Organic Compositions

by Claudia B. Manley

You live with your mother. That much you've told me.

That's fine with me. I have a roommate. We make arrangements. It's much easier than living at home.

You clarify that living with your mother is different than living at home.

As you speak I see a little flame jutting from the side of your head. I know it comes from the steel plant in the distance, but it amuses me to think that it comes directly from you.

We walk on. You like to stop when speaking. It means that it takes forever to get anywhere.

I like the smell of your skin. As we walk, we shift positions, and this allows me to catch a whiff of you. Others seem to find us curious as you stop to let me cross in front of you to get to your left and then five feet later you pivot behind me.

It's a lovely dance we do.

You goad me on. C'mon, you say, don't stop, keep going, who cares if it doesn't work this time? It could happen the next time you try it and if you don't keep trying, that special "next time" will take longer to arrive.

Although we are still as you speak, I am out of breath. You expect so much from me.

I am dying to touch you. To roll your lower lip between my forefinger and thumb, to gently pluck stray hairs from your neck, to rest my head on your hand.

You and I are list keepers. Those are just some of the things on my list.

You let me see one of your lists. I am as amazed by the beauty of the layout as I am by its contents. I crumple my own list back into my pocket.

Where is it?, you ask.

I only shrug.

Give it here. I know you have it. I saw it on your "To do" list for today.

I do not know when you saw my "To do" list, but I pull the wreckage from my pocket.

You smooth it out along the glass of the cafe tabletop. I feel smoothed by you and sink more easily into my chair.

It takes you almost an hour to straighten and read my list. I watch your eyes.

When you finish you look at me. Don't ever treat a list like that again, you admonish. You know its importance. Then you smile.


You like brunettes. You have made an exception for me.

We're moving. You're thinking. The air swings one way and then the other. We've haven't spoken much since we left the cafe so I am beginning to get tired. To anticipate your movement and then respond takes work.

I am getting anxious.

Just as you stop to say something, I see it. It must show in my face because you say, What?, which I'm almost certain was not what you had originally stopped to say.

My apartment, I answer. I'd forgotten where we were, had lost my bearings as we turned and swerved around each other.

You turn to look. Where?

I point to a building like all the others. There, on the second floor. The one with the fish curtains.

I look at you. In all our walking we've never come this close. You've never been, I say. Do you want to go?

You pause and then reply, I don't see why not.

As we move toward the apartment I make a mental list of things that might not be right at home:

1. My roommate, Ichiro, could be in a state of disgrace. This covers anything from being stoned to napping naked in the living room to crying in front of the refrigerator.

2. The hole in my living room floor. This I know is the reality, but sometimes it feels right and sometimes it doesn't. I never know until I encounter it.

3. The apartment is not as I remember it. Sometimes I imagine different wall colors, room configurations, or number of windows. I'm always convinced that what I think of is correct, and sometimes it is. I have a 63% accuracy rate.


There is a hole in my living room floor because of a fire. The blaze had started slowly and my downstairs neighbor and I would meet in the hallway to discuss whether it was his candelabra or my hibachi that was the cause, but we could never agree. After the perimeter had burned away and my floor/his ceiling collapsed, we stopped meeting. There wasn't sufficient evidence to prove either of us innocent.

You are peering into the hole.

My neighbor has moved, I say. It's almost like having a duplex now.

Today the hole feels right.

You step back and take a seat on the couch. I've turned to watch you and now my back is to the hole. I feel an urge to fall backwards, to float upon the sooty mess of my neighbor's life. But then again, I am afraid and so I step forward.

You don't want anything to drink.

I sit next to you. Can you remember this?

I am easily distracted. You are hyper-attentive.

There is no offer of a backrub. You do not inquire about my roommate. You unbutton my shirt.

There are layers and layers of protection between us and the outside air, but we patiently and silently peel them off, hoping that we're still solid at the core.

Your mouth is strong, this I already knew, but now experience differently. I know too that we are both making multiple lists as we tangle.

We stand, we sit, we move as we have on the sidewalk, but now our warmth collides and sometimes we stick.

No one stops to ask, Is this okay? We are rolling on the momentum built up from all the walking, all the words, and all of our lists that are made and remade every day.


It is late when we've exhausted our moves. You rise from the sofa and stand at the edge of the hole again.

How long will this be here?, you ask.

As long as I can get it to stay.

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