What's the point of the tactile?
I'll take you to Denice Clemens' basement. It smells like ramen noodles; if you look around in the dusty dark, you'll find a wide variety of bowls with shallow levels of broth and questionable flecks swimming in it. A white cat sits in the windowsill up at the top, and turns her small face to see you. You bet she'd bite off one of your toes just to spite you.
Denice fills up a chair facing a computer with a cracked monitor. She is writing for a roleplaying game website. From behind, you see she is wearing a black t-shirt with lists of cities on the back. It could be a concert shirt, or perhaps a convention lineup. Denice furiously types.
"Denice?"
She turns sharply. You are her old boyfriend. She didn't realize you were in town, much less in her basement. Well, her parents' basement.
"Carl. What are you doing here?"
You step forward just one step and crunch something. You decide quite quickly you'd rather not know what it was. "I wanted to see you. Your mom let me in. She's baking up there."
Denice gets up out of her swivel chair. She is large. She'd never been thin, but rolls of fat hang over her dark wash jeans, and her cheeks take up more space on her confused face. "I would have, I mean I-" She starts twirling a pink ring around her finger just like she used to when uncomfortable.
"How have you been doing?" You ask. "You stopped responding to my letters, and I wanted to check in."
"Well, I didn't die, so." She has an edge to her voice, and the white cat flops down from the windowsill to press itself against Denice's calf. An awkward silence fills the room. You notice a billiard table covered in boxes of CDs and tupperware. You exhale through your nostrils as you realize Denice is down her on her own. All the time.
"Carl, I'm kind of busy."
You turn back to Denice's hardened eyes. They're concealing, rather poorly, a repressed embarrassment. The heavenly smell of homemade banana bread wafts downstairs. You can still taste the moist, mild sponginess. Mrs. Clemens always baked it whenever you came over.
It was a lovely day outside. Sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Denice looked pale. Dark circles were bruised underneath her big, brown eyes. Big, lovely brown eyes that made you fall. "Come on, Denny. Let's go for a walk."
I'll take you to Denice Clemens' basement. It smells like ramen noodles; if you look around in the dusty dark, you'll find a wide variety of bowls with shallow levels of broth and questionable flecks swimming in it. A white cat sits in the windowsill up at the top, and turns her small face to see you. You bet she'd bite off one of your toes just to spite you.
Denice fills up a chair facing a computer with a cracked monitor. She is writing for a roleplaying game website. From behind, you see she is wearing a black t-shirt with lists of cities on the back. It could be a concert shirt, or perhaps a convention lineup. Denice furiously types.
"Denice?"
She turns sharply. You are her old boyfriend. She didn't realize you were in town, much less in her basement. Well, her parents' basement.
"Carl. What are you doing here?"
You step forward just one step and crunch something. You decide quite quickly you'd rather not know what it was. "I wanted to see you. Your mom let me in. She's baking up there."
Denice gets up out of her swivel chair. She is large. She'd never been thin, but rolls of fat hang over her dark wash jeans, and her cheeks take up more space on her confused face. "I would have, I mean I-" She starts twirling a pink ring around her finger just like she used to when uncomfortable.
"How have you been doing?" You ask. "You stopped responding to my letters, and I wanted to check in."
"Well, I didn't die, so." She has an edge to her voice, and the white cat flops down from the windowsill to press itself against Denice's calf. An awkward silence fills the room. You notice a billiard table covered in boxes of CDs and tupperware. You exhale through your nostrils as you realize Denice is down her on her own. All the time.
"Carl, I'm kind of busy."
You turn back to Denice's hardened eyes. They're concealing, rather poorly, a repressed embarrassment. The heavenly smell of homemade banana bread wafts downstairs. You can still taste the moist, mild sponginess. Mrs. Clemens always baked it whenever you came over.
It was a lovely day outside. Sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Denice looked pale. Dark circles were bruised underneath her big, brown eyes. Big, lovely brown eyes that made you fall. "Come on, Denny. Let's go for a walk."
