I feel his fingers fumbling clumsily with the top button of my dress. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s as nervous about this as I am. Strange. At his age, in this part of his life, I would think this would be commonplace for him. Undressing women, that is. Having them fall at his feet. The way he looks, the things he says; how could it not be?
I want to look up into his face. To see if his expression mirrors my own. But if it doesn’t, and I look up, I’ll give myself away. He’ll see the mixture of terror and happiness worn like a mask on my face. I’ll keep my head bent, my eyes trained to his fingers and with a little luck, he won’t try and kiss me, forcing me to meet his eyes, showing him my fear. He dips his head lower, I presume to get a better look at the button that’s vexing him. Our heads collide and I hear him groan in pain. This isn’t going well. I wonder if it’s going to happen at all. I should reach up and help him. But the way my hands are shaking, I wouldn’t be much help either.
The neckline is low enough that the buttons are really unnecessary. I could reach down, grasping the hem of my dress and lifting it slowly above my head. But, then I’d have to reveal my entire body at once. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. This is better. Slower. This way, if he decides he’s changed his mind, I still have some secrets to keep. The scar traveling a ragged path down my rib cage. The bright red circle of skin that shows my failed attempt at rebellion in the form of a navel ring. The places I’m a little softer than I should be. No, this is better. I’ll continue to let him fumble. And if he stops, if it’s all too much trouble, we can both pretend it never happened. I’ll lose his number, he’ll forget mine and the world will continue to spin madly on.
I feel the button give. He shakily exhales and says "Well . . . " before using one finger to lift my chin. He kisses me deeply and I sigh into his mouth. Some of the anxiety melts from me and I feel my knees weaken. "I’m not sure if I have the stamina for the other four buttons." I lower my head and kiss his neck. "I really wish there were a better way to go about this." I trace a line to his ear and nibble softly there. "I want this dress off of you. Now." While I feel desired, while my blood is rushing in my ears and I can’t hear my own words of caution, I grab the hem and tug quickly upward. Revealing all that was so safely hidden.
"Beautiful." And his sincerity echoes in the roaring silence.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Not Today
It's hard to pinpoint when I became aware of it. I"m shamed to say that the majority of the time I'm just like every other human being: Self-centered. But I woke up one day with the realization that he wasn't here anymore.
Oh, don't get me wrong, he still lays beside me in our bed each night. He still sits across from me at our dinner table. He is there in every way that doesn't count.
That look in his eyes, the one that always reassured me, is absent. His kisses, his touch, they don't persuade anymore, don't tease or cajole. They simply are. But, worse, is the way his smiles and his laughter slowly fade until they are shadows of themselves. Memories of what was.
He'll tell you that he loves me. He'll shout it from rooftops like crazed stalkers, he'll stencil it on notebook covers like love-sick teenagers, he'll carve it into trees and engrave it into jewelry. If you ask him to. If you question him.
He'll always say that he loves me. He might even mean it. He probably does. But he's not in love with me anymore.
On the bad days, on the worst days, I wonder if he ever was.
So I lay here in our bed. Gazing at his face in the growing morning light. Feeling my heart swell and ache with an emotion that can't be defined with things as simple as four letter words and wedding bands. Knowing that one morning I will wake up and his side of the bed will be empty.
I'm just thankful it's not today.
Oh, don't get me wrong, he still lays beside me in our bed each night. He still sits across from me at our dinner table. He is there in every way that doesn't count.
That look in his eyes, the one that always reassured me, is absent. His kisses, his touch, they don't persuade anymore, don't tease or cajole. They simply are. But, worse, is the way his smiles and his laughter slowly fade until they are shadows of themselves. Memories of what was.
He'll tell you that he loves me. He'll shout it from rooftops like crazed stalkers, he'll stencil it on notebook covers like love-sick teenagers, he'll carve it into trees and engrave it into jewelry. If you ask him to. If you question him.
He'll always say that he loves me. He might even mean it. He probably does. But he's not in love with me anymore.
On the bad days, on the worst days, I wonder if he ever was.
So I lay here in our bed. Gazing at his face in the growing morning light. Feeling my heart swell and ache with an emotion that can't be defined with things as simple as four letter words and wedding bands. Knowing that one morning I will wake up and his side of the bed will be empty.
I'm just thankful it's not today.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Just Maybe
He stumbled over his words
Falling over his own thoughts
Repeating, reiterating
Refusing to admit that maybe
Just maybe
She wasn't listening to his windy soliloquy
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
He rambled until he was speechless
Breathing raggedly
Pausing, hoping
Thinking that maybe
Just maybe
She would believe his wasted words
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
He remained quiet
Attempting to make her break the silence
Waiting, Anticipating
Expecting that maybe
Just maybe
She would give weight to his pleas
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
She listened to all he said
Trying to hold hope in her hands
Praying, Begging
Pleading that maybe
Just maybe
He would mean all of it this time
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
But finally she'd learned from their past
Hanging up the phone
Crying, Hurting
Wishing that maybe
Just maybe
He would learn
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
Mean nothing without the actions to substantiate them
Falling over his own thoughts
Repeating, reiterating
Refusing to admit that maybe
Just maybe
She wasn't listening to his windy soliloquy
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
He rambled until he was speechless
Breathing raggedly
Pausing, hoping
Thinking that maybe
Just maybe
She would believe his wasted words
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
He remained quiet
Attempting to make her break the silence
Waiting, Anticipating
Expecting that maybe
Just maybe
She would give weight to his pleas
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
She listened to all he said
Trying to hold hope in her hands
Praying, Begging
Pleading that maybe
Just maybe
He would mean all of it this time
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
But finally she'd learned from their past
Hanging up the phone
Crying, Hurting
Wishing that maybe
Just maybe
He would learn
His professed apologies
His promises to do better
Mean nothing without the actions to substantiate them
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Prescribed Pills
Today’s Forecast: Partly Sarcastic with a slight chance of pessimism and a thirty percent chance of honesty.
If anyone were to ask, which they won’t, I would tell them that it wasn’t entirely unexpected. A surprise, yes, but certainly not unforseen. I had thought she’d needed something for years. Wellbutrin, Prozac, Lithium . . . at one point I was even convinced she needed an anti-psychotic like Clozapine. So, opening her purse and seeing the little white Rx page with an illegible signature and the word Seroquel written strongly and underlined twice didn’t throw me off balance. So, what did?
The list of doctors at the top of the page in off-black Bickley Script print.
She was seeing a psychiatrist. She’d always sworn she would never seek the care of a mental health professional. Come to think of it, just last weekend she’d pronounced to all who would listen: "I’m not crazy, I’m Southern. There are no crazies or psychotics down here; we’re called eccentrics or unusual. I don’t need drugs, I need a stiff drink. Now how bout you fetch me a mint julep, sugah."
I could have confronted her. Pulled her small white paper with it’s damning print out of her patent leather bag and waved it in her smug face. Called her a liar and a fruitcake and been justified in doing so. But I didn’t. Why?
So that maybe, just maybe, she would fill the prescription and get the help she seemed to finally realize she so desperately needed.
If anyone were to ask, which they won’t, I would tell them that it wasn’t entirely unexpected. A surprise, yes, but certainly not unforseen. I had thought she’d needed something for years. Wellbutrin, Prozac, Lithium . . . at one point I was even convinced she needed an anti-psychotic like Clozapine. So, opening her purse and seeing the little white Rx page with an illegible signature and the word Seroquel written strongly and underlined twice didn’t throw me off balance. So, what did?
The list of doctors at the top of the page in off-black Bickley Script print.
She was seeing a psychiatrist. She’d always sworn she would never seek the care of a mental health professional. Come to think of it, just last weekend she’d pronounced to all who would listen: "I’m not crazy, I’m Southern. There are no crazies or psychotics down here; we’re called eccentrics or unusual. I don’t need drugs, I need a stiff drink. Now how bout you fetch me a mint julep, sugah."
I could have confronted her. Pulled her small white paper with it’s damning print out of her patent leather bag and waved it in her smug face. Called her a liar and a fruitcake and been justified in doing so. But I didn’t. Why?
So that maybe, just maybe, she would fill the prescription and get the help she seemed to finally realize she so desperately needed.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
One and Two . . . . late, as usual
The field behind our house was never a field.
It was a castle with a draw bridge and a moat and dozens of armor clad soldiers coming to save me.
It was a baseball diamond where I played third, my brother played second and our cousin, Andrew, played catcher. You had to pitch the ball to yourself, but you never struck out.
It was a jungle where wild animals lurked and us hunters would hide with our bazookas and bows and arrows waiting for our dad to blow his old elk horn so our safari could begin.
It was a an old farm being overrun by indians during the American Revolution. Johnny Redcorn Laine would tie me up and rustle the cattle, but he wouldn't get away with it. My brother would tear off after him on our only horse and save the farm.
It was lots of things; mostly dreams. But it was never a parking lot . . . .until last summer.
--------------------------------------------------
I’m convinced, at times, that I’ve imagined him. Content to hide inside my own mind, conjuring the things I’ve always wanted but never found. Even in his arms I feel the need to experience everything at once.
I breathe him, I draw him in closer, I open my eyes and absorb everything I’m seeing, I kiss his lips and drink him in all the while listening closely for his heartbeat. I need to know he’s not an apparition.
One second passes, then two, then twelve, I feel him pulling away - not because it’s uncomfortable, but because even the closest of couples need personal space - and I pull him closer to me for a moment more. The moment is brief, but it’s enough. I convince myself that he’s real. That he’s here. And I hope he always will be.
But time passes too quickly when we’re together and soon it’s time to leave. I drive past a small town, an empty field, a bustling metropolis, they’re all the same no matter how different. They’re not where he is and that’s where I need to be. Until then, I will spend my life in periods of disbelief and imagination broken by stolen moments with him.
It was a castle with a draw bridge and a moat and dozens of armor clad soldiers coming to save me.
It was a baseball diamond where I played third, my brother played second and our cousin, Andrew, played catcher. You had to pitch the ball to yourself, but you never struck out.
It was a jungle where wild animals lurked and us hunters would hide with our bazookas and bows and arrows waiting for our dad to blow his old elk horn so our safari could begin.
It was a an old farm being overrun by indians during the American Revolution. Johnny Redcorn Laine would tie me up and rustle the cattle, but he wouldn't get away with it. My brother would tear off after him on our only horse and save the farm.
It was lots of things; mostly dreams. But it was never a parking lot . . . .until last summer.
--------------------------------------------------
I’m convinced, at times, that I’ve imagined him. Content to hide inside my own mind, conjuring the things I’ve always wanted but never found. Even in his arms I feel the need to experience everything at once.
I breathe him, I draw him in closer, I open my eyes and absorb everything I’m seeing, I kiss his lips and drink him in all the while listening closely for his heartbeat. I need to know he’s not an apparition.
One second passes, then two, then twelve, I feel him pulling away - not because it’s uncomfortable, but because even the closest of couples need personal space - and I pull him closer to me for a moment more. The moment is brief, but it’s enough. I convince myself that he’s real. That he’s here. And I hope he always will be.
But time passes too quickly when we’re together and soon it’s time to leave. I drive past a small town, an empty field, a bustling metropolis, they’re all the same no matter how different. They’re not where he is and that’s where I need to be. Until then, I will spend my life in periods of disbelief and imagination broken by stolen moments with him.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Stubbornness
"What are you doing?"
He looked up from under the table. "I'm trying to help you look for your keys."
"Give it up. It's useless. I've searched this place from top to bottom, side to side and everywhere in between."
"They're here somewhere. You drove over here, so you obviously had them. I swear to God, Sarah, you'd lose your head if it wasn't attached."
"What?!?! I've misplaced one thing. One. How does this qualify me as someone who'd 'lose their head if it wasn't attached'? And why are you so . . .so . . . ill today? Male PMS?"
He stood up and dusted off his knees, "I've got things to do today and instead of doing them, I'm crawling around the dirty floor searching for your keys."
"Well, Mr. Important, go if you've got to go. No one told you to help me look for my keys. I'll find them myself, thank you very much."
"Go? Go? How would I go? You're-still-here!"
"I do know how to work a doorknob. I think, think mind you, that I can operate a door well enough to let myself out."
"And let you snoop around my house by yourself? Oh. I see. You haven't lost your keys at all. They're probably over there in your purse. You just want to sneak and snoop and see what I've been up to. Forget it. It's none of your business any more. Get over your jealousy, get over your nosiness and get over me!"
"You flatter yourself, really. I was over you the minute we broke up. You ended it and a millisecond later I realized I could do sooooooo much better. I give you another week before you're dating girls that still feather their bangs and tight roll their jeans. You'll be cruising trailer parks and high schools and I'll be laughing my ass off. I was the best thing that ever happened to you and deep down you know it."
He gritted his teeth before grabbing his gym bag and his keys. "Fine. Let yourself out. I don't care what you do or what you find." And with that, he was out the door and slammed it for emphasis.
She threw herself onto the empty couch that smelled of him and cried. Why couldn't she just say, "I love you. I will always love you. Please take me back."
But her pride was stronger than her love.
He looked up from under the table. "I'm trying to help you look for your keys."
"Give it up. It's useless. I've searched this place from top to bottom, side to side and everywhere in between."
"They're here somewhere. You drove over here, so you obviously had them. I swear to God, Sarah, you'd lose your head if it wasn't attached."
"What?!?! I've misplaced one thing. One. How does this qualify me as someone who'd 'lose their head if it wasn't attached'? And why are you so . . .so . . . ill today? Male PMS?"
He stood up and dusted off his knees, "I've got things to do today and instead of doing them, I'm crawling around the dirty floor searching for your keys."
"Well, Mr. Important, go if you've got to go. No one told you to help me look for my keys. I'll find them myself, thank you very much."
"Go? Go? How would I go? You're-still-here!"
"I do know how to work a doorknob. I think, think mind you, that I can operate a door well enough to let myself out."
"And let you snoop around my house by yourself? Oh. I see. You haven't lost your keys at all. They're probably over there in your purse. You just want to sneak and snoop and see what I've been up to. Forget it. It's none of your business any more. Get over your jealousy, get over your nosiness and get over me!"
"You flatter yourself, really. I was over you the minute we broke up. You ended it and a millisecond later I realized I could do sooooooo much better. I give you another week before you're dating girls that still feather their bangs and tight roll their jeans. You'll be cruising trailer parks and high schools and I'll be laughing my ass off. I was the best thing that ever happened to you and deep down you know it."
He gritted his teeth before grabbing his gym bag and his keys. "Fine. Let yourself out. I don't care what you do or what you find." And with that, he was out the door and slammed it for emphasis.
She threw herself onto the empty couch that smelled of him and cried. Why couldn't she just say, "I love you. I will always love you. Please take me back."
But her pride was stronger than her love.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Fleetwood Mac
Eager to escape even the memory of her, he found himself running for hours. Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd screaming in his ears; the bands she would never listen to with him. His legs numb from the effort, his breath growing more shallow with every step, but his mind still determined to exhaust him past the point of dreaming. He couldn't take another night of smelling her perfume, being caught in her gaze, hearing her apologize and then waking to emptiness and the knowledge she would never be sorry.
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