turns getting better and better until we hit the nirvana of being decent inspiring folks and gee, I wish I was musically inclined so I could write a song that exemplified my feelings of happiness so other people could hear it too and be happy then we'd meet those other people who are happy too and be friends and share this bliss with the world and wow, I'd be willing to change to be more compatible with you because practicality is important to you and I'd be willing to work hard to make things work for this kind of companionship but the work wouldn't even seem like work because we enjoy each other's company so much along the way." kind of way. The kind of like that makes me stop abruptly on a Thursday night, mid-packing-my-life-away-for-university, and hop on my sister's mac and write a semi-coherant, embarrassingly honest rant because it's the only thing I have not tried yet to get you off my mind. A brand of fondness that is permanent and patient, that would say "Hey, it's cool, take your time to sift through all the guts and inner workings of my heart that I just poured in you lap, if you find something you like let me know." So here I am, no barriers, unprotected, wishing that I had had a chance/worked up the courage to chat with you a little more about our relationship before I left. As of right now, standing here on the precipice of my so-called future, there is nothing I fear more in the universe than the two miniscule words, what if. What if we just keep each other, in mind or heart, and later on things work out? What if you think I am insane and are totally creeped out by my copiously long letter and I've doomed our friendship to be eternally awkward and contrived, revise that, what if you've already dismissed my feelings as unwarranted and fickle and have stopped reading entirely? What if the feeling of having a lead ball inside my stomach that is some how simultaneously expanding and contracting never goes away? What if I chicken out (likely) and never send you this and as life would have it, as these things usually go, we grow apart and up (zeugma) and we become vague memories of each other that are only brought out of the mental library and hastily dusted off then put back when the taboo subject of senior prom dates comes up at a cocktail party? What if you feel EXACTLY the same way and are elated to not have been the first person to say something? Probably not... but hopefully your somewhere in the middle of all that. So heres where you come in, please take your time (but not too much because I will be anxious waiting) and do not feel any sort of obligations because of my vehemence. I'm just putting this out on the table, if anything feel flattered and mull it all over. I'll be keeping myself quietly busy at school, waiting and hoping, much like this summer. If you do find a moment, spare a thought for me, and I do wish you the best, Johnny, always.

Amanda Hathes

Melancholing Around

If I possessed a time machine,

a very useful thing.

I'd go back to that January,

and let you know your keen.

And in that milky winter

I'd keep your knuckles warm,

forget why I said "No, sir."

and give into your charm.

If I could ever time travel,

quite a covetable skill.

I'd wander back to those dripping

days of enchanted April.

I'd remove my wellingtons

inside your bluish 'stang

and listen to your musings

in california slang

I'll leave this poem meandering

through unrealized hopes

that were once yours but now are mine

regret hast got my goat.