They are new and will require constant attention

August 03, 2024

I love to flirt at bars. After a long day at the office, most just want to unwind. I want to prowl.

But, I want to be subtle.

Last month, I participated in an elective surgery designed to make me more sociable and those in close proximity to me more eager to join me in a variety of “conversations”. It took a month to heal. It took another month to purchase a few new wardrobe items. It will take a year to pay off the credit card I used for the experience.

I consensually acknowledge I am too broke to be in this much pain.

And if beauty is pain, I must be one of the most beautiful ones here tonight.

I definitely am one of the most exposed people here tonight.

I made eye contact with a cute guy. He was drinking scotch, two fingers, neat. He was nursing the glass while gazing at the room. When his eyes met mine, I took a deep breath. It was a contest to see if his eyes would “pop out” before my enhancements would “pop out”.

My dress is designed for comfort, not for confinement.

Cute Guy understands.

He rises (in more than one way) and walks over to me. I am sitting in the corner table, partially secluded, taking the seat that permits the moonlight to highlight my polite milky whites.

Cute Guy takes a seat.

I reach for his scotch and dip my index finger in. He never breaks eye contact with me. I permit a single drop to drip off my finger and find its new home within my décolletage. I permitted Cute Guy just a few seconds before I inserted my index finger into my mouth so as to deplete the alcohol remnants while increasing the time Cute Guy went without blinking or breathing.

I could only blush at the myriad of opportunities an asphyxiated brain provides.

I had no other duties at the bar tonight.

I have been walking tirelessly down the street. Towards something that I have known my whole life, that I have dreaded my whole life, and that I have been avoiding for as long as possible. It’s a long kind-of-street, so I had a lot of time to go into the rabbit hole that is my thoughts. I have been mulling over how it came to this point while my feet slowed down. Not just because I didn’t want to reach my destination, but because the soles of my shoes had become so thin that I could feel every little stone.

If I wanted to give into the illusion that I had no control over this outcome, I could argue that my parents paved the way. Their decisions made it possible in the first place for me to go down this path. But that would be too easy. So, to be honest, I decided to comply with what people told me for too long now. My constant fear paralyzed me, just to make me walk for who knows how many Kilometers now. It worked well. Every time I decided against my morals, avoiding conflict and hardship with the same breath as I gave out my constant “Yes, Sir”, I put myself on a path that was the least uncomfortable, at least in that moment. And that’s how it went on, from one just slightly uncomfortable decision to the next. Until this one. 6 hours ago I was feeling afraid, as always, but still safe to a certain degree. I knew that my tasks were limited to simple things; people could always feel that I didn’t trust myself with anything really. But then, all of a sudden, I was the best replacement.

“You have observed the necessary training, right?” - “Yes, Sir.”

“And if I remember correctly your family background fits in with this mission?” - “Yes, Sir.”

I was not lying. I have never been lying, at least not to other people. But just because the facts were correct, didn’t mean that I felt comfortable regarding any of my skills, like I already mentioned.

In this situation though, I doubt that they would have cared. I was supposed to be a diversion; to pull peoples focus onto me as I stumbled through this open area. If I came close enough, I should also attack. But I didn’t want to get close. I didn’t want to decide over other people's lives just because we were at an advantage for once. I didn’t care about any of the fights that the generation before me started. My rambling, defeatist thoughts got interrupted by signals from my team “You’re brilliant, we almost have them in sight. Just a few more meters and we'll make hell rain down on them.” That was it then. The first thing I’ll hold myself accountable for and the last thing I will most likely do. It begins.

It was to be a grand night.

Melanie and Frank agreed to accept the housewarming party from their new neighbors who moved in just four days ago. The Smiths were young (mid-twenties) and recently married. They presented as a happy couple with a happy future. Frank accepted their invitation upon meeting them. It was he who broke the news to his wife.

Melanie had yet to meet either one.

Melanie and Frank had seen their share of problems over the years; most of them financial. It was Melanie that carried the household expenses when Frank had his heart attack one day after his health coverage lapsed. If it had not been for Melanie’s solid employment as a cytogeneticist and Frank’s penchant for writing, they would have lost the house and their retirement.

But that was then.

Now, Melanie had enough time in her job to retire and Frank had enough scripts written to shop each around that their golden years had a renewed potential.

Tonight, at the Smith’s, a good deal of neighbors came with a myriad of gifts for the young couple who needed each and every one. Frank suggested a toaster. Melanie countered with a nice bottle of wine.

They walked the block with the wine bottle secured and their hopes high.

The other neighbors greeted them and waved them to the back yard of the new couple. Their deck donned with incandescent light bulbs, tables with flowers, and an old Victrola spinning a few 78s made the scene very picturesque, almost a Saturday Evening Post cover. Melanie found solace in Frank’s eyes. Frank was lost in Melanie’s.

Ten minutes later, a modest drum roll foreshadowed the Smith’s arrival to meet and greet their guests. Tanya (Smith) could not hold herself and she immediately blurted out that tonight was more than a housewarming.

Frank felt Melanie tugging on his hand to immediately leave.

Tanya continued to usurp the attention by stating that she was in remission for bone marrow cancer and as of this morning, her pregnancy test finally displayed that + sign her and her husband (Tony) had always hoped for.

Melanie dug in hard and pulled Frank away from the applauding crowd with a redoubled sense of urgency. They had to leave NOW!

Never had Frank sensed this from Melanie, but never was Frank one to second guess his wife of thirty years. He acquiesced and departed.

It was not until the two isolated themselves in their own home, out of sight, but easily within the perimeter of vocal festivities at the Smith’s. Frank gave Melanie a few moments to compose herself before he asked the inevitable.

He wished he hadn’t.

“Why did we have to leave? They seemed such a nice couple.”

Melanie asked Frank to sit, for this was not to be easy.

“Frank, I told you I was going to retire at the end of the year. I am going to call my supervisor and move that date effective today.”

“I don’t understand” was all Frank could think of.

“Frank, I told you what I do at the hospital as a cytogeneticist. I look at chromosomes and their defects. I confirm a doctor’s diagnosis and suggest a course of treatment when there is a course of treatment to suggest.”

Frank now understood, but remained silent.

“Frank, you never told me Mrs. Smith was Mrs. Tanya Smith. I have her report on my desk. She was in remission for bone cancer. She no longer is in remission.”

Frank asked, “How much time does she have?”

Oncologists will verify aggressive cancers leave the victim with two or three very painful months. Gynecologists and Pediatricians all want more for a successful gestation.

It was Melanie’s job to break the news to the patient.

It was not her job anymore.

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I sway my blade to avenge the lost,

the land our people brought to life.

For their mistakes, I paid the cost

the day I found the strength to write.

Now I wander through past and time,

with words I cure the ones who frown.

Their doleful eyes were lit by rhyme

the day I found the golden crown.

My castle shines with light and glory.

I lead my people on their own accord.

Remember my life and its wonderful story..

The day I found the mighty sword.

╚════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╝

When the rain stops, I put on my boots.

It was worm-stomping time.

I put on my coat, all ready to go,

to go commit my crime.

Glorified spaghetti noodles rise up -

My rubber boots stomped DOWN!

As I committed my massacre,

I mused if worms could drown.

I tested this in a puddle,

squishing their soft pink heads.

They didn't really react,

so I stomped more instead.

Worms are worms.

Make them squirm.

That's all I have to say.

Bridgette strolled the cobblestone street, taking her time, listening. She was not of here. "But where is here?" Four words repeated in her head. Four words requiring an answer, but not at the expense of asking the question aloud.

She may not wish to hear the answer.

She did not enjoy walking in heels on the uneven surface. To do so required her to look less forward and more down. Passerbys must have thought her depressed, possibly heartbroken. Alone, dressed for the night, and carrying an umbrella not of her choice, Bridgette kept her pace. The narrow street bent toward the left, keeping her vision limited to (at most) thirty meters. The walls of shoppes of both sides still had the grace of ownership; the kind assigned to families with the intentions of investing their life and life savings. Where she was should be bustling, not dampened.

But still, with each step, what she heard from the residents did not sit well with her. Their hushed tones concealed the details of something. Something was amiss. Something didn't fit. Something she could not place her finger on. If there was a pulse in this town (village? city?), it was erratic and deliberately weak.

That word did not sit well with her. It alluded to an intent, a clear choice. Was it malice? Or worse? Another few steps, taken gingerly on the stones, she listened for additional clues to unwrap the enigma of what remained hidden, just out of her perception, almost out of phase with the normal cadence of life.

But to no avail. With each step, Bridgette believed she could be closing in on an answer that beset the residents. Why she thought so was as perplexing as her initial wonderings. She felt no pain, no effects from ill-treatment, no harm at all.

But Bridgette did feel ill-eased (is that even a word?). More intense than deja-vu and more ominous than an omen, she pondered turning back, hoping for an equitable opportunity to repeat her actions and eliminate that singular choice that led her to . . .

A petrichor!

That alluring smell after a brief rain. That intoxicating aroma cataloged with a special time or place or person when first encountering both simultaneously.

Bridgette serendipitously moved toward a small flower shoppe of little distinction other than its location adjacent to a gap in the buildings of the street. The wind wafted gently through the shoppe permitting the permeation of aromas to the senses of those in close proximity. Bridgette received the bouquet from the flowers and eagerly approached.

So did the man dressed as the doctor with just enough blood on his scrubs to ruin the moment.

"I remember it all now,'' she said. "We were never to meet again. Why are you here?"

It was all she could say. Bridgette saw the sullen look on the surgeon's face. Her eyes began to well up with the tears of those emotions he promised her she would never experience, if she agreed.

Bridgette agreed and then she was here.

The surgeon gave his word she would never have to leave and yet, here he was to bring her back.

"Just one more minute. Please!"

The townsfolk knew she would not stay. They would have greeted her upon her arrival if she had. Bridgette would have been happy here, wherever here was.

The surgeon did all he could to save her, declaring the time of death at 2:25am from malnutrition and severe hypothermia. He talked to her. She talked to him. She wanted to go. He told her she could, but reversed when her blood pressure increased. Without a DNR, he had to try again. Her last word, "Please!", he took out of context.

The patient, almost 80 by her expired driver's license, was almost certainly destitute, but not always so. The night proved too cold for such a frail woman to be homeless and die alone.

Love, the love bomber to be correct thats what they call you.

You stop in every city, one by one taking down all the girls who loved you.

To say I didn't expect that to happen to me well, is everything but the truth.

You made it too me and I loved you with my whole being but you bombed it.

You bombed my body breaking every inch of me.

You warmed me up as timed ticked by making me feel things again.

But it was to late, time was now over and that burning feeling was not passion but pain.