There's a shiny drop on her nose I can't wait to wipe away. She's almost done - ok, here I go.
"Aw, shit I'm sorry, Liss. Was trying to wipe something off your nose there."
"You fucking punched me, Fredrick! What in the literal mother-FUCK!"
"Yeah, I mean, aw crap. I'm real sorry, Liss."
She's shaking her head pretty hard, oh damn. Ok I can come back from this.
"Like, damn. Really screwed that up, eh?" She's not laughing. Ok, try again. "Let me try again."
"NO! Jesus, no, Fred, quit reaching for my face, you ass. What are you even trying to wipe off?" She wipes it away - damn.
"Oh, well, darn, well it's gone. It was just a drop."
Why isn't she reacting. Say something! SOMETHING!
"Yeah, well just a drop, Liss. That's all it was, y'know I've b-"
"You interrupted and punched me to wipe a drop of fucking sweat from my nose? Jesus. Were you even listening to me?"
Ok I think I'm reading her wrong - she looks mighty mean.
"Well, yeah... It's cute - I was trying to be, but you, too, y'know?"
"Y'know what? Huuuh. I don't know, it doesn't matter anymore. I've got to get back to work, but think about what I said, I guess. I just don't know how much longer I can let it go. Ok?"
She wants me to say it back, but it's not ok. Oh, fuck she's just leaving.
"W-wait! Liss!"
"WHAT?"
"I-I just, y'know-"
"Listen, I said what I wanted to, it was a lot, I know. Just... process. Ok? I really have to go." Fuckfuckfuck. "Ok?"
"Ok." Wait! No, damn, no that's not - oh Liss don't go! I didn't hear what you said! I was distracted! Just say it one more time, please! I suck! I suck I suck I suck!
"Ugh." Fuck sandwiches. 

"Elbreth, the liver's not quite right. Please cook it again."

Elbreth froze in fear. This was the first dish he'd cooked for his new employers. He'd only been cooking for a year or so, anyway. He was a "Butler". Adding the "/Cook" was a survival thing. Necessary, in this economy.

"Of-of course, Mr. Gluffwhich. Would you like me to c-cook it again, or maybe get some more liver and cook that?"

"Don't be pedantic with me, now, Elbreth. You can't cook something more to make it better unless it's too raw. Which is rare." Mr. Gluffwhich licked his lips.

"What Charles means to say, is please cook some more liver," Mrs. Gluffwhich smiled, "only this time, cook it right."

Elbreth gulped.

"Of, course. Of course. Th-the thing is I-I think, that is, I believe, we are out of, of well, raw liver. Should I perhaps, go? And get some more from the grocers?"

"OUT OF LIVER!?!" Mr. Gluffwhich guffawed. "Preposterous, Elbreth. We. Always. Have liver. In this house!" Mr. Gluffwhich put his hands to the dining table, pushed off to scoot his chair back, and rose to face his servant.

"Of-f-of course. Of course. I th-thought as much, but, of course, I simple don't, foolishly, I I think I know exactly where to find, or, well, where exactly it is. The liver, that is..." Elbreth was dripping like medium-rare steak.

Mrs. Gluffwhich chuckled as her husband began to traipse, step by labored step, towards Elbreth's sweaty body, "Ha-haah-ohh, Elbreth. Don't be coy! I think you know where to find it, you silly man. Charles, here, will show you where you can always find some liver."

Mr. Gluffwhich smiled so wide it closed his eyes. He reached his left hand gingerly to Elbreth's shoulder and motioned to the kitchen with his open right hand. Elbreth started walking, but Gluffwhich stayed calmly behind. They entered the kitchen single-file. Elbreth peeked over his shoulder repeatedly and, each time, the palm would egg him forward. They finally got to the fridge/freezer combo.

"Open the freezer, Elbreth," Mr. Gluffwhich smiled again without eyes. Elbreth pulled on the large freezer drawer until it slid out. The inside was filled with dozens of vaccuum-sealed bags of at least 8 types of organs. They were labeled, grouped, and alphabetized.

"So there's brain, heart, aaand liver - here is it," Mr. Gluffwhich reached in and pulled out the bag with "LIVER" written on it in fat sharpie. "Now, come to the counter on the island over here, Elbreth, and I'll show you how I want you..." he trailed off a bit.

Gulps again. Elbreth was mesmerized by terror, miserable with doubt, nauseous with awkward.

Mr. Gluffwhich led the way now: walking to the kitchen island, sliding open a knife drawer, pulling out a gorgeous Japanese 8" chef's knife with turquoise in the handle, and plopping the frozen bag of liver on the counter.

"How can you see when you're so far away, Elbreth," Mr. Gluffwhich asked without looking back. Elbreth sighed quickly, tiptoed up next to the man with the knife, and said nothing.

Gluffwhich lurched as Elbreth got close, grabbing the wrist of his servant in a vice grip. Elbreth yelped and tried to run. But he had realized the obvious solution too late. He could only squeal and begin to cry as Mr. Gluffwhich shoved him up against the island and pinned him there.

"Now this is quite enough, Elbreth. Cooperate or I'll be done with you. Now grab the bag of liver." Elbreth hesitated. "GRAB IT, you FOOL!"

Elbreth complied with a helpless whimper that quickly became a terrible moan. Mr. Gluffwhich raised the knife to eye-level. The glare reflected off of the blade and into Elbreth's eyes, making him avert his gaze upward. He felt the man swing the knife down to the counter.

"OOOHHhhh..." shouted Elbreth, but soon he stopped. There was no pain. He looked down slightly, shocked, and found Mr. Gluffwhich puzzling at him. He looked farther down at the counter and saw the knife sticking vertically out of the liver. Elbreth felt woozy.

"Honestly, Elbreth, I don't know what's gotten into you. Now, take the knife and slice the liver while it's still frozen. This is how I like it - perfect, even cooking. Now, try to cook it once more - we'll have the liver as a little after-dinner treat - WON'T WE, CAROLINE?!"

"Yes, of course, dear!" Mrs. Gluffwhich bellowed back from the other room. Elbreth was still speechless and looked desperately pale.

"Come now, Elbreth, one simple task. Surely it's not... too much for you?"

Elbreth briefly found his voice, "...nuhh..."

"Perfect, then," Mr. Gluffwhich walked casually back towards the dining room as Elbreth started to wobble and lose consciousness. Elbreth's legs gave out after a second or two and he collapsed on the ground.

"His heart is so weak, darling," Mrs. Gluffwhich was in the doorway to the kitchen where she now met her husband. "I wonder how long he'll last." They sighed together and looked down at the pale form of their butler/cook on the ground. They walked over to him and released their embrace. Mrs. Gluffwhich bent over and grabbed Elbreth's ankles, while Mr. Gluffwhich reached under the arms. On three, they lifted the limp man in the air and trudged to the servant's staircase on the other end of the kitchen. 

The Gluffwhiches carried their employee down the 15 stairs that led to his hallway. Mr. Gluffwhich had to readjust his grip at the bottom. Ready again, they waddled down the basement hallway and backed into the room of the fainted man they held. Once lined up against the bed, they dropped him on the sheets.

Mr. Gluffwhich squatted near the bed and lifted Elbreth's body a bit so that Mrs. Gluffwhich could pull the sheets down from underneath. The sheets now released, she placed them carefully over Elbreth's body and tucket them in a bit at the shoulders. The Gluffwhiches shared a wipe of the brow, another (easier) sigh, and a look. They exited the room holding hands and turned off the light.

Today I came into my studio and she finally had worked on the portrait! Still to early to tell if it is a self-portrait, even if I did know what she looks like. She's focusing on the face shape and, I assume, she will paint in the face details once she got the rest just right.

Until today, the painting hadn't changed at all since I started renting half of the studio 3 months ago. 3 months of assuming. First, I assumed she was on vacation. Then, I assumed we had different schedules. Then, I assumed our schedules were mutually exclusive. A month in, I assumed she had died, or been a ghost the whole time. Two months in, I assumed she had gotten pissed when someone (me) had moved into the other half of the studio and was either actively avoiding me, watching me, sabotaging my work, or all three.

How could someone go three months without working? Maybe she didn't do this for money. I did, but it didn't make me much. She was good, though. More than a hobbyist. I mean, she paid for the studio.

I started taking pictures of her half of the studio each time I was there. And, mostly, it didn't change. But there were... little changes. Her hoodie would be laying differently, maybe. Or the easel would face a slightly different angle. Or the stain of a new color would leave itself on the palette - like she was mixing up new colors in the middle of the night, determined to get back on the wagon and finish her masterpiece, only to be crippled by self-doubt once again and give up before she could move the new color to canvas, so she would wash the palette clean to keep it in good condition.

I worried for her.

How could she be so critical of herself? Was she as critical of my work? Or did she praise my work?! Was she so intimidated by my prowess that she couldn't bear to work on her own stuff or even confront or greet me? Was she star-struck?

My God, what have I done?

Maybe I'll make something shitty today. To cheer her up a bit. Maybe she'll be inspired by my mediocrity and find herself again. Shoe herself to me - if she exists at all. Maybe I'll leave her a note setting a time to finally meet in our shared space. It'll say I like her work and want to see more. You can't not reply to a note from your studio-mate, can you? Would she be so heartless? Or would she feel condescended? I certainly could like her work, if she ever finished it. The additions I happened upon today aren't substantial, but they look nice enough. The background looks excellent, actually. Really, excellent. I just want more.

Finish, sweet ghost! Finish your art. Oh, I hope this isn't my fault.

Mrs. Henderson has a surprise for Mr. Henderson: a dozen fresh, little babies!

She promised she'd get them from Safeway on her way home from work and, this time at least, she actually remembered. She had even popped the carton open at the store and tickled each of their little sleeping or cooing heads to make sure they hadn't made a diaper-mess already. These little tykes were whole and clean.

Mr. Henderson is overjoyed! He opens the carton and smiles down at the 12 little babies he's been waiting for. They have her eyes.

Tomorrow, they will have breakfast as a family again. It's been too long.

Oh, it is nice to hear your voice. Not the vague, touchscreen typings that miss your inflections and awkward pauses. And sure, emojis are fun, but they do not compare to that feeling of anticipation and anxiety I get as I prepare for my big solo as I listen to you deliver your trite, predictable message: you're not available right now, you weakly promise to call me back if I leave my name and number. Or, if you haven't taken the time to make your own, I get to hear that lovely woman whisper sweetly:

"Your call has been forwarded to automated voice messaging system. At the tone, please record your message. To leave a call-back number, press five. When you've finished recording, you may hang up or press one for more options." BEEEEEP

Ah - it is sweet. She soothes me. Eases me like an automated conveyor belt into my big moment:

"Hello?" I try, knowing it's useless. You're not there. "Tag, you're it! Ha. Anyway, just trying to get back to you about <whatever it is>. I should be free before 6 to after 9:30 my time tonight. Hope that works for you - otherwise, I guess give me some other times. Oh, and yeah this is Sam. Call me back at 561-577-2308. That's 5,6,1 - 5,7,7 - 2, 3, zero, 8. Thanks! Bye."

Why do I insist on giving my name? You know. You saw my missed call.

I guess it's nice to hope you don't know who it is until I say it. Or maybe you like hearing my voice as much as I like saying it... And my number! Sometimes, I guess it's nice to say, too. Even though you already have it.

It feels nice to go through the motions, leave a message that doesn't shorten itself into a simple "call me back" even when that's all it's really saying. And don't believe the lazy haters - it's also nice to get a voicemail, even if it's from your grandma who clearly just wants you to call her back but is going to take 3 minutes to say that. That labored, predictable message gives me the context for the forthcoming labored, predictable conversation. It primes your expectations and give that warm feeling of being right. It preludes the (hopeful) end of our predictable game of phone tag. 

And, oh!, when I hear that dreaded, "We're sorry, the number you called has a voice mailbox that has not been set up yet..." Woe! Woe - the dreaded pause - two beats longer than it has to be! Her soothing voice shuts the whole thing down so heartlessly calm in one, devastating word, "... Goodbye." I am crushed.

Why, in this age of Peak-Podcast, do we not want to hear the ones we love through the screens of our smartphone lovers? Why do we not want to know just how crucial (or not) it is to call back? Why would we rather take more time to open Messages and type out a less-useful follow-up? Why don't we just pick up the phone?

Ohhhhh, shit it's hot.

Damn, do I need that sucker THIS hot? I mean, I think I want instant iron-to-skin heat transfer, sure. But what's, like, TOO hot?

Red hot, sure, yeah I guess. How hot is that? 2000 degrees?? Jesus. Ok. Ok, yeah that... that looks g-good. Well, it looks like hell. But, I guess that's... what I'm going for here! HAHA! Ok, ha, yeah. Ok.

Pants down? Right now? Right. Right now! Ok. Just a quick unbuckle here, a thumb in my undies' wasteband. Aannndd, here's my butt! Ha. Well, where on my ass would this look good? Or like, look best? Or like, where should I put it?

There? You're just pointing at a random spot - I can't even see it. It's my ass! You promise? Ok, yeah. Ohh, I mean... guess it's better than nothing. You sure right th--WOAH! HA. Woah. Ok, hold on, now. Jesus. Don't just... just THROW it at me there! Gentle, now. I've never branded myself before. Oh you've never branded someone either? .... Ok. Ok, heh.

Bend over? Christ. Ok. Ok, yeah, here... goes! *achem*

I'm trusting you.

Every April since 2012 I've written a little short story/poem (storem!) every day in April. It's a tradition/ritual I'm making public this year. They won't all be great, they won't all be complete, but they'll get the juices flowing. Hope you like 'em!