i wanted to share this story with you all. but since you all suck, you probably won't read it. fuck you all for being too fucking lazy to read it: ******* Yellow, Like Lemons by Debbie Ann Ice Dan wants to paint the front door yellow. He and Sarah decided on a yellow door one night while drunk and engaged in sex, good sex, but only good because sex had been missing from their lives for the six months they were separated. Even liver tastes good if you stop eating long enough. But Dan is now obsessed with a yellow door. Sarah has stopped drinking. Their house is brown, cedar brown, and a yellow door would be beyond tacky. They were drunk and had good sex, for Christ sakes. Sarah sips tea and watches Dan wave around a glossy pamphlet, covered in yellow rectangles, all slightly different shades of sick-looking yellow. He is a nerd, she thinks. She married an odd nerd who had good sex and now thinks of their door as some sort of metaphor. We will shout at the neighborhood with its bright color, tell everyone who we really are, he says. Sarah is reminded of her grandma Minnie’s large brass bowl that sat on the foyer table, so brightly polished it was hard on the eyes. Minnie had lots of sex, even after she was a million years old. Sarah knows this because at twelve she walked in on her. Sarah still remembers how it all looked-- the bumpy blanket, gray hairs tangled and wet, wrinkled knees peeking out the side, a flaccid arm covering a breast that looked like a cornucopia. It was terrifying. We’ll wake the Millers up when they look out the window, Dan says, then guffaws. Sarah barely smiles. The Millers live across the street. Nancy Miller wears lavender sundresses and has four itty-bitty hairy dogs that yip half the night. Nancy needs nothing to wake her up. Even if Nancy is lulled to sleep by her obnoxious yippy dogs and wanted to wake up, she could not see through the five large hemlocks that line the front of Sarah’s yard. Everyone on the block has something that blocks the view -- fence, hedges, hemlocks. No one can see each other. Sarah has finally decided this is OK; she doesn’t want to see anyone or be seen by anyone. She fits into the neighborhood. Finally. Oh and how about a purple doormat, he says, after another swig. He wants sex again, thinks Sarah. They will have sex and buy a purple doormat to go with the yellow door. With “Home” written in black, right across the center of the mat, he continues. He crosses his arms and chuckles to himself. He is serious about this stuff, Sarah thinks. He wants their door yellow, a purple mat, so their house will look like it’s sticking its purple tongue out when the door opens. Where did she meet him? Sarah cannot remember now. She can recall details of grandmother sex, but cannot remember where she met this man she has been married to for fifteen years. Why did she marry this odd man? Oh and lets toss the rug, he says, now up and opening the refrigerator. The air conditioner has clicked off, so the suck of the refrigerator is loud and annoying. He asks her if she’s sure she doesn’t’ want a beer. Why has she stopped drinking, he says, before sitting across from her. He puts the bottle to his mouth and throws his head back. The bottle sits upside down upon his face as his Adams apple moves around like a lost marble trying to find its way out. He puts the bottle down, and foam spills over the edge onto the pine table. We will buy one of those floral Persian rug imitations, he says, one with lots of yellow and deep azure. We’ll put it in the foyer. His stockinged foot moves up Sarah’s leg. Sarah remembers Minnie’s draperies, which were bright orange and went with the painting of a bowl of oranges that hung over the mantle. Sarah had always thought Minnie’s foyer brass bowl, which now sits on Sarah’s foyer table, should have contained oranges, too, then everything would have been synchronized, screaming this children’s color, like a warning—be careful, old people have sex here! Sarah looks above Dan’s head at the beige wall, and notices the beginning of a crack, soon to become a peeling of paint. Underneath the beige will be another shade of beige, a bit lighter against the soiled surroundings. I think this one, the sunnyside shade, is the best, Dan says. He shoves the pamphlet towards her, stabbing one of the rectangles several times with his index finger. She looks down at the color, similar to egg yolk. They will do this, paint the door yellow, buy a purple mat, throw tacky rugs everywhere. She sighs. Minnie died of a heart attack in her sleep. After the funeral, at the club, everyone got drunk and told Minnie stories. Died in her sleep? To hell she did, said Sarah’s second cousin. We know how that woman got her heart going. We know how Minnie died. Maybe I will have that beer, says Sarah. She runs her finger across the yellow rectangles and decides to buy lemons, lots of them. ******* : P ******* taryn, aka [feelyoufalling] heyhey, your journal is all friends only and stuff!! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. penni, yours is still private. how do you people expect me to comment back!!!!! how is it that people can leave a comment in expectance of being replied to when such isn't even a possibility because they're private or friends only!!! IGNORANT MORTALS. : P