floating in a tin can
I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and as you enter it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

- margaret atwood

June 2017

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Feb. 8th, 2015


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IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND


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March 13th, 2015
It’s around 8:30 PM on a Friday night, and Michael and Wolfgang are sitting in a booth at a Lower East Side deli. It’s quiet and slow for a Friday—Shem’s place is always slow—and it would be nice if that could help Michael feel any calmer, but it doesn’t. Nothing could do that right now. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to run. Out the door, through the wall, anything, as fast as he can and as far away as he can get. He’ll take Wolfgang with him. They don’t understand why neither of them should be doing this.

The two of them have been looking for somewhere to live together, and although they haven’t yet found a place they can both agree on, it’s only a matter of time. That’s not the problem; that decision they’d sat on for three months (three whole months!) before making and although it scares the shit out of him, it’s something he’s grown to desire deeply. Wolfgang eventually mentioned, though, that they didn’t understand how Michael could make such a commitment when they hadn’t even introduced them to his father, who lives in town—who currently lives with Michael.

He’d been hoping they wouldn’t bring that up, that they wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care or that they’d get the hint that it wasn’t a good idea. He’d tried to tell them, then, that they really shouldn’t bother meeting Morris, it wasn’t important, but Wolfgang seemed hurt by that, and then he felt horrible. The more the two of them talked about it, the more his lack of choice became obvious. Morris had been getting suspicious anyway, and Michael had to give him a reason for moving out. Something he’d believe. Michael is a terrible liar and Morris knows it.

So now they’re sitting here waiting for Morris to arrive, and Michael feels anxious enough to be sick. He can’t stop shifting around in his seat, looking out the window and then at the door and then back out the window and then around the restaurant. He adjusts and readjusts his stretched-out shirt collar like it’s choking him. It feels like ants are running all over his skin.

“I can’t take this,” he mutters. “This is terrible.”
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Dec. 23rd, 2014


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[No Subject]


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[sms] I need your help with something
[sms] Do you have time tonight?

Wolfgang hasn't slept in 36 hours. Their place was starting to look like a home, not a homeless person's squat, but now the front room looks like an arts and crafts supply truck rammed into it. Miscellaneous crap litters the floor — ribbons and cardboard, bits of grass, feathers, small charms, strips of rawhide, cotton balls, herbs and bags of spices, flowers, bits of candy, stickers...

Not to mention the tornado of books, everything from picture books to enormously fat tomes. Most are fiction; a majority are fantasy or sci-fi. Many are illustrated. There's paper, too, mostly cheap lined paper, and coloured pencils, and sketches scribbled all over them.

Wolfgang is muttering to themself as they wrap a bit of twine around a small lidded box. They're seated on the floor, the eye in this craftsy storm, hair disheveled and dark circles dragging under their eyes. Their head jerks up when they feel another presence in the room, blinking rapidly, slightly unfocused. “Oh, hi. I was just working.”

... yes, that much is obvious.
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Oct. 12th, 2014


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be my homeward dove


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September, 1969
Los Angeles, California

Lee was still asleep when they got on the plane, and only began to stir when they stepped off. It's hot in New York in the summer, a close, thick heat that smells like cooking garbage. Los Angeles is hot too, but there's a breeze coming in from the ocean.

She's been sleepwalking the past couple of weeks, more zombie than human, but whatever quiet drama is going on in her head has been vastly overshadows by the riotous one going on at Sterling Cooper Draper Whatever it is now. Lee's not sure what's going on exactly, only that Michael didn't have a job for a week, and now he has a job waiting for him back in New York at some new firm, with some fancy title and no guarantee as to how long it will last. It could tank within a year. No one knows.

Given that, now is the only time they could have fucked off to California for two weeks.

Lee is happier out here, that much is obvious. She woke up, she's active and engaged. She spends a lot of time out by the beach, though after Michael turned an alarming shade of red she finally agreed to start doing other things, other indoor things, as well. When she's on her own she still spends most of her time outside, sunning herself like a lizard, until her skin has a lingering warmth to it like a baked stone. The sun baked her skin brown and bleached her hair white, and she always has the briney, salty smell of the sea clinging to her.

She still sleeps late, though, often not getting up until noon, like today. Michael's gone to walk off some of his continuous overabundant energy, but she stirs when the door opens again and even sits up, blinking blearily from a ragged curtain of her hair. “Michael,” she murmurs sleepily, reaching one hand for him and opening and closing her fingers. “Neshama, come here.”

Sep. 10th, 2014


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DON'T THROW AWAY YOUR PLAYFUL BEGINNINGS


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December 25th, 2014
It's Christmas, 3 PM. Michael's up early.

Normally he doesn’t spend any time in bed once he’s awake, but he feels cozy and calm like he’s had a good dream for once, and there are a couple texts waiting on his phone from Wolfgang. That’s a good present. He peruses them lazily under the covers and writes back with a bearable level of shyness, trying for the billionth time not to think about kissing and touching. He’s been distracted at work all week. Stan is starting to ask questions about his ‘cell-phone girlfriend.’

There’s only so long Michael can feel peaceful as he is, though, because his dad is blasting the TV in the other room. It’s hard to fight past the reflex to call to him through the door, Turn it down, Pop, come on!—but he regrets now all the other times he fought with Morris about the volume, in the months and years before he knew his own ears were the problem. So he says nothing, opting instead to cut his own comfort short and head outside. Being free on Christmas in New York City isn’t something everyone gets to experience, and this year he’s freer than usual.

The texts from Wolfgang said that the shop is going to remain open today in case anyone has ‘holiday emergencies,’ and they're going to work the normal sort of hours, no arbitrary breaks. Michael had replied saying that was fine and he understood, but he’s learning how Wolfgang is—if you leave them alone, they’ll get so absorbed in whatever they’re doing that they won’t eat or drink or breathe until something interrupts them and reminds them they’re alive. God knows what they’ve been doing all day, because there can’t be that many mutants rushing in and out of there. They probably haven’t had lunch yet, so Michael decides to surprise them with some.

A lot of places he checks are closed, but it’s not as much of a pain in the ass to look around as it used to be—staying in the dark and feeling out the city is a lot faster than making a bunch of annoying calls. Eventually he finds one of the good burrito joints has kept its doors open, and rewards them with some business and a few compliments (“Nothing even smells weird in here!”) before heading over to the District.

The shop is the easiest place to travel to now, even simpler than Madison Avenue. The minute he steps through to the in-between, he wants to reach for it, look for it—and much of the time he does, just a brief check to make sure Wolfgang is okay. It’s almost harder not to. He only looks in the front of the shop, because looking in the back would feel wrong, but the front is where they are most of the time anyway. Sometimes he steps over so quickly he doesn’t really watch what’s happening on the other side before he gets there.

That’s what happens now.
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Aug. 15th, 2014


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birds are singing to calm us down


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July 20th, 1969
Lee is doing better, now — there was a while there where it was frightening, the way she withdrew. For three days she didn't speak, didn't eat, it was a struggle to get her to drink water. She was sort of present, mentally, but distant, distracted, like she was half somewhere else the whole time, lost somewhere inside her own head. Lee has always been depressed, he knows this about her, that she gets blue for no reason, but this is different. When it passes, she won't talk about whatever it was. She doesn't seem to understand that anything was different.

She talks to people who aren't there. She listens in on the walls. She regards the front door with suspicion, and complains about hearing footsteps above them — nobody lives in that apartment. He catches her scrutinizing her teeth in the mirror, then acting like she wasn't looking. She keeps trying to guess what he's thinking and failing, and she plays it like a joke or a game but she seems suspicious and disturbed afterwards. All of that is bizarre, but it doesn't stop her from living a regular day-to-day existence; it's the things she doesn't do that are hurting her.

She's finding it harder and harder to work, because it's hard to get out of bed. At the Chelsea she lived with a photographer, he'd wake her up at 3 in the morning if he had a brilliant idea he needed to shoot right then, and he was always dragging her to parties. At Michael's, nobody is there to force Lee to socialise. Nobody is there to drag her out of bed for a 2 o'clock shoot, or throw a party around her so she's in the middle of it anyway. She's frequently late or absent altogether, and how difficult she is to get a hold of is becoming a problem, particularly given that there are days when Michael comes home from work and Lee has still not even gotten out of bed. She's tired. She can't focus. Brushing her hair and getting up to go to the bathroom are difficult tasks for her.

She can't hide it the way she used to, where she'd disappear somewhere else for a few days and say she was ill. Sometimes it worries her. Sometimes she doesn't even notice that something is wrong. Her social withdrawal and lack of passion and motivation are just typical to her. Everyone knows Lee is shy and sensitive, so being sad a lot and not wanting to talk to a lot of people seems like it should be normal.

But she's fine now. She's awake and active and present. She woke up around ten and got out of bed. She brushed her hair. She ate breakfast, all of it, and did the dishes still left in the sink. She remarked wryly on something in the news and climbed out on the fire escape to smoke a cigarette. She was reading a book earlier, another thing she doesn't do when she's ill, and now she's on the sofa with him, writing and doodling in her journal. It's like whatever was going on before just never happened.

Michael is sitting bolt upright beside her, eyes glued to the TV where Walter Cronkite is covering the Apollo 11 landing, but it's not going to happen for another fourteen minutes. Lee is laying horizontally like she likes to, draped with her head in his lap, glancing at the television sideways sometimes to make sure she doesn't miss it. She still can't quite believe this is really happening; it seems like the stuff of science fiction still, men putting their feet on the moon. Eventually she pokes Michael in the leg. “You're tense.”

Jul. 8th, 2014


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TURN THE WHITE SNOW RED AS STRAWBERRIES


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December 20th, 2014
It's snowing outside but it's warm in the bar, where there's low light and a low level of noise this evening. Much more pleasant than the skating rink which had been Michael's first idea; Bryant Park was overwhelmingly crowded, and he and Wolfgang made up their minds to leave after taking a single look at it. Michael is fairly sure Wolfgang isn't disappointed—they'd been skeptical of the whole idea of skating, saying that ‘strapping knives to your feet and trying to move around’ was insane—and going to a bar afterward had been their idea, specifically somewhere quiet.

The atmosphere in here is something different than he's used to, but it's interesting, he thinks he likes it. He'd heard about it at some point, that it was famous as a literary bar, and that seemed like a Wolfgang-ish thing. A clever thing. As for drinking, it isn't something Michael does much, but it's a holiday, and a date, and it's winter, so he'll let himself relax a little.

Officially it's their third date, but they've seen a good amount of each other since going to the beach. Michael's been stopping by the shop every so often after work, hanging around to chat or showing off some new trick he's learned. Texting is alright (they do that a lot), but it's not as good as the real thing. He's found himself getting more acutely lonely than he used to, and it's bothersome and strange and makes him feel needy. He's not sure what to do about it.

But it's not a problem tonight, because right now they're sitting next to each other at a small, narrow table near one of the exits. It faces the wall, built into it like a mini-bar, and hung right in front of them are various pieces of art. Michael has a tumbler of rum. It's his second one and he's sipping slow, face feeling fuzzy. He's very aware of Wolfgang close beside him, their shoulders nearly pressed together.
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Jul. 5th, 2014


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[No Subject]


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November 25th 2014
[picture message] http://31.media.tumblr.com/de3b8291e1870605896917825de14475/tumblr_n7r4837RYc1tu0z5no1_500.jpg
[text] Oops sorry. Ignore that.
[text] How are you?
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Jun. 22nd, 2014


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i need the darkness, someone please cut the lights


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November 22nd, 2014
The thing Wolfgang likes the most about their shop is that the back room is huge. The place used to be a bakery, though it's been gutted of most of the equipment — no industrial oven or refrigerator, which is a bummer because Wolfgang would have loved either. Still, they have a lot of space to live in. They've got a cot with a sleeping bag; a microwave, hot plate, and electric kettle; a miniature refrigerator; two sinks, and the one in back is deep enough that they can bathe out of it and wash their hair; and a small bathroom.

There might be some kind of law against living in the same place you're using as a business. It's not zoned for residential use, or something. Maybe? Maybe. So they try not to make it so obvious they live here; no one gets to go in the back.

They've settled in quite well, though. That things are looking up makes them nervous, they're always waiting for something disastrous to happen, something they'll have to flee from again. There have been a few near misses. But as long as they keep churning out helpful little charms and potions and amulets, few people care too much to look deeply at the rest of it. The occasional thrown bricks and spraypainted graffiti clearly come from outside the community. It's just a lot of nonsense about satanism and devil-worshipping blah blah.

As usual they can be found inside, seated on a stool behind one of the counters, working on a project. Their legs are bent, one foot on the seat, head bent over their task. Today they've got their jewelry making tools spread out around them, gazing through the lens of a magnifier anchored to the counter as they fiddle with something small and delicate and silver. A woman, a Professional, someone with the money and status to not have to live here, asked for a piece of jewelry that looks a little more inconspicuous — like something you'd get from Macy's, not Etsy — so it's taking more time than usual.

Also as usual, it's quiet in here, most of the noise from the busy streets outside cut off at the door except for quiet music. (It doesn't take long for most people to get the impression that Wolfgang is kind of a hipster; today it's Neutral Milk Hotel.) Smells good, too. Like milk and honey. Wolfgang is so absorbed in their task that they almost miss the bells jingling when the door opens, and they don't raise their head for a long time. “One minute.”
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Jun. 17th, 2014


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YOU'RE GIVING ME THE CREEPS


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October 31, 2014
It’s Halloween. Michael hates Halloween.

A lot of mutants have grudges against it. Others love it. Michael used to be bitter, especially as a child, because he felt it was hokey and juvenile and tried to make it seem like there was no such thing as real monsters in the darkness that could hide in your closet or appear out of nowhere. Now he’s just irritated because he’d be the best at scaring the shit out of anyone in New York, and instead of being the life of the party he’d probably get put in prison.

So he’s not celebrating. In lieu of that, he’s doing what he’s been doing most nights since May: practicing. He’d been put off of it for a couple weeks in August after seeing Wolfgang again (and the subsequent disastrous not-talk with Morris), but had eventually decided that being insane wasn’t going to make his abilities any less real. Since then, it’s only made him more determined to gain as much control over them as he can. If he’s crazy, he has to be twice as careful.

For the past week or so, he’s been experimenting with distance. How long can he make a shadow? How far can he travel from one to another? He has a goal for the second one tonight: his room to District X. Much farther than he’s tried before. Nerve-wracking. He still doesn't know what happens if he fucks it up.

Don’t overthink it, Ginsberg. Taking a short breath, he puts his hand on a shadow on the wall next to his dresser, and slips into another place.
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Jun. 10th, 2014


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wide-eyed leaver, always going


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August 10th, 2014
It happened in June; a terrible explosion in Bed-Stuy, not far from one of those cheap pay-by-the-hour roach hotels the city is always trying to shut down. Nobody is sure what caused it, and actual reports of the incident vary wildly, most reporting things so obviously impossible that nobody's eyewitness testimony can be trusted. The media briefly speculated terrorism, but the panic over that died down quickly when it turned out no one was hurt and nobody stepped forward to claim credit for it. The incident eventually came to be buried under various and sundry more pressing tragedies that garnered more ratings.

Two weeks later, overnight, the building was standing exactly where it had been before, not a single brick out of place. Nobody could ever explain it.

——

In late July in District X, a shopfront that had stood empty for years (nobody is falling all over themselves for real estate here, and it's not the best neighbourhood to open up a business) takes down the 'For Lease' sign; a few days later the door is unlocked. There's no sign and the window displays are empty, a white backdrop hiding the inside from street view. You have to know where you're going to find it, it's word of mouth only.

People claim they saw a tall, angular man with salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee hanging around the neighbourhood. Not a mutant, they say, but... something Other.

Inside the store, it's as run-down as ever, the walls waterstained and ceiling cracked, with shitty dim fluorescent lighting. But it's full of stuff, now, locked glass countertops full of things — small amulets in the shape of eyes and hands, old coins, small slips of paper in glass bottles. It doesn't take long for it to build a reputation. People say it's haunted, that you can see ghosts hovering in the corners, disappearing if you look at them directly; they say you can hear noises from it at night, and strange lights.

But the front door jingles when you open it and an iPod in an old speaker tucked in the corner plays quiet indie rock and 60's folk, not the Gregorian chanting you'd expect from a supposedly haunted occult store.

They're standing with their back to the door, grinding some kind of leaf into a paste with an old-fashioned stone mortar and pestle when the door gives off its tell-tale jingle, but they don't turn around right away; they're a tall figure in a white v-neck and skinny jeans rolled up at the cuffs, bare feet, blonde hair reaching their shoulderblades. “Just a minute,” they say in highly accented English.
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May. 31st, 2014


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I'M A SENSITIVE BORE


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May 23, 2014
It’s 1:42 AM when Michael Ginsberg ducks into a 24-hour McDonald’s. He’s familiar with most of the all-night fast food places within (what he considers) walking distance of home, and some of them (like this one) are familiar with him. He hangs around certain areas more than others, and tonight he’d wanted something friendlier, at least on the surface.

He’s not surprised when he sees someone else in line. It’s New York, there are always people awake. A couple others are hanging around in corner booths, staring at their smartphones or wearing earbuds like they’ve got nowhere else to be. The person at the counter—the very, very tall person, over half a foot taller than Michael—is taking their time too, spreading out small change everywhere, counting it again and again.

Michael’s not the best at reading people, but the cashier might possibly be getting impatient. It’s enough to make him curious. He wanders up to check things out because his nosiness is irrepressible, and what are social boundaries anyway?

“Hey, what’s—um.” He blinks a couple times. Not what he was expecting. His fingers twitch. “Wow, your hair is pretty.”
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May. 11th, 2014


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so long to you moderates


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June 28-30, 1969
For two days there's no word from Lee.

She told Michael earlier that week that on Friday she had a thing to go to, a friend's birthday. She came for Shabbat dinner like she always does, then left around eight or nine. He decided to stay. He had work to do, hates bars, sometimes she goes to these things without him, they're not that codependent. Lee said she would be back in the early morning, maybe one or two, he'd probably still be up but he shouldn't wait up for her.

That was two days ago.

In the early morning hours on Saturday, the riots started. Living in the Village, it was impossible to miss them; word started spreading even before they'd reached a fever pitch that could be heard blocks away. Saturday evening on Christopher Street, it happened again — people gathering, at first just to talk, but it soon led to shouting, protesting, jeering the police who showed up. Bystanders and tourists surrounded the area, mingled in the crowds. Everyone staring at the burned-out remains of the Stonewall; it looks like they dropped a bomb on it. People are saying they had agent provocateurs in the crowd, trying to goad people into further violence so the police had an excuse to let loose again with their batons. The first night the police were taken off guard, they didn't expect a bunch of homeless kids, street hustlers, and drag queens to fight back; the next night, they come prepared. People are saying they had seventeen people arrested.

No sign of a blonde head towering over the crowd. No hint of a Middle Eastern accent shouting with the rest.

Finally, finally, Monday evening, someone called. “Hey, man — hey, is this uh, Michael...?”

The address he was given is on the other end of the neighbourhood. It's one of those pay-by-the-hour fleabag hotels, the kind where the walls threaten to come down around you as you stand there, God forbid you should breathe too hard and blow the asbestos out of the walls. Someone waits to meet him outside, just to make sure he's cool, he's not a cop, and then leads him upstairs into a small rented single room with a crappy stained bed that is wall-to-wall packed with people milling around, some still in the remnants of Friday night's drag, most nursing some kind of injury.

There's Lee, finally. Her back to the door, laying on the bed. There is an impressive rust-red stain on her back, leaking down from the neckline, but her hair is clean, her head unbandaged. When she turns around, her pale face is clear, no contusions, no dark marks, no bloody wounds. Her slightly unfocused eyes fill with tears. “Michael,” she says. People quickly clear a path.

Apr. 24th, 2014


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she lets the river answer that you've always been her lover


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June, 1969

and you know that she will trust you for you've touched her perfect body with your mind. )

Mar. 31st, 2014


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A QUIET, STARRY PLACE


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May 19, 1969
It's Monday night. The lights are out, the apartment is still, and Michael and Lee are in bed. The muffled sound of cars on the street filters through the closed window. Somewhere above them, hurtling away from Earth at impossible speeds, is Apollo 10. Michael lies awake, unable to stop thinking about it.

He's not sure whether Lee's currently awake or not. She's lying on her front, hair totally obscuring her face. They'd worn each other out earlier.

He scoots closer to her under the covers, brushes some of her hair to the side and then rests his hand on her back. Part of him wants to jump up and head straight outside, like if he tried hard enough he could find that ship and follow it out into the brand new nothingness. But that's insane, and more importantly he couldn't go without Lee. Her skin warms beneath his while his heart beats fuzzily.

“Lee,” he murmurs.

Feb. 28th, 2014


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gravity is dead, you see


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April 15, 1969
Lee is still in bed when the door opens. It's about noon, this is usually about when she wakes up, has in fact been waking up by degrees over the past fifteen minutes or so, so it's no surprise that the creak of the door opening is what finally draws her completely out of sleep. Her eyes open slowly in degrees — even with the curtains drawn, it's very bright in here, a sharp stab of pain behind the eyes — and it takes a moment for her senses to unfold around the room. Bright light. Warm. Footsteps in the other room.

That's not right.

She can't bring herself to get up and do anything about it, so if it's a burglar, they're just going to make off with Michael's television and refrigerator or whatever burglars steal. Her pseudo-paralysis has mostly worn off by the time he walks into the room and sits on the bed, his back to her; Lee is on her side, knees bent, one hand still on the pillow in front of her face. She opens her eyes again, waits to let them adjust.

"Michael?"

She's momentarily disoriented; this is unusual. It's too bright for him to be home, it's still nearly dark-ish by six this time of year, the light is just different. She strains her eyes at the clock: twelve forty-eight. Her hand reaches out, seeking his. She can feel that he's upset, a kind of sensing of tense energy, knows it by the way he's not looking at her.

"Did something happen, neshama?"

Feb. 13th, 2014


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DAYENU


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April 3, 1969
It’s hard for Michael to pay attention to the television; the words sound distant, the images seem inconsequential. It’s not just that he feels fuzzy with wine and food, or exhausted from working all day and staying up late, or distracted by Lee’s sweet-smelling warmth curled up against him. He feels different, in a deep-down way that he can’t ignore. Changed.

He thinks of the way Lee had sounded speaking the familiar Hebrew; of how strangely new the Haggadah he’d bought felt in his hands, and of the memory of choosing it and knowing he had a choice; of the tastes of salt water and horseradish and the charoset Lee had made. There are still candles burning on the table, he can smell them. Lee had gotten so much wine that it’s hardly gone yet. A half-finished glass of his is sitting out (he’d promised her he’d go back for it).

Celebrating Purim without Morris had been strange, but conducting his own seder was something else entirely. He hadn’t realized what was involved until it was happening. He’s not sure he knows the full extent of it even now.

Celebrating Pesach with Lee is also strange. Good, very good—Michael would even say powerful—but strange. He's used to knowing where he stands in relation to Morris's convictions, and there’s a lot about Lee’s Judaism that he doesn’t know and isn't sure how to ask about. But the fact that she agreed to do this with him, well. That's enough for him, here and now.

“Hey,” he murmurs next to her ear. “Thank you.”

Dec. 22nd, 2013


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who among them really wants just to kiss you


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March 4th, 1969
Despite Lee's well-known distaste for parties, she has been looking forward to this one for a long time. Purim is her favourite holiday and all the people here are people she already knows, even if only as passing acquaintances; if there are strangers to deal with, they'll be there with someone she knows. This significantly reduces her anxiety, though it's not gone entirely. It is never gone entirely, she just worries less.

Also, one is religiously obligated to get roaring drunk, so nobody is allowed to judge her when she does exactly that. She's going to have the world's worst headache in the morning but does she care? No.

It's a costume party, of course. Lee agonised forever over what to be — she thought about Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby but worried people wouldn't recognise it. She ended up in Marilyn's iconic pink gown from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, having managed to tease her hair into approximately the same shape. The jewelry is borrowed from a friend. Michael as James Bond is slightly less convincing; Lee had left it to him to acquire his own costume, optimistically assuming he would find a tuxedo that fit. Oh, well. She still thinks he looks handsome, but Lee is a little biased.

All that said, this is certainly one of the more unusual gatherings in New York — which is saying a lot. Lee did not exactly explain to Michael what this is all about, only said they were "people like her," and there are indeed several people "like her." In 1969 getting hormone treatments is not impossible but it is a challenge and Lee's androgyny is a bit of an aberration — most people do not pass as easily as she does without help and don't have the resources to get that help. Most of the people here, though, aside from a couple of drag queens, are just gay (the word they are increasingly coming to prefer), both men and women, slightly more women couples than men. In a couple years this group will go on to become Beit Simchat Torah, the first all-queer Jewish congregation in New York, but in '69 they're mostly just loosely organised friends and acquaintances.

They're well into the night, everyone is drunk and happy, and the noise level is teetering on the edge of 'public nuisance'. Lee flops on the couch next to Michael and narrowly avoids spilling red wine all over herself. "Cursed is Haman. Oops, I'm not drunk enough," she says cheerfully before taking another enormous swig. Her head lolls onto Michael's shoulder; for all the good-natured complaining she does about him and his clothes she sure spends a lot of time rumpling him further.

Nov. 19th, 2013


[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey

[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey

SEXY SADIE


[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey
February 27, 1969
Meredith feels like she's being stared at. By everyone. It's intimidating.

Usually she doesn't get noticed much, and sure, she'd like some attention, but this is just crazy. Of course she knows it's not actually her they're all staring at, but it still makes her nervous. How do other girls deal with it? This girl, the one she's leading around, doesn't exactly look like she's reveling in it either, though. She must have a different disposition than Joanie, who always seems cool as a cucumber no matter how many men fawn over her.

This girl's look is much different than Joanie's, too, which is probably why everyone is staring. Meredith can't deny it's a bit shocking, how tall and slim and modern she is. Just like Twiggy. This must be what seeing a celebrity in person is like: realizing someone is so cool it's beyond your understanding.

So why did she ask for Mr. Ginsberg?


Stan Rizzo is smoking a cigarette and frowning at a set of thumbnails when the door to the office opens. He smirks to himself as he starts to turn in his chair.

“So, what did Peggy say? Do we get to make it rain chee-oly shit.” That is not Ginsberg.

Nov. 3rd, 2013


[info]lunistice
[info]spaceodyssey

[info]lunistice
[info]spaceodyssey

you were famous, your heart was a legend


[info]lunistice
[info]spaceodyssey
February 10th, 1969
When Lee wakes up, she does not immediately recognise her surroundings. This doesn't alarm her very much. This happens all the time, she gets blackout drunk, passes out, and wakes up somewhere she doesn't remember. She's not drunk, though, she's not even hungover, which is different. What else is different - when she forces her eyes open, she sees the room is only half-furnished. Not like a hotel room, but not like somewhere anyone lives, either. It's confusing and makes her sit up and peer around. No. She stayed over at Michael's last night. That's what this room is, his bedroom.

That's right. It had been too late for the trains and she didn't want to call a cab. She hadn't worried about propriety, because who would know or care?

That said, the rejection by Michael's father still stings. It's strange, Lee has never had to think about her reputation before, she's had more immediate concerns like finding money, food, and a place to sleep, and fleeing the terrible madness that rears its head occasionally in order to ruin her life. Back home she had a different set of circumstances and among her circle with Rich's friends or at the Factory, nobody cares what she does with her time or her body and in fact they encourage depravity. Be a slut, do whatever you want, Rich says all the time. But now, elsewhere, with other people - they see her as a woman and suddenly her reputation is a problem. Suddenly it's relevant, people care who don't even know her, and it matters more than anything else - more than her character, her political opinions, whether she's kind to children or animals. Who she's screwing and who her friends are screwing is the most important thing now. Suddenly she's the one parents don't want around their sons.

Strange.

It's daylight outside, but a pale grey light. Must still be overcast. It makes it hard to guess the time, but Lee figures it's late morning. Monday. The bed is empty, she just figures Michael already went to work and she slept through it, which is typical for her, she could sleep through a cyclone. She hears the door open, and footsteps, but still half-asleep, doesn't connect those noises to any thoughts. Instead she rolls over and pulls the sheets over her head, moaning her flat refusal to acknowledge the morning. She doesn't want to get up. She's sure out of bed it's going to be ice cold again, and if her feet touch the floor before it's heated she will actually literally die.

Oct. 30th, 2013


[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey

[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey

WE NEVER DID TOO MUCH TALKING ANYWAY


[info]jewsinspace
[info]spaceodyssey
January 28, 1969
It's freezing outside, the kind of bitter cold that dries out your nose hairs and makes it hard to keep your eyes open. Michael's teeth can barely even chatter. Most of him feels numb, unsure of what just happened and sick from adrenaline and shock. People pass by him in strange blurs, hurrying through the chill. How can they move so quickly at a time like this? How do they know where to go?

He stares at nothing for an undetermined amount of time, breathing foggy heat into the air, ears ringing.

Usually he starts to walk at times like this (although there has never been a time like this)—walk and walk, only stopping when he's exhausted himself—but it's too cold and his suitcase is too fragile and burdensome. He doesn't have a choice at the moment, he has to travel, but he has no destination.

Cabs go by over and over. It seems like the same cab. He should probably get in one, but he hates cabs. They seem unreachable anyway. Distant, out on the road. And where's the subway station? Shouldn't he know? Where's anything?

He starts walking.


Again, he doesn't know how long it's been, but Michael can no longer feel his face, or his hands, or his feet. His mind is blank, full of static. People give him strange looks that he doesn't notice.

Eventually he passes a payphone and looks at it. It brings an image to mind: the payphone in the hallway of the Chelsea, just outside Lee's room. The one she always calls him from.

Lee.

He goes into the booth, singleminded. Setting his suitcase down, Michael wrestles some change out of his pocket and fumbles around with the phone for a frustrating minute, attempting to dial a familiar number. Eventually the other end starts ringing, and he closes his eyes and stands still, the sound becoming his whole world.

“Hotel Chelsea,” someone grumpily says as they pick up.

“Lee. I need to talk to Lee. Lee Taylor,” Michael says, halfway to himself.

“Hold on,” and then the receiver thunks against something—maybe a desk—and Michael tries to hold on.