Alexis Pulmano
Bio
Stories (3/0)
I Can Break Your Barriers
"You actually only swirl it once," I say to him after he spins his glass for the fourth time. I say it lightly, not wanting to come off preachy. He doesn't say anything and maintains direct eye contact, not signaling for me to continue but as a sort of pride thing; as if no reaction was more manly than an embarrassed one. I continue anyway, "one counter-clockwise swirl before your first sip," I explain as I spin the glass in one swift motion, "aerates it just enough to bring out the wine's aromas". I waft the glass of Merlot, closing my eyes to soak it in and then finish with a chef's kiss. His eyes grin. "That was cute," he says. My eyes grin back. "Excuse me," I get up and head towards the restroom, only to stop mid-way because I realize he's following close behind. "Don't leave yet," he says softly, "does my breath smell or something?". He seemed like a little boy trapped in a 6'2" body. It's precious and kind of off-putting at the same time. "Antony, I'm just going to the bathroom," I respond pointing to the restroom sign. "Oh my god, I'm actually retarted," he says with a small head shake. The couple by him looks over angrily. "You know, I actually grew up with a mentally retarted brother, you should really watch wha-", the woman starts. "You are absolutely right ma'am, uncalled for," he cuts in as he nods politetly at her and then fast-walks back to our table. I head inside the handicap stall, leaning over the sink with my hands gripping the sides and let out a breath. He's weird, I think. But is also so normal. If he was a painting, it'd be ordinary, one we've seen before but it wouldn't hang quite right. It'd dip just a smidge too much on the left. When I approach the table again, he is showing the waiter pictures on his phone. "The original Basquiat sold for hundreds of millions," he tells the waiter; "Come," he cuts in motioning me to my chair. "When I remix it, I paint with new colors, switch up the proportions, the entire composition. It's like an abstract-abstract". The waiter laughs and claps him on the shoulder, "I like yours better!". I look at Antony who seems happy at the compliment and that I'm back. "That's crazy, I didn't know you were a painter. I was literally just thinking about paintings," I tell him. "Sounds like we're meant to be," he says. "We just met Antony," I say. "I know," he says with certainty, "that's why I made the joke". So my trust issues and over-questioning have entered, knew they'd come sooner than later. "Of course sorry, guess the wine's kicking in," I say with a half-smile. "You're weird," he says and smiles back warmly. The rest of the dinner is nice. We make good conversation. Sprinkles of small talk. I tell him about my job as an on-call paramedic, who specializes in talking down suicide attemptees. I start to open up about countless stories, the mom of twin boys I coaxed off the ledge of her penthouse. The modern Romeo and Juliette I had to stop from jumping from a bridge. He hangs to every word, invested but barely taken aback, as if he had the same career before. As we converse, the whole restaurant fades away in the background; it feels like we're the only ones until we are. When I go to pour another glass of wine, he stops me and lips the words no more. "Just letting you guys know, we close in ten minutes," the manager informs us. We both look at each other with wide eyes. "But no rush. Let me guess," the manager throws his hip to the side sassily, "anniversary dinner?" he asks. "Mhm, it's our two hours, so it's getting pretty serious," I say with a head nod. "Do we get a free cake?" Antony chimes in. The manager rolls his eyes and laughs. "Oh, in that case, hurry up!" he says while clapping his hands. Chop, chop. We laugh again, starting to clean our area and stack our dishes for the waiter. He leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table and scoots out. "Cash?" I ask. "Painter and a stripper?". He hands me his coat as I rub my hands across my goose-bumped arms. "No I paint full-time, my clients usually pay me in cash. Deposit for materials and the rest when the art is delivered." "Fair," I respond, beeping my keys to see where my car is parked. I almost always forget. I was diagnosed with ADHD in high school; even popping into Target for a few minutes meant seventy new trains of thought inside the store, which completely replace the car location one. "I think we know where your car is by now," Antony interrupts my thoughts. I had almost forgotten he was there. "You've beeped about a hundred times. Leave your car here. I'll get us an Uber back, I don't want you driving. I'll send one to bring you back here tomorrow too." He's already searching for one on his phone before I respond. I hadn't had much wine, but I guess it is better to play it safe. He asks me to type in my address and I do, nervously. I bite at the nails of my empty hand. His phone rings a few times as "Mom" flashes across the screen and I hand it to him quickly. "Hey Mom," he says nonchalantly. "Yeah no tell him I can help out Wednesday night, I'm busy right now. Ok. Te quiero,". I hadn't even realized he was Hispanic until he said that. He had bright green eyes, no accent, and skin so pale it was almost translucent. "What," he catches on, "you know I'm from Miami, shouldn't surprise you." During the Uber ride back, he is consistently texting his mother. I usually mind my own business, but my curiosity gets the best of me. In my periphery, his phone screen reflects in the window; so I can look without looking.
By Alexis Pulmano3 years ago in Humans
Back to Center
When the intrusive thoughts enter, whether they're sad or anxious, a knee-jerk reaction is to want to get rid of them immediately. But just like our body needs time to heal, so does our mind. I think that's where music comes in. Instead of running from the thoughts, we can recognize they are there, slowly replace them with new ones and coax our mind back to center.
By Alexis Pulmano3 years ago in Beat
Wolfing the Wolves
I was ten when I invested in my first stock. Of course I had to do it under an account with my mom’s name but trust me, I have my ways. I had my mom’s MasterCard number memorized like my classmates knew times tables. When she asked what the Robintown charge was I told her it was a couple burgers, that the bank meant to put Round Robin; classic typo. She had just looked at me weird, what’s she supposed to think? I knew the charge would get lost in the flood of her shopping splurges anyway. Plus, I was ten.
By Alexis Pulmano3 years ago in Families