Connective Cube

Cassandra stands in a slow moving line for the alpine slide. She checks her phone, anxious about the battery running out in the next 20 minutes. Hopefully her sons will remember to meet her by the entrance of the slide.

The line lurches forward. With the line and ride, Cassandra figures she has 20 minutes to get on the slide. How long would the ride last? Five minutes?

Her sons wanted to ride on the alpine slide, a contraption so high that they have to take a ski lift up the brush covered mountain. Cassandra trusts a log on a pulley more than a free floating blanket on the slide.

Her husband gets back from the convention in three hours. He oversees a large digital marketing department back home in Maryland. They finally could afford a vacation again, but they keep it cheap by having the hotel – and some airfare – covered. After all, they just paid off their credit card debts.

Last time Cassandra took a painting class, she wondered if she would ever see true sienna. Varying hues of orange brown swept the landscape, and at many micro-seconds the harmony of the orange and green seem perfectly complementary. The expansive space and dramatically shifting rifts of a panoramic landscape made her feel ill at ease. Usually she is nestled within the trees, aware of the slight inclines. Panoramas like this typically exist within a 45-minute drive for Cassandra – always a destination rather than part of driving down the highway.

What is brown’s compliment? Grey? Even the white has its black.

Cassandra turns off her phone when she lifts the metal bar and sits on the thick plastic wood painted slide. The chair’s slight cushion is a welcome respite after standing for a half-hour. She eyes the log in front of her turning to the left over the bridge connecting one micro valley to the other. She takes out her phone, fumbles with the screen, and takes a picture of the sign ‘Entering the Ride – Please Fasten Your Seatbelts’ with the log in front of her and the end of the bridge in site.

After the bridge, she someone whooshing quickly past her on the right. She takes a picture of the incline nestled between dry pine trees. The quiet of the background at times gets punctured by delightful squeals and gleeful screaming. Maybe she would get a motorcycle or replace her bike when she gets home so she can feel the breeze tangle and cool her head during quiet spring days.

The apex turns sharply to the right and holds her for a moment. She clasps her giant lime green bag and grabs onto the handle bar with her phone underneath. The log lurches forward, slipping her grip. Her phone ricochets of the front of the log. Unable to lean forward far enough to grab it, the ride moves forward. Her phone falls back into the shallow entrance of the log.

Cassandra feels her heartbeat increasing. Without her phone, she can’t contact her husband or children. What if she can’t find anyone? The boys can’t drive to the hotel. She lodges her foot to the right of the log, but it keeps slipping with the downward twists, turns and motion of the sienna tinged chocolate brown track. The phone clatters back and forth in the hard plastic cubby.

A sharp right turn – the sharpest one yet – appears after a slow decline. Cassandra curls her toes and scoots it to the cubby. She clenches her thights and calves, determined, and annoyed that she didn’t put her phone in her bag.

The bottom of the mountain is in sight, and she sees her children waiting at the entrance of the ride. The phone stays secure in the cubby. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for the slowing speed of the log. Maybe she would have a margarita tonight.

My arms, my arms!

Marcy exclaims as her trainer screams like a pitbull underwater in the distance.  Stopping won’t shut her up.  She doesn’t know that it is much easier to drink sweet tea on the porch.  There is a ball on my head, and all Marcy can do  is try to bend her arms slightly so the lactic acid won’t melt her muscles.  Why does lactic acid not burn muscles, nor any of the acids that flow through the body everyday?

Whenever Marcy sat in Biology class in high school, she imagined that aerobic exercise would create a bubble hot milk that would melt the fat.  But where would the liquid sieve?  In pee?  Or would it be like peanut butter streaked through chocolate ice cream?

That thought gets Marcy through three more pushes, and she has 20 to go.  The extra 15 pounds on each of her arms feel like they will collapse to the ground every time.  She wants to throw the weight in the air and collapse on the prickly green grass.  10 more to go.  Does she have to?  Again?

I cross my right leg over my left, over my right again.  That’s what the yoga instructor says.  Knowing that I must settle, I leave my legs open.

Whenever I sit in front of someone new and talk, all I can imagine is a trickle of blood running down my nude stockings. 

When I walk on the street, I still walk in the middle late at night.  I scuffle to the side when a car passes, and walk briskly by empty lots. 

What if my bike chain breaks on the bridge balk to my house?  I don’t have anything on me but my ID and bank card with $2.00 on it until tomorrow at 4am. 

I fold my legs into my chest when I watch movies to prevent falling asleep.  Sometimes I fall asleep hovering over my knees.