ｓｈａｌｌ ｗｅ ｄａｎｃｅ, On a bright cloud of music Shall we fly Shall we dance Shall we then say goodnight and mean goodbye Or perchance, when the last little star has left the sky Shall we still be together with our arms about each other
Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another, tree-friendly, its pages reincarnated from diaries of poets who now sit in cubicles. One is small and black like a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide under it— and I wonder why? For every blown out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, [make love to her] her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch as she scrawls her way out.
jughead is homeless and still dressed better than archie for the funeral. damn juggie got that shit pressed and dry cleaned looking dapper as fuck, and then there’s archie wearing a varsity jacket to a funeral??? what kind of fuck shit??????
With the sound of footsteps comes Kara’s shoes appearing under the stall door.
“I know you’re in here.”
And she wonders at that, how Kara can say something like that with absolute certainty, but it’s trampled by the thought of tucking her legs up so Kara can’t see her feet under the door, and then she has a vague memory of that scene in one of the Scream movies, where the killer hides in the stall like that, and it’s terrifying, thinking something is there and then it’s not and—. That’s irrelevant. She won’t do that to Kara.
Her feet stay planted on the worn tiles of the courthouse bathroom floor.
“Lena, I know you’re in there. And if you don’t want to come out, that’s okay.”
Which is good, because she’s going to stay in here until she’s ready to leave.
When Lena arrived that morning, dressed for a funeral with shoes that pinched to match, she’d marches to the front of the courtroom without meeting a single set of eyes on the way. It wasn’t until her mother’s lawyer had come to speak to her that she noticed Kara, corralled with the rest of the press at the back of the room, watching her carefully.