 Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. ADAM Adam, oh, we all like Adam sits a’chair staring at computer screen waiting to be interrupted straightbacked and stiff, as if there’s back trouble, it’s only from being in the orchestra pit of the librarian’s chair. “Whazzup?” he asks, a quick smile lighting up his cheeks like an apple best eaten slowly. MAN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA A far-off lens portrays a man running down the stairs, outdoor stairs in southern California, arms swinging at his sides, as if he has practiced for years, each leg bending at the knee and thigh and ankle, going faster, faster, faster, and I shout Instant Replay but the screen has turned black. THE CREPE MYRTLE IS LATE FOR THE BALL A southern belle, forced by her owner to bloom up here, she caught a cold, and stood lifeless in the front yard. She twisted her infected branches and looked up at the sky. Are ya done with me? she asked. I've lived here five years dancing in place to the Nutcracker Suite. Cold showers from the hose bathed her withered limbs, like Whitman did the dying. More cold showers up and down her once famously beautiful body, the ballerina. She was tough, she was resilient, she refused to die. Her beauty's returned the Belle of Cowbell Road. THE MAN AT THE STARBUCKS How can anyone stand so straight? How can anyone have hair like that? White, all white, with a tiny ponytail peacock-proud to ornament the man in line. Tall, he bent toward the aproned barista. I’ll have Decaf, he said. Here was a man who would sleep well at night. I’ll make a fresh cup, said she. And I heard all, my head turning as I waited for my pumpkin spice latte, which I could barely pronounce. Later, at table, I sat at a distance my curiosity aroused like a calico cat sniffing round the cake plate Whatever was he reading, as his white head dipped deep into the paperback book. A man who would rouse the stars to dream about. WAITING IN LINE The line wasn’t long. I forgot that I don’t have to be busy every minute so I stopped reading the book I would buy. Real life is more important than any history book you’ll buy for your son’s fortieth. A woman with gleaming white hair, the color of the noonday sun, was leaning over, laughing. Good thing I have insomnia, she said. There’s a million cable channels and nothing is…. Yeah yeah. As I read in bed last night, All the Light You Cannot See, the Gloaming White was somewhere in the area, reading herself to sleep, as Dr Amen, Patrick Stoner, and Patti Paige sang to me in the distance. UNBEARABLY BREAKABLE Spider skittered around the slippery porcelain sink with its bits of spinach and peanuts the journey of his life, trying to get free before more cold water came pouring down the spout. A shroud covered his head, with quivering posterior he injected his venom to no avail, and was thrown down a high place, tumbling tumbling, eight legs a-tremble, no web to carry him down. Suddenly. Nothing. MIDNIGHT SWIM She and he were seen from the window swimming. The still moon lit up each naked body. Look at that slim white arm curling from the water, up, then splash, slender as a ribbon. He was nearby, the hair on his arms flattened down like fleece, bubbles spitting from his mouth. The watcher goes back to bed, listening to their splashes – they sound like celebratory ducks – as He and She embrace like majesties, then head for the locker room on shore.
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