"I never even got the chance to kiss you." he laments.
Doesn't he know that he kisses me with his words every day?
Deeply. Sensually. Ardently.
I remain untouched, yet forever changed.
She hand-picked him. Spotted him out of the small crowd of her acquaintances. She could tell by his fleeting glances that he had wanted to approach her but he was a little too shy to do so.
Shy. Nice touch.
His appearance was just right too. You see, she now definitely had a "type". A few years older, dark hair, broad shoulders, killer smile.
Yes. Oh yes. He will do quite nicely...
So in an action totally unlike her, she made an advance on him. And it blew his mind. He was initially floored but wholly receptive.
She discovered early on that he was a gift-giver. A car. Lingerie. Jewelry. Jewelry that she was uncharacteristically careless with. She lost a couple of pieces thoughtlessly. Perhaps subconsciously shedding those tokens of affection. She was not interested in any of those things, not in the slightest.
Yes, he could also finesse her body to new heights. Who knew there were pleasures such as these? She sure had not known before him. Their coupling had left her completely engulfed, enthralled, enraptured. And empty. So, so very empty.
She soon found that there was no pleasure, no gift, he could afford her that would excise the pain of not being with HIM. Jake could make her feel a lot of things but he didn't make her soul sing. She was ruined for all others. Tainted.
Yes, by THAT one. The one that just recently, coldly told her he was getting married soon and couldn't be in contact with her any longer. She tried to email him on several occasions after the brush-off but they kept bouncing back to her. It pierced her like a hot knife each time but she kept doing it. Like some conditioned lab animal pressing the button repeatedly for the highly anticipated reward. Only, no reward came. Only pain. Waves of it. Apparently, her sweet Galahad had even closed that email account-- her only means to contact him.
And she did.
But something was bothering her so badly (besides her own atrocious behavior). Did Jake not even notice she was trying to drive out the memory of someone else with him? It bothered her even more if that he DID in fact notice and chose to acquiesce in order to keep her. She didn’t want a man like that. Someone content with the ingenuine. That would be... repulsive. Wait--
It was at this time that she realized what a huge, fucking hypocrite she was.
Sshhh, handsome. Just be quiet and c'mere.
And also, what a lowly, vile monster she had become.
like a McD’s ice cream machine
*note to self: It's broken, okay? BROKEN. Quit checking, you obtuse fuck.*
Nothing has changed. I never learn.
We get close.
You remove yourself.
I flounder in the dark.
My heart breaks.
You said because we were never really "together", you could have never have broken my heart. Reasonable logic, eh?
Okay, my love. But let's take a little walk together, shall we?
When you bowed out because your 4 letters matched my 4 letters and why, that could never EVER work, goodbye.
You were wrong.
My heart broke. I know. I checked.
When you told me goodbye because you found someone so good for you even to the point of being wed, so goodbye now, scram.
You were wrong.
My heart broke. I know. I checked.
When you returned for a time only to later tell me you had found another, a better, and you two couldn't keep out each other's faces so goodbye now, go, git.
You were wrong.
My heart broke. I know. I checked.
This time though... it felt different this time. I laid it all out and didn't hold back. Everything I would usually write to, for, about you (for YEARS) and then usually just delete or tear it up after, I stopped deleting and tearing it up after and just put it all out there this time.
All. Of. It.
I want you unconditionally. No money, no status, nothing additional was ever required.
Just you. I want you. Just you.
All. Of. You.
I thought it would end differently.
And it did end differently, kind of.
Because, you see,
I was the one that was wrong this time.
I was wrong.
And you don't owe me anything. Not a damn thing. You never did. This is my problem though, not yours. Never was.
I'm just a fucking hopeless idiot that likes to write.
And hey, guess what?
For fucking ever.
Dad was right she thought as she lie there on the floor. She kept her head turned away and avoided his eyes. Ugly hate welled up inside her as his foot nudged her like trash in the gutter.
Dad was right. Native women are very special. They are to be treasured and protected at all costs. This is not what was happening to her, not at all. She had managed to get captured, be taken far away from her people, hurt and used.
I've been reduced to a blanket squaw.
Her father had tried to warn her, he truly did. But she was quick to throw away his words as soon as she saw the white man years ago. Blond hair. Green eyes. He dazzled her with charisma and drowned her in attention. He was the life of the party and yet he seemed to want HER. HER, for some reason. It must have been because he could see how very special she was! Yes! She had been willfully powerless against his effort to make her his and his only.
That day she had come home to her small apartment to change her clothes before picking up her children. She wanted to take them to the park today. It's one of the things she could think to do to offset their lack of enrichment at home. Cheap activities and entertainment. Lots of time at the local parks, libraries and even the zoo and museums when they had their "free day" or reduced admission cost offerings. She lived for their smiles and peals of laughter.
She had just set her keys down when her estranged husband slammed through the door. She hadn't seen his car outside but he must have been parked somewhere, watching, waiting for her to come home. And here he was. Shit. Please not today.
"Where are my boys?" he demanded.
Of course he knew they were at daycare. He wasn't there to see them, he was there to see her. She had to work as a temp, mostly doing mind-numbing office jobs. She usually got assignments for receptionist because she had a welcoming disposition and she could answer the phone in a polite and professional manner. The pay sucked but she was forced to work to keep paying rent and bills. Her husband had left them months ago but he did pop in from time-to-time to remind her he still owned her.
He stood near her, looking her up and down. The sight of her in her business casual attire (the best she could find at the local thrift store) set him off in a rage.
He was on her in a flash, caught her by the hair and roughly pushed her down, pinning her. He was viciously ripping her clothes aside.
"Oh, right, 'work'. " he sneered, making the word sound dirty. He angrily grabbed her face with his hand, "More like out whoring around while someone else raises my kids."
She knew what would come next but forced her mind take her elsewhere. She took note of the damage in real time: buttons-- I can easily replace those. That torn part of my skirt though, that's probably not going to be an easy fix. I'll try though. Nylons... they're goners. Damn. Those are not easy to replace... rent is almost due. I won't have the extra money to...
The hard transition piece where the cheap vinyl met the even cheaper carpet dug into her back. Black thread, white thread, needle, buttons. She made her mental list and tried hard not to cry. She refused to let him see her tears. She sent up a silent prayer, ever grateful her children were not here to witness this attack.
When he finished, he nudged her with his foot and spat, "Go get my boys. Now." And he left.
She willed herself to get up. It wasn't difficult when the sweet faces of her babies came to her mind. She loved them with a ferocity like nothing else. She knew that she had to get herself, and in turn, her children, out of this situation somehow. She would die before they came to any harm and that included living in a crap home like this. This was the snare the stupid animal built for itself. The children did not deserve to suffer it as well.
There would be changes now. Divorce papers filed, a restraining order requested, locks changed, school admission forms submitted.
She closed the apartment door behind her as she left that afternoon. In fact, she was closing that door forever.
Yes, dad, you were right. But now it's time to go to the park.
Gone dark- Day 1
He wasn't sure if she had spoken something to him or if she was sleeping. He heard it again. A sob. She's crying. A name spoken. Cries. He snaked an arm gently around her and pulled her to him, rousing her slightly.
In the morning he asked her why in the world was she crying and saying the name of their river guide in her sleep?
"Nightmare, I guess."
The Face of God
"Do you want to see a picture of God?" her father asked, beckoning her.
The little girl's eyes lit up. She didn’t know much about God. What she did know was that when her mother would sneak her to church a couple of times a year, there were stories about God there and then there were cookies and juice afterward. Why yes, she did want to know more about God.
She excitedly climbed into her father's lap. She wrinkled her nose. He smelled strongly of alcohol and tobacco. He always did.
He took out a folded dollar bill and opened it ceremoniously.
"THIS is God to white man." He ponted sharply at the image before her. "They kill each other and the earth in the name of it."
The little girl was disappointed by what he had said. This was just money. It was a picture of a president. She furrowed her small, brown brow and gave him a measured look. Was he playing a trick on her?
The serious look on his face told her indeed, he was not. Her father was rarely silly with her nor did he ever 'play tricks'. He never used small words with her either; he always spoke to her with a mature vocabulary. Because of it, she understood much more than other adults gave her credit for at her tender age.
Her father continued to tell her many things about the evil white men. What they had done to his people-- HER people. What they would do to HER if she let them get the chance to do their evil things. Scary stories. He told her white men were incapable of properly honoring a native woman. But they would try to take one as their own and make her their captive. He warned her to STAY AWAY from the white men at all costs. The little girl listened carefully; her father was gravely serious.
Of course, the subject matter was rather inappropriate for one so young. It was a lot for a little girl to take in-- even for an exceptionally bright one.
There were still many things she could not fully understand when he would tell her these tales. But not to worry, it was a speech he would repeat many, many times during her formative years.
He's in the lyrics of the songs she hums, he's within the pages of her books.
He's in the blazing of a sunset,
he is in the jumping of a fish.
He's in the tickle of her memory, the passion that delights her soul.
For it was their hands He had placed together,
while they were still yet among the stars.
It is no surprise he is everywhere she goes.
For they are a poem He wrote,
so very long ago.
I've never sought out a person because I was drunk, lonely or bored. Never.
I don't say that to try to act like I'm better than any one that has. It's just true is all. I'm not wired for those kinds of games.
Many thoughts and people pass through my daily mind. After careful inspection, each are retired sloppily into the places I think they best belong. Stacks here and stacks there. It's a messy system, but it's how my mind works.
A very select few of these items I keep nearby, for ease of picking up and admiring lovingly throughout my day. I treasure them above all else. If you are one of them, then you are truly, incredibly special.
I'd never reach out to you because my inebriated mind slurs 'watch this...' or because my loneliness is currently eating me alive. I'm a very thoughtful and deliberate person.
The list has been intentionally curated over the years to be painfully short. If you're on the list, you deserve to be there.
Perhaps it is merely a defense mechanism of the tender-hearted. Perhaps it is experience that has taught me it's for the best. I think it's likely both.
No, his arms, oh God, look at his arms... Back to baseball.
She knew he just had to have played a sport. Didn't know what kind of sport but she sure wanted to find that out. That and so many other things about him. All the things.
She was studying the way his shirt was straining over different areas of his back and biceps. Oh, but his triceps were her weak spot lately. She was in a position to sneakily study him today. Bliss.
She was always studying him.
Stop being such a freaking creeper she admonished herself. But to no avail. The delicious inspection would continue. The thought of him was driving her out of her mind and leaving her uncharacteristically at a loss for words (internally, anyway).
Here at work, she was not the only one noticing either. Whenever he walked by, flocks of females stupidly stuck out their tits toward him, sticking out their asses, preening like complete jackasses. All types: fat, skinny, pretty, dog-faced, it didn't matter. They all tried. Their shrill voices cawing out a greeting to him followed by silly, asinine giggles. They were all so desperate to catch his eye. She felt a hefty portion of second-hand embarrassment each time it happened.
What kind of meat-market circus is this place? she pondered about her place of employment, shaking her head.
She, on the other hand, remained cool and reserved. She pretended not to see him, too absorbed in whatever task be at hand. Inside though, she was going crazy. He was creating a tempest within her in which she joyfully reveled.
She was young-- the youngest one there in fact. What did she know about anything? She had nothing to offer him, truly, but it did not stop her from wanting to find a way to hold her body against his. The thought of how her calves would feel draped over his glorious shoulders. Sigh.
The lyrics to "Creep" came to mind. She winced. Yeah, I'll own that. Fair enough.
She supposed that in the end, she was no better than the horny flock. She was just better at hiding it.
A simple question
I froze, unable to process his question for two reasons:
1.) We did not usually communicate face-to-face.
2.) I didn't know how to answer his seemingly simple question.
"What season did you usually find was the best for trout?"
Yes, Cute Guy at work knew that I grew up fishing, hence the friendly curiosity.
I thought of several humorous replies before lamely mumbling, "I don't know. Just whenever."
Bravo, dumb ass. Way to shine with some witty banter.
Cute Guy just smiled that killer smile, walked away with his hands tucked in his front pockets. He had such an easy way about him. I was sad I couldn't keep the conversation going.
Truth was, trout season was any season we didn't want to starve. Fish was the main protein source in my impoverished childhood home.
There were times that getting skunked meant no meal that day. My father had spent nearly all his unemployment check on beer and cigarettes, whining about how 'the man' was keeping him down. This while his two young children scrounged whatever they could from dusty kitchen cabinets.
Log Cabin syrup on a slice of stale white bread was sometimes all that could be found.
There were times the power had been shut off for non-payment and we had lost the fish in the freezer.
Yeah, abject poverty was a real hoot, year around.
Cute Guy, come back... we can talk about something else. Anything else.