Silver Threads and Golden Needles

She had hoped that the cheap blinds in the dusty hotel room would be adequate enough to hide her. However, when she saw his view dart quickly to her exact window and then remain there as though he could feel her watching him, she knew they weren’t any protection. Who was she kidding? Bulletproof layered steel could be there and he would still feel her . . . just as she would still see him.

She didn’t know what she was doing down some forgotten dirt road, in a small obscure town, hundreds of miles from a place either of them called home. He’d said it would be easier this way. A place where neither of them knew anyone but each other. She’d picked the state. North Carolina. She just liked the sound of it. He picked the town a few nights later. He said he’d bought a map, closed his eyes and pointed; but she had her doubts. Maps of North Carolina were probably hard to come by in Ohio.

She’d said she wouldn’t come. She had no intentions of meeting a strange man, whose last name she didn’t even know, in a place neither of them felt safe. He said he’d make her feel safe. And she knew he would. He already had in so many ways.

She dropped below the windowsill and hugged her knees. He looked just as she thought he would. Devastating in a non-obvious way. Someone that anyone else would pass by without a second glance, but she was destroyed inside just from the brief meeting of their eyes. She wondered if he’d knock on the door, then laughed at herself because it wasn’t his way. He would wait in the parking lot, leaning against his rental, waiting for her to come to him. Certain that she would.

She contorted her body to glance out the window again. He hadn’t moved. His stance just as it was. His gaze still focused on her window. He felt her looking again. She could tell by the way his lips lifted just slightly at the corners. This was crazy. She couldn’t go out there. She didn’t even know why she’d come this far. She’d spent eleven hours driving to cower on the stale carpet of a dingy hotel room. "I just want to look at him," she’d told herself. "Just know we’re in the same state, the same city, at the same time. That should be enough." She watched as his smile grew wider, as though he could read her thoughts.

She pulled herself off of her knees into a crouching position, her eyes still fixed on him. He mouthed something she couldn’t quite catch, then he mouthed it again. "I’m waiting." She inched her hand towards the door and placed it on the cold, brass knob. Her heart waged war with her mind as her fingers tried to decide if they were going to grasp and turn. He took one step towards her room and she let her hand drop back to her side and turned away from the window.

She slept soundly that night and two more after, then she drove home. Alone.

. . .You Don't Know What You Got Til It's Gone . . .

As the taxi sped hurriedly from the curb, she quietly wondered at the emptiness that engulfed her. Something was missing, something that had just been there moments before.

Her mind had been racing in the cab, her pen scribbling ideas slower than her mind could produce them. The ride through the dark city streets had lit a fire of inspiration that was burning through her fingertips and onto the scraps of paper she could gather from the littered floorboards.

But in the near-silent hum of the streetlamp above her, she heard something more ominous. She was beginning to panic. She felt her pockets quickly; apartment keys, lipstick, Blackberry . . What else could be gone? What could have struck her numb with fear?

When the taillights of the taxi blinked out of sight, it all became clear: Her creativity had vanished with the taxi.

And a One, And a Two . . .

Submission I

Scattered clothing on the lawn. A sea of boxers, sports jerseys and that pair of pajamas I bought but you never wore. Determined this time. You'll leave, and this time, you'll stay gone. I won't ask you back. You'll send flowers and play my favorite songs on long voice-mail messages that I won't listen to. But I won't yield. You're wrong for me in all the right ways. And I have to let you go just to prove. . . I love myself more than you.

Submission II

She has a pair of pajamas she keeps in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. She remembers when they swam on her; the drawstring of the bottoms pulled so tightly that yards of fabric were ruffled together, the cuffs of the sleeves rolled to the shoulder seam. She fools herself sometimes. Holding them up to her cheek, smothering her nose in the folds. She would swear to you she smells Old Spice and pipe tobacco. Though the fabric ceased to yield such scents long ago.

She had worn them every night after he left. Refusing to let her mother wash them. Refusing to believe that he was really gone. He’d left them here. The pajamas he’d worn every night since she was born. He wouldn’t leave them. He would have to come back. And when he did, she’d be there. Waiting. Daddies don’t leave their pajamas. And they don’t leave their little girls.

But she hadn’t been that scared little girl in 22 years and she hadn’t worn the pajamas in almost 15. It was time to let them, and everything they stood for, go. She opened the drawer, determined to throw them in the trash, more certain than ever that she could. But, as she pulled them from the drawer, that old scent wafted up. Old Spice and pipe tobacco.

Closing her eyes, she folded them carefully back in their place.