This morning I awoke to a stranger. They slept peacefully beside me. But I did not run nor did I panic. I have awaken to this stranger for almost a year now. Perhaps we aren't strangers anymore by that standard but by my own, they still were. I used to wake up after them all the time, now I wake up before them and they bother me five minutes into my morning routine. I let them have the room and the bathroom while I disappear into the kitchen hoping to eat breakfast fast enough that I won't have to run into them when they are done. When they appear before I'm done, I retreat into the office, the only other room where I can escape this stranger.

Everytime they kiss me goodbye or hug me close, I fight the urge to recoil and run back to the office. My saving grace is their late work hours and I get the freedom of being home alone. I remember before...before we were strangers, how I used to anxiously await their return. Now all I have are frantic glances at the clock, hoping they have to stay late. And when they return late, I don't dare ask what they've been doing.

Only a year ago did we become strangers. I still remember like it was yesterday. I stopped by their office. I really really shouldn't have. I had no business there. We'd promised we would not bother each other at work. But I broke the rule. I suffer the consquences. I live like a prisoner at home. Where to run where I can't be found? I knew that if I left I'd only live my life like I live for those few ticking waiting minutes of the day when I know they return. Knowing and waiting. At least in my own home, here alone, I know I am safe.

My only fear here at home is that when the stranger comes back they'll decide I'm not worth keeping around. If only they'd just toss me out. But I knew better than that. If I stayed home, I wouldn't end up in his office.

But this waiting, this fear, is eating me alive. I cannot live with this strange for much longer. If I don't die from my frayed nerves...perhaps I go visit their office again. Break the rule. And let them kill me.

The stranger would smile at me for a moment I'd see the face of my beloved one, before they became this stranger.

They'll say it is a mercy to me, to kill me like they killed all the others. And as I'd lay there, staring at all the blood that came before me, I'd smiled and nod and agree.

"Please, please have mercy on me."

#stranger #marriage #murder #murderer #mystery #suspence #drama #wife #fear #psychological #psychology

Spring. The season of renewal, rebirth, regeneration-at least in biological terms.

The weather sings to its own tune;

It gives zero fucks about my birthday plans.

Most likely, neither does Sugar-

the fifteen year old I'm about to meet.

I paid for an hour of her time <oh, well>

because it's an experience I desire.

I walk across the concrete courtyard soil

toward where she fidgets, waiting.

Her dark silhouette contrasts in stark relief

against the ice-blue crystalline sky.

I shiver with anticipation, cold, or both

watching her silky tresses wave in the breeze.

Tempered by years of strict training, she stills as I approach, then raises her eyes to mine.

In that moment, nothing exists. Time stops.

Her soul leaps out of her expressive dusky eyes,

touching mine so intimately I feel it in my bones.

Pain and despair crash down on me, suffocating,

pulling hot, salinous rivers over my frozen cheeks.

Perhaps we've been tethered for millennia?

I realize with sudden clarity that I cannot.

I can't use her-pay for her-exploit her.

Instead, I stroke her auburn hair with reverence,

whispering gentle words of understanding

as the stablemaster removes her weathered saddle.

He looked in the pond. I wouldn’t have really noticed it, for the fact that when I glanced at him, he didn’t as so much move. Back ramrod straight, he stared down at the water, like he was using all his attention to find something. His length of stare was unordinary, and the longer I looked at him, the longer he didn’t move.

I stopped running and slowed to a walk, moving toward the pond. I peak over the edge to see what he is looking at, if anything.

Nothing. It was literally nothing. No water left in the pond. The empty square of concrete was out of place inside glistening boughs of leaves and bushes.

“Huh.” I watch a black bug scurry across the bottom. Maybe he’s wondering too. He looked wary, his scuttles not in line. He’s probably expecting the water to gush down at him any minute.

I looked beside me, to the stranger. He’s noticed the bug too, and at my glance he looks at me.

“Do you know where all the water went?” I ask.

He sticks out his hand. “ I’m Jack.”

“Denise,” I shake his hand.

He smirks. “I’m part of maintenance. I took out the water this morning.”

Oh, I just now notice the emblem on his t-shirt Water Maintenece and Supply. Embarrassed, a hollow laugh barks out of me. He was checking to make sure if there was anything else he missed. Of course.

“Well,” I say, putting my earbuds back in. He blinks, a quick shutter of his eyelids. “Looks good. No speck of water left.”

He smiles and nods, moving his attentive stare back to the empty pond.

Only later on my run, at his last glance towards me as I continued, did I notice.

Eyes. Quick shutter.

His eyes were amphibian.

# ChallengeoftheWeek CXXXIII #theprose #poetry #stranger #encounter #amphibian #frog #eyes #pond #stacksofbooks #bottleofbooks

The three words I’ve been contemplating

Since I laid eyes on you.

Your gentlemanliness

Your loyalty to your loved ones

I can’t fantom how rare it is for you to be true

You’re the dream of every hopeless romantic

Even though you may not see it so

Your friends doubt your abilities

But in my eyes they’re blind to the real you

You make me laugh and you don’t even try

Your insecurities make me wonder if I’m blind

Just thinking of you warms my heart and sends tingles down my spine

But I guess your flirting was just you being nice.

I was only imagining your blush.

Your lip bites were probably for another girl

Because let’s face it, who would ever put me first?

Our stolen glances were completely coincidental

Being chivalrous was being polite

I was overthinking and being analytical

Trying to read between the lines.

You’ve put this barrier between us

Unintentionally not letting me through

I want to be there when others are not

Who you are to me

I want to be the same for you

I’ve thought about this moment over the course of these past months

And every single time, your answer was the same:

“I don’t want us to have an end.

Just allow this friendship to remain.”

I’ve come to terms with this for a while

Being your friend is all I can be

But even then, I still get jealous

Of a possibility that could never be for me.

A stranger in a foreign land

alone as an any other man

who hasn’t felt the love of One

who made the Earth, the sky, the sun.

What hope can that sad man possess

except to have eternal rest

upon taking his final breath;

sweet surrender to indiscriminate death.

For death sings victory in the end

if life you’ve lived without this friend

who comforts those whose hearts they lend

willingly for Him to mend.

But heaven waits for those who turn

to Him for whom we all do yearn,

if only this we all would learn:

His grace and love are ours, unearned

all He asks is love, returned.

#God #love #stranger #grace #death

Strangers mean a new beginning. I think that's what I like most about them. It's a blank slate; something you can never have again once you get to know somebody.

I like to watch people on the bus and imagine what their lives are like. Of course I could never truly know what the reality is for them, but it's nice to imagine. I wonder what they think when they see me. Is it possible they wonder the same thing? Or are they too self absorbed to notice their surroundings? Theres a saying that goes: we are the center of our own universe. It sounds rather lonely to me.

This past month I read the Great Gatsby. I learned how meaningless material wealth can be. It's truly human companionship that makes you happy. But all Gatsby had was Daisy, and she was empty.

The people we know can also become strangers over time. They change and we change and by the time we see one another again, we are two completely different people. Some days you can be a complete stranger to yourself. Aren't we all just strangers?

You will apparently meet less than 1% of the people living in this world. That means more than 99% of the people living around you, you will never know.

As you pass by people in the street, the only story you two will ever share is that one moment. And as you walk away, you leave their life entirely; until perhaps, another chance encounter.

I was the reflection in her eyes... the flame. A shimmering diamond in the starlit galaxy, reflecting in almost every eye; but not the right thing shone in mine. It was all haze. A vague memory of a cold, rainy day. When she shifted the umbrella towards me, and half of her got dripping wet. I swear we both could have walked under it, but she kept that space. The college's plain girl; I merely knew her name. I know right then she felt just unknown, just right out of my heart....

I was the energy in the thunderstorm... the lightning bolt.The rush of warm blood, the fire in it. She always whooshed past me like the wind, so invisible. And I hardly ever noticed her scent. Not even when she slipped from the stairs, and I caught her arm trying to stabilize her. And she was wildly noticing that she was saved, I remember from the blurry vision of her as I was heading fast towards the basketball court....

I was like the fumes from the volcano, flying higher. The wandering dust of the desert, occupying. She could be somewhere around, when I traversed the thorny jungle with my group on that wild adventure trip, stepping ahead fearlessly like the King of the Jungle. They were betting on killing snakes, huh. I'd kill a crocodile. I set out, after a while everything was soaked in blue moonlight. My eyes burnt like a hungry hunter's. Suddenly, shadows appeared. Unmistakable. I simply lost track of my thoughts. Forgot about finding crocodiles, the triumph, my friends, the plain girl, all. The shadows were elongating, approaching. The howl, epic as ever, resounded under the face of the impeccable moon. The pack returned  the signal from a distance....

I was the dark grey sky, dull and thoughtless. Back home from the trip. Wounded in the thigh. Reminiscing, thinking if I'd just come across an illusion of the moonlight. But then, she came. I saw the cut on her wrist. The vicious claws, I remember. Those eyes from the mask... the attack of the wolves. The groan... sigh, the gunshot.The play of the ninja; the Masked Stranger....

 She was the mystery, and I was a whirlpool of confusion. I looked in her eyes... wildly noticing that I was saved. She stared back at me, her eyes maybe, finally, bravely here to make a confession, so pretty, so teary. But unsure and indecisive. Maybe feeling unknown, like a stranger. I took her hand. Took her in. To my arms. The ice inside me shattering, like a house of cards. Finally making a way in for a stranger, who was quietly passing by my life. Tracking every beat of my heart, but scared to let me know. 

     Three words, barely audible amid the otherwise annoying crowd noise, was all it took to set the "I told you so" dance in motion. She was radiant in her gloating, and something told me to take note of her uncanny ability to read strangers. With my stomach still reeling from yet another triumph of my naiveté, earlier that day, I found comfort in her celebration.

///

     "Ready for lunch?", Drew asked, stepping off the red, spiral staircase that led to the lofted area of the office where the contract draftsmen worked, and in Drew's case perfected the art of minesweeper.

     It was a question I had heard many times over the two years prior to graduate school and in the two years since. "Yep, let's go."

     "I'll drive," he said, and we headed for his white Dodge Ram 2500 4x4 pickup with an extended cab and camper shell.

     "I still can't believe you bought this giant truck, when you know you're gonna be driving to Florida every other weekend to see your new woman. What's her name again?" I asked, trying to recall how long it had been since he informed me of his new lady friend. I hesitated to use the word girlfriend to describe Andrea, since Drew had to be well past fifty.

     Drew and I had discussed many things during our lunches over the years, but for some reason, I'd never asked how old he was. He seemed to know a lot about everything, especially women. So, I assumed that the breadth of worldly knowledge demonstrated in his fantastic stories must have taken at least three adult decades to accrue.

     “This one's special. Remind me when we get back to the office, to show you some pictures we took this weekend when she was in town.” He sounded almost giddy.

     I could hardly wait to eat at Warren's Restaurant and Lounge. It was a manly kind of place. Bar by night, delicious buffet by day. Pork chops sizzled from the skillet in the DJ booth. The awkward journey from the vegetables, rice and fried chicken buffet across the dance floor, to pour yourself a styrofoam cup of sweet tea, was one I had made many times.

     "I'm gonna miss this place," he said.

     "What are you talking about? Where are you heading?" I asked. A necessary side effect of making three times more money than the architectural interns you worked alongside as a contract draftsman, was the inevitable fact of frequent, abrupt departures. Drew had twice before left and returned to our firm, with the ebb and flow of our workload. I assumed he was being re-assigned to another drafting gig.

     "Chapel Hill," he replied. "I've been meaning to tell you, since I got back from Arizona. You've probably been wondering what these purple marks on my neck are all about.”

     I had been wondering about the two giant hickie-looking marks on either side of his neck, but figured it best to let him explain them.

     "I've got brain cancer, and I'm dying,” he said, and suddenly the delectable first bite of the disco pork chop I had been savoring seconds before became less appetizing. “I don't know if I ever told you, but my mother died from brain cancer, too."

     "How long have you known?" I managed to inquire.

     He went on to explain how he'd been referred to specialists in Chapel Hill six weeks prior. They recommended aggressive triangulated laser treatment on his lymph nodes, to try to slow the progression of the cancer, hence the bruises on his neck.

     As we ate, he told me he was not afraid to die. Just as age seemed something that we need not have discussed during our many lunches together; faith and belief in a higher being was something we’d had no trouble foregoing, in lieu of more entertaining subjects, until now. Now, it seemed entirely appropriate that we were discussing the afterlife, at our table under the darkened mirror ball, which assumed the instant metaphor of an electric life eagerly awaiting its next and potentially final spin.

     Drew was an odd dude. I knew that. He loved ballroom dancing, and was ostensibly very good at it. Far be it for a virile, straight, twenty-eight year old intern architect to enjoy hanging out with a fifty-something ballroom-dancing gentleman, except for the fact that he assured me it was merely a great way to meet women. I relished the stories of adventurous women he had entertained on and off the dance floor. With each potentially true, always entertaining account, I would learn a little more about my peculiar friend.

     However, I had not anticipated his belief (and apparent participation) in astral projection. He explained, with measured delivery, how he had traveled in several spiritual realms with his ex-wife soul mate. The two of them had been together many times throughout history without prior knowledge of what the arrangement would be going forward.

     "Sometimes, she comes back as the man, and I am the woman. Sometimes, we're both women. We both trust that our souls will arrive in the designated realm that we're destined for. So, you see, I don't fear dying, because that sends me on my next journey with my soul mate. I didn't bother questioning why his current ex-wife soul mate and adult child chose to live five hours away in Raleigh, and seemed to want nothing to do with him. I had heard enough. Drew was indeed an odd dude, and at this point, I was willing to forego the banana pudding in exchange for the quickest journey back to the office, astral plane or otherwise.

     I took the opportunity of the ride back to the office to discuss how Andrea had taken the news. He informed me that she had been supportive, and was prepared to stick by him. Back inside, Drew invited me to follow him up the red spiral staircase to his workspace in the loft. Not wanting to deny him the pleasure of showing off his new acquaintance, I proceeded upstairs.

     On his monitor, his screensaver revealed a middle-aged woman with short dark hair in lingerie standing in the foyer of his townhouse and looking back at the camera.

     "Nice," I exclaimed.

     "Do you like that?" he asked, hinting that there were more photos to view.

     "Yeah, Drew. I like that picture. You did alright this time," I replied in the best "buddy" response I could muster.

     "Oh yeah? What do you like about her?" he went on.

     At this point I started to wonder how he’d been able to have a scantily clad “woman of the night” as his screen saver without any complaints from the women in the office. "She's got nice legs," I said, as I turned to go back to my desk downstairs.

///

     "We just need to stop by Drew's on the way. I need to borrow his external hard drive. It shouldn't take long," I told Wendi, as we made our way to lunch on Saturday.

     Although I had never been there, Drew’s townhouse was immaculate. Every wall seemed to be adorned with tasteful artwork celebrating the female body, including an oversized image of his red-headed ex-wife reclining, above the couch.

     Fortunately, with Wendi in tow, the tour of my friend’s humble abode was appropriately short lived, and we were able to quickly retrieve the component we had come for from the spare bedroom/home office.

     It was there, in the opened closet of that second bedroom, that I spotted five identical outfits of khakis and blue oxfords, and nothing else. It was a striking visual reminder of Drew’s theory of uniformity which asserted that such a spartan wardrobe eliminated the need to decide what to wear every morning, which resulted in heaps of time saved time over the years.

     “I’m amazed at how clean Drew’s place was,” I said to Wendi as we drove away.

     “Yeah, that dude is walking around in women’s underwear, for sure,” she stated rather emphatically.

     “What?” I objected, “Drew is the most heterosexual man I know.” It was all I could do to keep from sharing all of the insight that Drew had shared with me about women over the years.

     “Do any of your other friends have statues of women in their house?” she asked.

     “No, but Drew really likes women,” I responded.

     “Because he wants to be one," she retorted matter-of-factly.

     As we drove, I revisited the interior of his townhouse, trying to recall any other bit of evidence that might support her preposterous claim. “I did find it odd that his work clothes were in the spare bedroom closet.”

     “That’s because his closet is full of women’s clothes.”

     “Nah, you don’t know Drew like I do.” I said, refusing to buy into Wendi’s notion. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

///

     Dave wasn’t a particularly chatty fellow, but when he returned from lunch at the Chinese place, he had quite the story to tell, and word of his Drew sighting quickly spread throughout the office.

     It had been several months since he’d left citing health concerns, and no one had heard from him in the meantime. Dave assured us that he appeared to be in good health, and that he was considering coming by the office.

     Dave encouraged us to prepare ourselves for what we were about to witness. Obviously, a lot had taken place since we had all last seen him. In fact, we probably wouldn’t recognize him.

     “Did you talk to him?” I asked. “Is he wanting to come back?”

     “I don’t think so,” Dave snickered.

     “How did he look?” one of the principals asked.

     And I’ll never forget what Dave went on to tell us.

///

     I heard him enter the front door of the office, and I heard the amazement in the receptionist's voice. Surely, the old man would tell him to leave, as he passed the principal's corner office before he got to the studio.

     I could not bring myself to turn around when he spoke to the architect whose office was adjacent to my workspace.

     "Drew, how you doing, man?" Dennis said, in what could only be described as one of the most awkward exchanges I've ever overheard.

     "It's Sage now," replied a soft, almost whispering voice.

     And suddenly I was face to face with the amply-chested brunette stranger in a red blazer and white pants. A wave of gut-wrenching anguish swept up from somewhere deep in my stomach.

     "Just keep on walking, Drew. I don't even want to look at you."

     "I'm sorry," she said with tears in her eyes.

     "Just keep walking," I said sternly.

     "I'm sorry," she said again. "I don't recommend it unless you absolutely have to."

     She made her way to Liz's desk, and Liz, to her credit, was much more cordial. Commenting first on her outfit, then on her fantastic boob job.

     I grabbed my wallet and keys and left quickly for lunch, and never once did I consider asking Sage if she wanted to join me.

     My stomach hurt for the rest of the day. Thank God it was Friday. Thank God Wendi would be on her way to Myrtle Beach in a couple of hours. Thank God, the white Dodge Ram was no longer in the parking lot when I returned to the office.

     Why wouldn't he have told me he was thinking of becoming a woman?

     Why did he lie and tell me he was dying?

     Why would he lie about the marks from the surgery to remove his Adams apple?

     Why did he share so many intimate stories about women with me? Was he tracking my responses?

     Who in the hell was that in the photo on his computer?

     When you eat lunch with a friend nearly every weekday for three years, you think you know him.

     What happened to the Drew I enjoyed hanging out with? I guess he did die. The betrayal hurt the most. Three years invested in a relationship that was built upon a lie!

     I've not spoken to nor seen the stranger since, as far as I know.

///

     "Drew's a woman," I whispered loud enough for her to hear over the noisy, hungry crowd.

     "I knew it!" Wendi exclaimed as she commenced a little dance. "How did you find out?"

     "Well," I began, and thankfully the buzzer in her hand alerted us to the fact that this would be a dinner we'd both remember for a very long time.

The first thing I noticed was the cold. I was alone, or at least I thought I was, until I felt her.

She turned to me; I could feel her eyes on mine. My heartbeat increased. It wasn’t fear, or lust, or anxiety. It just was.

She sat by me for hours, not saying a word. It was strange, she was strange. I couldn’t put my finger on why.

We talked a little, but she didn’t seem to know much. Or maybe she knew too much. It was hard to tell.

When I left, I didn’t say a word. I almost squeezed her shoulder, but part of me knew I shouldn’t.

It took me months to accept the truth, but I now know what that night was. What she was.

He was looking at me; I was looking at him. I wondered if he knew. He had to know.

No one had talked to me in years. I would sit there, in the same place every day, but no one ever attempted to acknowledge my existence.

I never asked his name, and he never asked mine. After hours of silence we began to speak about anything but ourselves.

He left when the night was over, no goodbye, no indication of an intention to return. I haven’t seen his face in years, but I still think about him sometimes, still wonder if he knew.

Did he know I was dead?

Once, there was a person. To be specific a Male about five foot nine inches at the time. He looked like any other ordinary human being. However, there was something about him. Something that made him special and unique. Without personally knowing him, one can still tell by close observation a few things about him. I noticed that he would walk almost every other day through a dangerous neighborhood in New York City. He would walk, just to save some trolley tokens. I could see from his face of how troubled he was.

I saw him as he was walking through the wrecked, gloomy, and truly eerie streets of New York; there were many dangerous people, possibly even criminals wandering through the streets. I saw him one day as I was passing by the streets of Bronx; the man was walking with regular attire, a little less than perfect: harsh washed out jeans, along with a plain red t-shirt that looked worn out along with paint stains and wearing simple dull boots. And from his outfit I could tell he was perhaps a hard construction worker. As I was passing by, I saw him, he was walking, passing by a trash can, and from it, he grabbed a bottle of empty Liquor. If anyone else saw him as I did, they would surely be far more curious than I was at that time. I watched him carefully. He started walking slowly moving side to side, acting almost as if he is about to fall. Then he pretended to drink from it and continued to walk in a weird way, maybe he was acting drunk. A person passing by smirked, waved to him and said “ayeee brother”. That person was also holding the same liquor bottle, only his bottle was truly filled and he did not seem like he was pretending to be drunk. Then I came to realization that this unknown man only acted this way to fit in and get by from the hazardous area that he was in.

24 Years later.

I had a chance to know this stranger a bit more, he worked hard to provide for his wife and 4 kids, like any other great and hardworking father would do.

This story might seem ordinary and plain. However, the Volta of this story is that the man went through far more than what I saw; he had gone through a million miles of suffering. Entirely for his partner and children. He worked so hard for them to all leave him as soon as they were independent enough. What more could be worse, for this stranger to have worked hard for 25 years for those who left him when they no more desired him.

This was a short straight forward story. It is in the emotions one can see, and through the eyes of the stranger to truly understand a story.

Strangers are always a stranger, until you get to know them...

(True story)