Natasha Dolginsky
15th Story / Felix
Ding.
Whoosh.
She side glances his jawline,
a sharp geometric shape she once
learned about in school
but since long forgotten. Notices
Felix's emerald eyes
and ringless left hand.
Notes his broad chest, outlined by an ironed, hundred dollar tshirt,
invisible wealth
if you only know where to look. She does.
Admires distressed jeans that hug perfectly places she'd like to also.
Returns his smile, embarrassed just a little,
but not too much,
for having been caught
staring.
Hopeful their exchange is an invitation,
to a conversation, exchange of stories, they’ve each got them.
It’s been ages since she's seen someone
so
put
together.
But doors still open at his fifteenth story,
a story cut short.
Ding.
Whoosh.
Felix stops to admire
the cobalt bookshelves
he painted himself,
to say he did it himself,
on principle.
The cobalt bookshelves that reach the ceiling and
ones, that
not once, but twice were featured in magazines,
on shelf wealth,
yes, that's a thing,
with cleverly titled articles like Anatomy of a Bookshelf.
Hundreds of spines color coded and meticulously
ordered by height,
what other way is there.
Strategically-placed book
ends
shaped like sleeping dogs and pushing bears
punctuate genres.
No less meticulous,
maybe more,
definitely more,
the gray kitchen counter
sparkles,
diamond specs twinkling,
like city asphalt under the evening city lights.
Earlier at lunchtime,
as his colleagues easily, lazily waved away
the propositioned full drinks menu,
he knew.
He waved also, a white flag,
ordered a sparkling water.
Now,
whiskey calls,
as persistent as a spoiled toddler and as sly
as a practiced con-artist. It
feigns warm,
luxurious everything’s good with the world promise,
aggressively occupying more and more of his brain space, until nothing else is left,
but...
a tumbler in his hand.
Whiskey calls, just a splash.
When is it ever.
Hundreds of dollars of
mocktail mixes mock him. Oh how they do!
Just a splash.
Familiar relaxation after the first one,
guilt of the second,
itch for the third,
who gives a fuck
after the fourth.
Dominos fall rather predictably after that.
Ding.
Felix is startled by the sobriety app notification, he thought he'd deleted it.
Your target is 0 drinks today. Make it count.
Texts back with zero, but pours one.
Another one.
It’s never just one. But who’s counting.
We're at five now.
Five and counting.
Is that laughter or music or both
spinning,
why is the room spinning
and it burns
so good like it's cleaning
something inside or just burning
it away
she looked nice didn't she or was she just being nice,
everyone's nice when they
want something, like another drink,
or maybe it's the same one hard to tell
when your hand forgets
to let go should've said something smarter or just anything really words are tricky they slip through like water
or is it whiskey now
doesn't matter.
Emeralds, cloudy.
Vomit on the hundred dollar t-shirt.
Spinning. Spinning. Everything is
so.
blurred
together.
18th Story / Evalina
Ding.
Whoosh.
Two enter, not a mother and daughter,
but could be.
One young and one older.
Or maybe just old,
depends on which one you ask.
Evalina’s silk blouse blooms,
a field of well-watered lilacs
and forget-me-nots.
As if one ever could
forget. Not me.
A flowery rebellion against the
monochrome of the other,
the one who scoffs at the
fucking kaleidoscope of the
old-fashioned fashion.
The one who admires her own slick, sculpted,
purchased hair
from the six month wait male stylist.
And slick, sculpted,
purchased skin
from the LA doctor. A minimalist look,
perfected by Italian influencers
and her own filtered friends,
trendy but all the same,
under the influence.
Ding.
Whoosh.
Soft click of the door, Evalina is greeted by
the entryway photograph,
so familiar,
her famiglia.
She remembers,
skinned knees, ignored.
Remembers,
darting through side yards
and alleys,
like sun bunnies, laughter mingled
with the breeze and halfhearted admonishments
from Italian grandmothers
of what they’d do to their hides
if their cherished tulipanos
were disturbed.
Remembers,
her own Nonna,
hands fluent in a dialect of
fabric and thread,
Italia weaved in every seam,
heritage in every hem.
Half the neighborhood clothed from her hand,
not quite loaves and fishes, but hunger just as avenged,
generosity not any less divine.
Even the mean girls didn't dare play
their scherzi cattivis on Nonna.
They smiled nice and
brought yellow limones and
sweet sticky fichis as humble offerings
for dresses
rivaling those hanging prettily in ricche
boutiques that like
bouquets
bloomed bright and beautiful
on the streets of Florence.
Ten at night here,
they're just waking. Nonna
brewing espresso and nonno
muttering critiques from
his corner,
same ones he's effused,
for just three years
short of a half a century.
The grounds are too rough,
tesoro mio.
There's too much steam,
mon amor.
That's how caffee loses its soul,
mia bella.
Nonna rolling her eyes,
throwing up those wild Italian hands
Americans think cliche
and embellished, fit only for the movies,
but ones that are a staple
of every true Italian grandmother.
Ten here, time to Zoom,
she hasn't forgotten when Florence
was a staticy landline away,
As if she ever could
forget.
Ten here, she's on first,
checks makeup, hair in the digital mirror,
adjusts the filters, they’re there for a reason,
updates background
to the one she's been asked to use
for the interview. Forbes 50 over 50.
Lifestyle visionary she's not,
but if the shoe fits
as Americans say, she'll wear it.
Ding.
Ciao, madame.
They smile,
make obligatory small talk about the time zones,
thank her for staying up late.
No problemo.
And then in earnest, we've been
following you for years,
you're a hard one to pin down.
More laughter at the clever, tailor-made pun.
More praise on the artistic influence she's had,
and more to come.
What an influence,
she is
in Florence.
26th Story / Sam
Ding.
Whoosh.
A man stands still, affronted by Sam in a blue canvas jumper splattered
with a constellation of paint and
branded with shameless audacity of a Dickies logo.
Proudly blue-collar.
The polar
opposite to the preciseness of thousand dollar Italian Armani threads
woven by hands
who know the pleasure of a siesta. He's not a jerk, hell no,
just knows his place and prizes silent boundaries that run the world
around the world.
His world.
Paint smells,
he’s nauseated or is it nauseating, he can never remember the difference, there must not be one.
Service elevators are in the back, facilities will get a call today with a reminder where servicemen belong.
Not here.
Ding.
Whoosh.
Sam’s roller drips indigo.
The acrid smell is not entirely unpleasant,
chemical, medicinal, a memory.
His mom loved indigo.
Her walls were indigo.
Always her walls,
even as their two bedroom house housed three and a half
generations of family members. He remembers,
the force of her love, when she came around for the final round of blessings, wishful thinkings, and goodnight kisses.
Patting down unruly hair, replacing thrown off blankets, thinking him asleep,
thinking him still her little boy.
At twelve!
He still
kept his eyes shut to savor the illusion.
For him or her, uncertain.
Her walls.
Barely peeking, like spring grass
beneath the final hurrah of a winter's snowstorm.
Walls holding up art or
was it the other way around,
maybe a home held up by art. A family.
Art from garage sales,
from college artists,
the striving ones,
the starving ones.
Art from the neighborhood senior center art clinic,
misnamed or
misnomered,
but which healed much and many more than
canvases and
it knew it.
Framed rectangles of scenery never seen,
cityscapes dreamed and
not visited,
a mosaic of places far far and away
from Mud Creek, Kentucky. But what is distance anyway,
a formality when your
heart transcends space
and time and
your bank account and
your irritable husband whose idea of getting away is a bait shop a town over instead
of the one down
the street, what a bait and switch.
His mom loved indigo.
Hey love, it's time.
He nods, yes, yes.
Your mom would've been proud.
He knows, yes, yes.
Go break a leg.
He laughs and doesn't cry
again,
lets his wife hold him still,
hold still,
and pat his back because they both know lack of
actual tears doesn't
actually
mean anything.
Two blocks to MoMA, Sam’s face on
bus stop billboards, a breath of fresh air
among the gloating blue and red politicians
promising,
no promoting!
their next war on something.
But likely just war.
Sam’s face left unmustached by city youth,
they have better things to do, after all.
Exhibit line spills
and swirls
and bubbles like a happy spring
stream born out of winter snow’s death.
Whispers, sideways elbows, and clicks of
media cameras and clandestine iPhones,
chirp.
Sam stands by the didactic panel as his wife holds his hand,
still.
Oil, on canvas.
In remembrance.
2008.
Indigo.
Natasha Dolginsky lives in San Jose, California, with her husband, two daughters, and three beloved pets. She holds a BS in Political Science, has over 13 years of marketing experience, and a lifetime of love for poetry. Her writing explores themes of social structures and complexities of modern life.
