Unbaby Shower

You'd set the timer for the wrong amount of time. It was only supposed to be two minutes, and here it is at minute three of five. That was your mistake, you were nervous, you panicked. Hit the little icon that says CANCEL and put down the phone. It doesn’t matter. You know what you needed to know.



Blue was always your favorite color. What is your favorite shape? You muse on this while you throw things into the trash. A part of you, like the protagonist of some telenovela, wants to arrange these items delicately on top of the trash, so your guests tonight will catch sight of them and be shocked. Let them think you have a glamorous and dangerous life.

Part of you wants to shove them down to the bottom so that no one will see the pink label, the white box, the blue line. Not that anyone will look at the little aluminum trash can, in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. You leave the items as they are. Visible to prying eyes but invisible to casual ones. The secret will either come out or it won’t.



Time marches on ahead, enough said



Wash all the dishes again, hang the string of blue lights in a line from your kitchen down your front hall. Make your bed. Drag the furniture all around, setting this up to be the most comfortable version of your apartment. Chop up a thousand tiny appetisers, a bowl of pistachios, two kinds of olives. The pickles are sliced in two different styles. Put the drinks in the fridge.

You found the leak in the huge blue air mattress, so maybe it will stay inflated this time. A good party has a place for its patrons to flop out and giggle hysterically. That was always your favorite part of parties anyway.



A Fine Blue Line. Wasn’t that the name of a movie? Maybe it was a book.



Set an alarm. Set it for too early, so that you’ll have time to get up and put the last few touches on your apartment. Wonder if you should call him. Don’t call him. Wonder if you should text him. Don’t text him.

He has to find out at some point. Maybe you’ll mention it in a joke. He doesn’t have a right to know, but you have an obligation to tell him.



There's only one way through it


Your nice blue coat is soaked through. You’ve been walking around in the rain for half an hour. Which bus is your friend supposed to be on? Which stop is your friend supposed to get off at? You’re going to be late for your own party.



Time marches on ahead, one day we'll see it


You all flop on the old blue air mattress. It’s holding up pretty well, considering. You thank them all for coming to your Unbaby Shower. You drink more vodka and you laugh.

She paints your face all orange dots and blue lines.



Blue text bubble on your phone. He’s telling you that it’s going to be okay.

“Yeah,” you reply, “I know. I’m probably just hormonal because of menstruation. Hey, at least I’m not pregnant!”




How there's a fine blue line

Running through it

We Are All Airplanes

The basement floor was as cold and hard as always. Sitting on the cold floor was okay if you were wrapped in a blanket, thought Max, who didn’t mind being called Maximilian by his parents and teachers.

Matt, the older brother– who was never to be called Matthias, only Matt– handed out controllers to his best friend and his brother. His features mirrored his little brothers, the same sharp nose, rosy cheeks, and large green eyes. He was 15 and knew everything.

Sat at Matt’s right hand like a scheming archduke was Leonard –not Lenny, never Leo– he took this game the most seriously and was the worst at it. He was the tallest and skinniest, with lank blonde hair sharp features. Even twelve year old Maximillian frequently beat him.

The race began, with frantic pushing of buttons, toggling their cars around and around the track. They leaned and bounced around in their seats, as if tilting forward could help them accelerate, could help them win. The split screen showed them wheeling about underneath parked airplanes, and Max said that next time he should play as an airplane.

“We are all airplanes,” Matt said, and the others laughed. It didn’t make sense, it didn’t have to.



Max moved away from the suburbs of his birth to seek open flats and towering mountains– Big Sky Country. He flies private planes for millionaires who like to keep their lives private. He married a man named Leonard, who goes by Leo, and who always calls him Maximilian. Leo has a square jaw and a beautiful face, a face far more beautiful than his, Max knows.

This is your Captain speaking, he says, and he calls himself not by the family name he shares with Matt, but by his husband’s name, the one he took as his own six years ago.

The planes wait for their chance on the runway, not wanting to crowd together or get too close. The most they interact is brief radio calls, passengers waving at each other as they pass by hundreds of yards apart. One must be far away before the next can move forward. If they moved too quickly it would be chaos, explosions, fatality and lawsuits.





The balcony was cold against bare skin, just as you’d expect. Lying out in the open wasn’t so bad if you were lying next to someone else, thought Maximilian. Leo passed him the joint, a rare indulgence for a pilot, frequently subject to random drug tests. He blew a small cloud of smoke at the big dark sky.

Leo’s finger traced the path of a blinking red light. Do you think you know him, he asked, is that an airplane you’ve flown?

Maximillian took another hit. “We are all airplanes,” he said. Leo giggled helplessly. It didn’t make sense, it didn’t have to.

Snow Days

Years earlier, when Maximillian had still been learning to fly airplanes in Montana, Leo was slipping over the ice in New York City. Snow had been a part of his life every winter since he was born. His mother almost hadn’t been able to get to the hospital because of the snow. His father, terrified of having to deliver his son in the backseat of a car, had gotten out and shovelled a few feet, then gotten in and driven as far as they could, and gotten out and shovelled more. Snow had never been enough to stop Dean Sherman, and it wouldn’t be enough to stop his son.

Leo’s heavy boots slid sideways, and he stopped with a jolt, re-evaluating his path. He placed his feet with careful deliberation and kept walking. Most of the streets were plowed, but the sidewalks were caked in ice. He was almost alone, unusual for 10 am on a Monday, but most of the locals were tucked away inside. This city could handle 102 degree heat, 98% humidity, mosquitos the size of your fist, terrorist threats and oncoming hurricanes. But a give them a little bit of snow and everyone lost their goddamn minds.

When he and Maximilian Franzen finally met, three years later, snow was forecast but never came. Instead they had freezing rains and dashed from the bar back to his hotel room. They ordered room service the next day and hardly got out of bed, laughing and watching tv, listening to the rain pounding down outside. Maximillian told him that he was a pilot, and didn’t get to come to New York very often.

“I won’t even be in New York after this summer,” Leo said. “I’m probably going back to Wyoming to be nearer to my family. So I might not see you again.”

“I’m based in Montana!” Max blurted out. “Maybe… I don’t want to impose, but I would like to see you again.”

“I’d like that too,” Leo said. He drove Max to the airport the next day and they kissed outside of the the security checkpoint before Maximillian got onto his plane and flew it to Hong Kong.

Eight months later the two were reunited, meeting at a diner in Northern Wyoming, when a late summer storm rolled in. Maximillian laughed about Leo always grounding his planes, and they listened as the rain turned to hail for a moment, but the skies cleared an hour later.

Five years after that, married, the two stood in front of their kitchen sink, watching snow pile up outside.

“Looks like you’re grounded again,” Leo wrapped his arms around Maximilian and kissed his neck. “You’re trapped.”

“Well, I’ve been to the Pago Pago before,” Max said sipping coffee. “I’m not missing much. Private jet with all the amenities, a handful of CEOs, all the strippers and coke they can reasonably smuggle.”

“Ugh, all that money and luxury, who needs it?” Leo said, unwrapping himself and turning to the stove. “Pancakes?”

Max nodded his assent, then turned away from the window and sat at the table. “I always loved snow days.”