“You’d think that in 1966 we wouldn’t be dealing with this shit,” but they were. Jordan sat like a painting on the wall, watching the embers splatter onto the ground outside the brick fireplace. The fire danced on his Haitian complexion and kinky hair. Across the room, Zoey, his bitter to-be-bride of 32 years refused to sit down, as to get the best view of the Loving vs. Virginia riots on the streets.
Her skin was olive. Its sun-kissed, even tone was a palate embroidered by her crimson, wavy hair. Their love, shackled, shamed, and criminal, took refuge in their apartment. Although they were trapped inside their apartment, in this small abode, their love was free and their love was colorful.
Zoey stayed away from the flames. Spectating the fight, her eyes leaped from the faces of those beneath them in the street below their third floor Chicago apartment. In order to give it the impact she thought the world would respond to, she took time to separate her words with a passionate inhale and a firm stomp. She thought they ground would shake and the unsturdy buildings would crumble, the sidewalks would crack, and finally, for the first time in weeks, the people on the street would shut the fuck up. But the world did not care. The protests continued, the street lights kept changing, the fire kept burning. Their discussion rattled the frame of their apartment, clawing at the single window and single door out, but did not escape the room. If it ever did, no one would be able to hear it over the C-span playing in Room 223b, only a few paces down the hallway. Nor would they hear it over the ice machine being repaired, the screams of rioters and police, or the maids vacuuming. A chance appears when the vacuum stops roaring as the plug falls out of the outlet. The maid, the one with the short legs, but quick paces, goes down the hallway, stops for a second, bending to get the plug, resetting it, then resumes her duties. The whole time she was walking to the plug, Zoey could hear her little shoes clanking but it simply made her stew more. Water assaults the apartment building from a street cannon, then Zoey rushes the window. She tries pleading with the water, first with her voice, then with those tears, and finally just trying to repel water cannons with her voice.
Still, as quietly and thoughtfully as ever, Jordan watches the fire. The warmth commits to his face, burning it, however his distance is unwavering. It seems to Zoey that his trance with the fire has only drawn his body in. The coals are dark, scorched from the fire which once felt good to the wood, yet now breaks it down.
The C-span seems to seap into the room. On the report, the riots were being talked about by all the most important figureheads who had not stepped foot into Chicago. They speak of the anger, of the hatred and spite, but they have never stepped into our neighborhood, Zoey thought to herself. She wanted to gather, arm, and deploy her one-woman army. Meanwhile, Jordan just listens to his fireplace, resting his eyes on the calm constant hissing of the wood. In contrast, Zoey bites down hard, burying her teeth into each other and clenching her eyelids shut. Her fists beating the windowpane only bruise her hands and her knuckles begin to bleed.
Tossing herself about the room, Zoey feels a tsunami swirl in her stomach, her steps making the picture frames shake and the memories within them rattle. Finally, Jordan looks up, the light snugly on his 5 o’clock shadow. Zoey continues to stomp the ground, until suddenly they make connection. Her eyes are filled with his presence, with his fire. The warmth from his side of the room extends its arms to her, wanting to bring her in and have her watch the flames meet, kiss, dance, make love. Instead of the C-Span, the vacuuming, or the loud violence outside, all Jordan and Zoey can hear is the quiet crackling of the flames. Jordan’s eyes viewed her with an even greater intensity then he watched the fire and Zoey wanted to reciprocate but instead turned to the window. First, she tightened her fist, then she sliced the glass standing between her and the water blasting from the cannon.
Her arm goes through the glass within the deep brown, wood frame. As the glass shatters the skin on her arm shreds as well. Her voice finally crashes through their apartment but takes the warmth from the fire with it. The water cannon now fills the room, drenching everything.
When the water first hits the fire, it sizzles, and tries to put it out. The fire fights back, with all it is, surviving the first downpour. Then, as more water filled the apartment and dampened the couple, with its last drops, finally distinguished the fire.
Her skin was olive. Its sun-kissed, even tone was a palate embroidered by her crimson, wavy hair. Their love, shackled, shamed, and criminal, took refuge in their apartment. Although they were trapped inside their apartment, in this small abode, their love was free and their love was colorful.
Zoey stayed away from the flames. Spectating the fight, her eyes leaped from the faces of those beneath them in the street below their third floor Chicago apartment. In order to give it the impact she thought the world would respond to, she took time to separate her words with a passionate inhale and a firm stomp. She thought they ground would shake and the unsturdy buildings would crumble, the sidewalks would crack, and finally, for the first time in weeks, the people on the street would shut the fuck up. But the world did not care. The protests continued, the street lights kept changing, the fire kept burning. Their discussion rattled the frame of their apartment, clawing at the single window and single door out, but did not escape the room. If it ever did, no one would be able to hear it over the C-span playing in Room 223b, only a few paces down the hallway. Nor would they hear it over the ice machine being repaired, the screams of rioters and police, or the maids vacuuming. A chance appears when the vacuum stops roaring as the plug falls out of the outlet. The maid, the one with the short legs, but quick paces, goes down the hallway, stops for a second, bending to get the plug, resetting it, then resumes her duties. The whole time she was walking to the plug, Zoey could hear her little shoes clanking but it simply made her stew more. Water assaults the apartment building from a street cannon, then Zoey rushes the window. She tries pleading with the water, first with her voice, then with those tears, and finally just trying to repel water cannons with her voice.
Still, as quietly and thoughtfully as ever, Jordan watches the fire. The warmth commits to his face, burning it, however his distance is unwavering. It seems to Zoey that his trance with the fire has only drawn his body in. The coals are dark, scorched from the fire which once felt good to the wood, yet now breaks it down.
The C-span seems to seap into the room. On the report, the riots were being talked about by all the most important figureheads who had not stepped foot into Chicago. They speak of the anger, of the hatred and spite, but they have never stepped into our neighborhood, Zoey thought to herself. She wanted to gather, arm, and deploy her one-woman army. Meanwhile, Jordan just listens to his fireplace, resting his eyes on the calm constant hissing of the wood. In contrast, Zoey bites down hard, burying her teeth into each other and clenching her eyelids shut. Her fists beating the windowpane only bruise her hands and her knuckles begin to bleed.
Tossing herself about the room, Zoey feels a tsunami swirl in her stomach, her steps making the picture frames shake and the memories within them rattle. Finally, Jordan looks up, the light snugly on his 5 o’clock shadow. Zoey continues to stomp the ground, until suddenly they make connection. Her eyes are filled with his presence, with his fire. The warmth from his side of the room extends its arms to her, wanting to bring her in and have her watch the flames meet, kiss, dance, make love. Instead of the C-Span, the vacuuming, or the loud violence outside, all Jordan and Zoey can hear is the quiet crackling of the flames. Jordan’s eyes viewed her with an even greater intensity then he watched the fire and Zoey wanted to reciprocate but instead turned to the window. First, she tightened her fist, then she sliced the glass standing between her and the water blasting from the cannon.
Her arm goes through the glass within the deep brown, wood frame. As the glass shatters the skin on her arm shreds as well. Her voice finally crashes through their apartment but takes the warmth from the fire with it. The water cannon now fills the room, drenching everything.
When the water first hits the fire, it sizzles, and tries to put it out. The fire fights back, with all it is, surviving the first downpour. Then, as more water filled the apartment and dampened the couple, with its last drops, finally distinguished the fire.