noiseless

"She had a noiseless laugh. I wanted her to count all the Christopher Radko ornaments with me, the ones on the tree at Rockefeller Center. We skated the tree's shadow, around the zoo-caged ice-rink, until every yahoo left the city. There weren't any lights, just the electricity of the noise people make when they sleep. I was hurt and I don't recall why. In the background Belle & Sebastian was playing, you know that song that goes, 'hey people looking out the window/at the city below,' etc. etc. etc. and all the rest of the lyrics that fit the Freudian couchlike psychobabble that we make our wordsmith money from."

---

"Do you think it's okay to make a pasta sauce out of a store-bought marinara, but using sauteed onions and garlic and maybe some peppers?" she asks, as I smile at her use of 'store-bought,' something my mother would say.
"Yes, but if you don't want to spend a shit ton of time on the sauce, find some truffle oil and then you can just sautee some garlic and onion, and maybe some porcini or chanterelle mushr--"
"--you don't think portabellas would work?" she interrupts, frantic.
"Oh yeah, but if you are trying to impress someone who has an Italian family, you have to go for a more exotic fungus."
"True, but I don't want to stress over trying something new so I think I will go with the marinara, and aside from that, I don't have time to drive all over Knoxville on the hunt for exotic truffle oil."
"Yes, I forget where you live," I hold the usual subsequent joke, "For some reason I feel like we've had this conversation before, oh wait, because we have, except our discussion centered on umeboshi paste instead of mushrooms, and by the way, why do you always call me for cooking advice?"
"You know why...because you have these scrumptious recipes and I love your food."
"Yeah, well, I usually make the shit up as I go or use ones I stole from the co-op."
"You stole recipes? How did you get copies?"
"I made copies in my head but back to your pasta, yes, portabellas are fine but I would slice them thinly unless you like a chunky sauce."
"I don't, ok, slice...thin..ly," I can see her writing down the tip, like a line note that tells the fingers which ivories to hit next.
"You have to write that down?"
"I want to get this right, now."
I want to tell her 'god, I miss your nows,' but instead I say, "I know you do. Kudos on the decision to focus on the mix cds rather than the food; they are so personal, so intimate."
"I look forward to the one you made for Tiff."
"It'll be in the mail tomorrow, but remember the last song is the most important for me to give to her because of that one line."
"Which one?"
"If you still want me, please forgive me."

---

"Then I clamored up this hill after crossing a narrow stream that had a current that backed into itself, but the strange part is that there were all these badmitten rackets and birdies lying on the ground, hundreds of them, like a field of sunflowers that had been chopped down. When I finally got to the top of the hill, I realized someone had been chasing me since I left the city, and she was there, waiting for me. I could not see her face, but I know she had a noiseless laugh...What do I mean by that? The rest of the dream had music, noise, even the stream was noisy with water and the grass made a loud crunching noise under my feet. Maybe I should say her sound was off, but I think noiseless laugh is more accurate. Hm? Oh, because her mouth was open, as if she were either laughing or singing; it couldn't have been singing...because even when a song is muted, I can hear the lyrics, I can read lips. Maybe that's what Beethoven did. Maybe he read the lips of every ivory key or string. Maybe he learned the language of noiselessness."

---

"Which cds do you want me to put in the changer?"
"I don't know."
She looks up from her checklist of things to do before we leave for Vermont, "Well, which ones should I put in there?"
"I'm not the only one going on this trip...what do you want to listen to?"
She smiles, "Okay, I'll take care of it, finish your writing."
"Tiff?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Everything, but I don't expect you to suddenly forgive me."
"I already have," she says standing up to go into the house.
"But I--"
"Ashley, I just haven't said it in my own language."
I put in my headphones to listen to 'my heart is an apple,' the mix I made for her, and she makes a noiseless path across the wooden planks of the porch. Nina Simone sings "no one alive can always be an angel," and I watch her begin the task of packing the bags and the cooler. I hear my mother, with whom I haven't spoken in months, say in her southern colloquial voice, "Ashley, actions speak louder than words," as if she appeared in a dream just to mouth that worn out aphorism. Tiffany appears in the doorway, as if she arrived from a dream, just to hand me a cup of coffee and mouth the words, "I love you," as if her noiseless breath defibrillated the cliche right out of their heart-failured chest.