Connective Cube

Lissa fears a communal living situation. A few days ago, Maxie changed the subject when Lissa asked where they would stay the night.

The last time Lissa visited Washington DC, she stayed with self-described anti-establishment political artists and activists who could afford to live in a four bedroom house. Her friend begged for her to come down for the Pro-Choice protest event Two couples occupied two of the rooms. Lissa had to share a couch with a stranger, Pam had a twin bed in her room.

Obviously, Lissa approved of abortions. Lissa didn’t have anything better to do, and she just finished a temp job as an admin to some Viacom/MTV executive while his secretary was out for a week. As long as she only spent $10. Maybe $20.

At the event on the Mall, Lissa mostly felt hot, constrained and annoyed that only food trucks with sold out hot dogs and potato chips. They walked back to the train to Adam’s Morgan, and Lissa lost the group when she ducked into a small grocer with apples, Cliff Bars and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. She knew the way back, and she didn’t want to make small talk right now.

That night, Lissa drank too much vodka and sodas in the corner, terrified at how fluidly everyone spoke of the days events. All she remembered was staring at the monuments, assembling North, South East and West and shouting at all the right times and squatting part way down to relieve the synthetic plastic rubbing against her back heel. She walked barefoot back to the house once they all got off the train.

The vomit came out a slushy melange of ridged, brown glop  on top of a philodendron plant. The plant owner insisted that everything was okay, and that she had similar instances back when she used to drink. Lissa took a napkin and wiped a granola glop off a leaf. Both Lissa and the owner grabbed rags – there were no paper towels – and picked up the thicker bits. The bile soaked into the plant, and the owner had a medium size mason jar to dilute the acidic mix.

That night, Lissa shared a sofa bed with a guy that smelled more like booze, and less like vomit. Lissa slept with her head at his toes. His feet didn’t stink. While he was sleeping, Lissa wished she had more water to drink. That would involve potentially waking up the person right next to her living room space Lissa just stared at his foot at 5am, just as dawn creeped into the background.

His feet – with his middle and ring toe extending past the first toe – struck Lissa enough for her to stroke his toes. She did this for five minutes, not particularly caring if he woke up to her rigid caress.

He did wake up, but without the soft and ruddy face of men who love her toes.

“You have been doing that for awhile, haven’t you” he hissed.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

“Well, good job with the necrophelia. Maybe you should sleep on the floor, he said with a sense of snark that Lissa had only ever come out of the mouth of dudes who claim they are indie rock musicians today.

Jerk.

The bus pulls into Philadelphia, below the curves of browned cement, or stone. The whirl on the bus as it turns right, and then left, and then around, then right, sears of a mental list:

Don’t talk endlessly about her crush on Scullye
Don’t brag about how many people she has slept with (14)
Books – what has she read lately? In case the conversation fails
Maybe no one cares why you feel like Mark Corrigan everyday.

“I’m grabbing my bag, meet you downstairs”

“Yeah, I’ll be right down.”