Paolo and I were in school together since Kindergarten. Growing up we talked very little, but when we did he always said things that made me uncomfortable. Once he told me I was beautiful. But then he assured me that he wanted all the girls to realize they were beautiful. I avoided him the rest of the year. When you are in middle school, something like that just weirds you out.

In high school we ended up having a class together almost every year. I saw him mature and grow (literally...he grew more than a foot taller than me). During our sophomore year we started to talk a little more. Eventually we were placed next to each other in a class and we began an awkward but real friendship.

Talking with Paolo became easy. I had an idea of how his mind worked, and I knew what things he liked and what things he really hated. On off-hours he would stop if he saw me in the hallway and we would talk right up until the next class.

I thought nothing of it.

In our senior year we ended up in the same Physics class. For me, it was a lucky break. Not only did I have a friend in the class, but I had a friend who understood Physics and was very patient in trying to breach my incapacity to grasp the subject. On days when we had little or no work to do in class, we would end up talking about any number of things, and I always enjoyed our conversations.

One day we touched on the topic of human dignity. This is a dangerous subject to try in conversation with me because it strikes a chord in my heart and I have a lot to say about it. Paolo was very quiet while I spoke and he payed a great deal of attention to me.

If I hadn't been speaking about one of my favorite topics, I might have noticed just how closely he was watching me.

Class ended, but we walked and talked throught the hallways as we made our way to our respective next classes in the same part of the building. The door to Paolo's classroom came first.

"Well, sorry for talking so much," I said, suddenly very embarrassed. But he just laughed.

"No, I like how passionate you get."

"Um, thanks?" Passionate? Yeah, that was the right word.

"You know," he said, and I looked up at him, feeling the shift. He was suddenly a little too serious, even thought his smile remained. "You know," he said again and then continued with a shrug, "if I didn't know that you wanted other things, and if I didn't want what was best for you, I'd probably ask you to date me. Anyway, see you later." He loped off into the depths of his classroom.

...so nonchalant...

Did I answer him? I couldn't remember. Did I stand there for a long time? I have no idea. But when I sat down in my next class, my heart was racing (from anxiety and confusion), and my mind was absolutely muddled.

When did this happen? When did he ever think to look at me that way?

I'd thought it impossible that anyone would ever see me as attractive or lovable...that someone might even think about dating me was inconceivable--simply because I'd never conceived of it as a possibility.

The day was done after that class--thank the Lord, because there is no way in Heaven's holy apple trees that I was going to be able to concentrate on anything else.

After a sobering conversation with my older brother about men and courage, I went to bed that night thinking about what Paolo had said.

Paolo, I thought, knowing I would never be brave enough to actually tell him, you're right: I want other things. I'm graduating early and starting a new life. But you'll never know how grateful I am to you. You've showed me that there's more to me than I thought. And that it just might be possible for someone to love me after all.

The longer you love someone,

The more you realize how hard they are to love.

~

I remembered today

That Love didn't have to stay.

When it arrived, I could have

pretended not to hear the door bell

or shoved it away,

I suppose,

if I wanted to.

I didn't welcome it in but it snuck through the backdoor (which I'd left unlocked) and before I knew it, Love was sitting comfortably on my couch.

It was eating my food and spending my money! I could have stood my ground. I could have kicked it out then and there.

For some time I just observed it. We never talked, but before I knew it I had told everyone I knew about it.

Although it was a plague on my existance, I soon began to love Love. We'd sit by the fire for hours, warm in our togetherness, and we seemed so similar that Love felt like a part of me.

Love wasn't a polite guest.

Time and time again it would wreck entire rooms and after a while I made no effort to clean it up. I sometimes got mad at Love but it never acknowledged me when I did. I lost my voice yelling at it while it smiled innocently and continued reading its book. My house guest would not be going anywhere anytime soon.

My friends knew that Love was hurting me, but I felt responsible for it so I began making excuses as to why it hadn't left. I made excuses to myself as well; even though I wanted to get rid of it, I didn't want it to leave.

Today I watched Love devour the last of my provisions and not bother to clean up the crumbs it left on the floor. I thought, what if I just asked it to leave? There are so many others who'd be glad to have love, even just as company.

Today, Love spoke to me directly for the first time. I had wandered into its room, only to discover it was packing its bags.

"I know when I'm not wanted," Love said simply.

I don't know when it will finish packing. With Love some things take an awfully long time. I just hope it shuts the door on its way out.

One day I’ll welcome you,

but for now I’ll just revere you.

The somber majesty of your deepest blues

reign supreme,

adorned with thousands of flikering lights,

The Moon a jewel in the crest of your crown.

For me,

you are a mystery I wish not to solve.

There have been times I longed for your darkness,

I have struggled.

There have been times I hoped for your kindness,

for those loved whose strength had waned.

I have aquainted myself with you

A Queen

providing a deep slumber

to those who await the call,

you are the powerful, yet serene

Night,

and I shall wait until you call.

Spooky blood moon

fiery pumpkins

fevered footprints

spooky haunted house

bewitching hour

silhouette of Halloween.

#Challenge #WatchOutTheWitchesAreOut #ItsGonnaGetYou

I'm sorry it has to be this way,

Me ripping out pieces of my life until there's no notebook left for you to hold onto.

I know I said you cause me pain

But it's a good kind of pain,

The kind of pain I get when I destroy my own writing.

I'm not throwing this page away, I'm not done with it yet.

I don't ever want to rip you out of my life.

You are a poem that I'll always be writing,

my love.

Each day I read the news

Breathe deeply and take in

Violence in summary

Numbers and data

A blip until the next blip

Explanations that treat symptoms

Instead of the sickness

Images of moments

That alter life forever

I take Despair's hand

With a knot in my stomach

Wonder how much longer

We can all brave this

I make a cup of coffee

Put a smile on my face

And brace myself for the next blip

“Get a load of those clunkers,” Shaun laughed as he nudged James in the side with his elbow and signaled in his usual manner to the new office temp who was walking nervously through the door.

“Which agency dug her up? Sterling Cooper?” Shaun continued more dramatically. The two continued lounging by the copy machine and watching her as if they were two buzzards scouting out the fresh roadkill.

She had a lopsided, nervous smile plastered on her face as she walked unsteadily through the office. She was carrying a cardboard box in both of her hands and periodically it would catch on the skirt of her dress, which was catching everyone’s attention.

“Did she raid grandma’s closet?” Shaun said laughing as he pointed in a sneaky fashion to her red vintage wiggle dress that she was wearing to her sixties hairdo. James wondered if she slept with giant coke sized rollers in her hair at night. He also wondered how a person could get used to such a thing.

“I hate it when Kelly goes on vacation,” Shaun sighed. James tried to shrug off Shaun’s abusive commentary. He wanted to conjure up his own judgements on the poor woman with no knowledge of the thoughts of the vicious people around here.

James hated how everyone in the office was so superficial about looks, Shaun especially. The only reason he sided with him on most things was for his own survival. If he didn’t smile politely whenever Shaun or most other coworker began to blabber he knew he would be cast out. James wasn’t terribly attractive himself. He was tall and lanky, and had absolutely unmanageable dark shaggy hair and he wore big square Elvis Costello style glasses and brown suits with clashing ties. If he had to spectate a little torture in order to save himself, he was more than willing. He knew he should be used to this. They did it all the time, Shaun making lewd comments. And James, the dainty sidekick with an oblong smirk. This time he couldn’t help but feel a little defensive for this poor girl. She didn’t have the assets the others did.

“I think we’ve hit rock bottom, buddy,” Shaun chuckled. James gave him a sideways glance, then looked over at the girl as she tried her best to hold up the box while maneuvering throughout the cubicle jungle like a rat in a maze.

“Shut up, Shaun,” James finally said and walked away, leaving Shaun frozen with a stunned look. James ran over to the girl and lifted the box from her arms. She gave out a sigh of relief and looked up at him with big blue eyes behind her pearly cat eye glasses. He had to stop for a moment and adjust his glasses up the bridge of his nose to really get a good look.

She smiled sweetly, “Why, that was so nice of you! I could have sworn my arms were going to give out any minute there. You’d swear I was carrying around bricks!”

James had a hard time responding to her, he was taking her all in at once, and he found it very distracting. She had a cute smile, teeth that only could come out of many awkward years of braces. Her hourglass figure was something out of a Sear’s catalogue from 1964, and it made him think about what kind of undergarments she wore that made her tits that pointy and exciting.

Indignant didn’t even begin to describe it for Shaun. As he watched James engage the new temp, he stared on wondering if he had finally flipped his gourd. Fully a year ago Shaun had made the strategic decision to allow him to participate in the mocking. Granted, there weren’t a lot of other options.

This was the land of data entry, and the slick sheen of society’s cream did not last long here among the drudgery and cubicle half-walls. Shaun was different of course. He could do anything. But this was easy, paid well enough to allow his weekend excursions, and there was little risk of failure. He loathed it deep down, and himself for staying, but still he’d likely be here for years. The only thing that made the existence tolerable was the target rich environment for sarcasm. But you need someone to say the cutting remarks to. A whispered dig is no good unless there’s someone to hear it.

Abandoned and stinging, Shaun eyed James showing the temp through the maze and leaned to his right, “Psst, hey Murphy.”

“Could you tell me where I can find Karen?” The new girl asked James.

“Follow me,” James said, “Are you Kelly’s temp?”

The girl looked at James a little funny. “Kelly’s temp? No, I’m Kelly’s replacement. She’s on maternity leave or something. Oh, oops, I don’t think I was supposed to say anything. You won’t say anything will you?”

James swallowed the information, laughing silently to himself over the fact that Shaun just lost his fuck buddy, and then quickly focused his attention back to the new girl.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure.” he mumbled.

“Oh, look how rude I’m being,” she continued, “My name is Iris. And you are?” She extended a hand, and then realized his hands were full with the box and slowly pulled them back. She had long, yet strong looking fingers that were adorned with various rings. James imagined what those hands would feel like massaging his back.

“And you are?” She continued, snapping him out of his fantasy.

“Right, yeah. I’m James, sorry. James,” he stuttered.

“Pleased to meet you,” she grinned, “I’m not always this annoying and formal, its just, I’m nervous with it being my first day and all.”

“Iris. Hmm,” James said awkwardly as if he were thinking aloud.

“What was that?” Iris asked.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just trying to remember your name, that’s all,” he fibbed, “Here we are, this is Karen’s office.” He pointed over to a receptionist’s desk.

“That’s Kelly’s old desk, do you want me to put your stuff there?” He asked.

“Would you? You’re so sweet,” she said, pouring out another warm smile, “I should go see Karen now, but I’d really like to continue chatting with you. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yes. Oh yes!” James said, unable to control his enthusiasm. He quickly tensed up, adjusted his tie, and cleared his voice to cover himself.

“I mean, of course,” he said, trying to put on his best business like tone, “I’m over in accounting.” He hoped that this sliver of information would lead her to “bump” into him sometime soon, despite the fact that accounting was on the opposite side of the building and probably out of her way. Then again, he was the one interested in bumping into Iris.

“Okay,” she said, “Nice to meet you James.” She waved and disappeared into Karen’s office.

He stood there for a moment, letting the sweet way she said his name echo in his head.

James casually walked back to the copy machine, this time with a swagger filled with delight. He liked Iris from what he had just seen. She was different, and she seemed incredibly nice and he was pleasantly surprised by his instant attraction.

He knew he would pay for being nice to her, though. Everyone in the office was so hooked on appearances and conformity that they lacked the necessary foundations of courtesy. Even all the women looked alike, a whole room of clones in the same Anne Taylor suit, flipping their hair extensions. He sometimes wondered what they looked like underneath all the warpaint. There was something about Iris that James could neither identify nor shake, but she was definitely not like the others.

Back at the copy machine, Shaun was steadily laughing and huffing over something that was apparently funny with another colleague. They both turned and sneered at James.

“How was Doris Day there, buddy?” Shaun said with a smug look.

“Good one, Shaun,” the man behind him said, as they gave each other high fives.

James sighed. Workplace Darwinism had played out, and it wasn’t in his favor.

As an adult, whose life includes experiences, I know perfectly well that there is no stack of letters idyllically accumulating beneath the threshold of my doorway. I know that there is no comforting mid-century stereotype of a mailman, cocking and shaking his head, shoving said letters into the inaugural square foot of my apartment, privately wishing me well. I am well aware that every card I’ve received that’s not from Papyrus was the result of someone who sort of knows me standing in the candy/holiday/clearance aisle of a Safeway and congratulating himself/herself on selecting a card with exactly the right amount of condolences and a trendy-but-muted envelope color without all the cursive and religious stuff for less than $6.95. I am entirely conscious of the fact that their half-baked grievances are stacked and rubber-banded at the Devon Avenue Post Office, waiting to be retrieved by yours truly from an extremely condescending postal clerk at a time and date of my choosing.

But the joke’s on them, because I am not coming. I am halfway down the gangplank of a 747 (or whatever nondescript commercial airliner) and I am knee-deep in Everclear and Welsh Corgi, the two most notable purchases I’ve made in the past six hours. The latter is masquerading as a service dog, although what service an animal with six-inch legs could possibly perform is a glaring mystery, while the former represents a strategy to end my miserable life aboard the aircraft. It bears noting that the former is strapped inside the adorable service vest of the latter, and that sloshing vials of pure alcohol are best transported under the veil of sheer fucking cuteness, which has yet to be corrupted by the assiduity of airport security.

Halfway to my seat, I am presumed to be blind. It’s an incidental but logical development, brought on by a perfect storm of general clumsiness, an indoor animal, and Ray-Bans. I wade through a sea of crime novels embossed with their half-cooked, punny titles, and locate my seat, absolutely no one perplexed that I didn’t need Braille to identify the seat number. They’re too busy congratulating themselves on the idea that they’ll speak elegantly and helpfully hand me something, should the occasion arise.

I open a bottle, cagily unscrewing and sipping, feeling the flashbacky shame of a junior high hayride, wondering if I should have sprung for first class. I find myself desperate to hold something. I pick up my dog, this heavy, warm, shivering creature. Obliviously content, he licks my hand. The damp fur around his neck suggests that I’ve been crying, silently, onto the top of his head for hours. I detach the remainder of the quarter-bottles of Everclear from my little dog’s vest - I have just now decided to name him ‘Yes,’ like the hero of a never-to-be-made festival film - and load them into the seatback pocket like ammunition.

With a rush of acute regret I realize, for the first time and with sinking dread, that someone will be seated next to me. That my endeavor to suck down grain alcohol until I convert to a corpse may not be apropos. On the heels of my anxiety, this someone presents herself in the shape of a modest, earnest-looking brunette who obliquely introduces herself via a pandering hello to my dog. “Small for a guide dog,” she says, to me. This woman - let's call her Elle - is fully on board with the impression that I am completely and definitely blind. I cannot look her in the eye; not doing so is easy - all I can think of sincerely is what happens to a dead body aboard an international flight: whether its seatmate is spared from the carnage via some rare protocol involving a stilted announcement and a well-meaning set of waifish flight attendants demurely hauling the corpse to the rear coffee station beneath a clean white sheet from the forward cabin, striving to conjure some makeshift dignity, scrambling for whatever wisdom the employee handbook might have to offer on the subject - and it is this brutish melange of panic and pity that Elle mistakes for romantic interest.

Yes in my lap, Elle stroking his paws, her fingertips trailing mock-absently to my knee, I look through my purportedly blind eyes to these objects I’ve named, feeling gut-sick. Elle is kind, ripe, oblivious - she is a sudden perfect ten, dripping with the unleashed confidence of a woman addressing a blind man, to whom all women are equally beautiful.

We converse for an hour, of which I remember virtually nothing. I register that she is a real person, obviously – someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, very likely someone’s wife. I memorize everything with rigor and forget it immediately. We are flying to Colombia for our own plausible, unremarkable reasons, which we mutually pretend to find fascinating. For my part, I am a farmer, a sudden and alacritous liar; the season has been favorable; eggplant is tricky, but rewarding.

My mind is on white white white white lilies. Beautiful, hackneyed, no-prefix standard fucking lilies. I am wondering whether they’ll use my wife’s flowers for me too, or if the timing will be off. I'm forgivably hazy on the longevity of lilies. I think of wanting to be buried inside her casket, of the way that our bodies fit - do I have any crazy allies on the ground who might pitch this idea? is there a precedent? - and feel a sudden wash of nausea and ridiculousness at being so far away from her. I wonder if I've left anything out of the will, handwritten, on the island table, the way one wonders about leaving the oven on.

Among the bright hollow sound effects communicating the urgency of fastening one’s seatbelt, I hear Elle say, “I'm going to use the ladies’ room,” her mouth fondling the words in a bout of unmistakable over-articulation.

I aurally register the metallic click of her seatbelt, like an actual blind person. Looking out the window, I feel her sympathy warm on the back of my neck, her flushed remorse for the blue sky she thinks I can’t see.

There is no romantic drinking oneself to death, only scientific drinking oneself to death.

Mentally logging my bouncing baby aphorism, I pluck a bottle from the seatback pocket, liberating it from its niche behind a neglected safety manual featuring cartoon people at an airplane crash-themed waterpark. In the 90 seconds I estimate it will take my seatmate to compose herself, I drink the entire bottle. Feeling my esophagus shed its internal fascia like a snake, I appreciate what those fellows at carnivals must feel, swallowing the sword.

With a swift kiss delivered to the top of Yes’s head, the gentle directive to ‘Stay,’ I wade through four meters of air that has become molasses. I wonder (sort of, not caring) whether this inching forward by gripping strangers’ seatbacks, alternating footsteps with the lax confidence of hoping for the best, loosely resembles the behavior of a blind person.

I knock on the bathroom door, like an amateur. And then, by magic, I am inside and hearing the door latch, Elle’s hands guiding mine the way you would pilot a blind man’s hands. Everything is pure, extravagant texture, clawing its way through eviscerating numbness.

I try to remember if this is the first time I’ve ever had sex with sunglasses on, and decide that it probably is. Elle is biting my mouth; grappling with my belt; likening me, for some indiscernible reason, to a bloodhound. I don’t understand what this means, so I stay silent. With the sensation of having swallowed a nail salon, I pick her up and shove her against the mirror, positioning her on the narrow counter beside the sink. I am forgetting everything.

And then, unlocked, she is breathing all the wetness of her lungs into my ear. She is whispering whatever name I told her was mine, her long, slender legs tangled like vines around a condemned building.

She comes in an elaborately silent scream against my neck, and I wonder, fleetingly, how such an indisputably uncomfortable thing has become a cultural phenomenon. I bite her collarbone, lift her gently from the countertop, then come in the sink, like an old pro.

Her kiss lands and evaporates on the corner of my mouth, and I hear the plastic door click open, then shut. I turn and vomit instantly: 600 milliliters of pure alcohol spill over my lips into the most translucent bodily fluid any human has ever produced. A bright, courteous ding requisitions one to return to one’s seat with one’s seatbelt fastened. I finish undoing my suicidal handiwork, flushing the short-lived attempt into oblivion. I wash my hands, shaking, staring into the streaky mirror. The ding, again, the polite command to remain in one’s seat, with one’s seatbelt fastened, until the captain has turned off the Fasten Seatbelt sign.

I take off my sunglasses, rub my temples. I begin to cry violently. My body racks and aches, primally confused. I put the sunglasses back on. To my surprise and disappointment, I look great. I look blind.

I open the door to the little bathroom, stepping back into the stiff, cagey air of the cabin. To the right, toward the coffee station, a pert flight attendant looks back at me in horror. Mentally, I gather the frayed threads of an extemporaneous defense of my bathroom tryst, but soon realize that this is not why she looks horrified. At her feet, near her uniform blue pumps, a body lies covered in a white sheet, stretched out straight, with makeshift dignity, beneath the coffee station.

I cannot believe it. I was right.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says.

We look at each other, our eyes glazed with the weirdly mistaken, grateful sadness of not being this fellow beneath the sheet.

I return to my seat, stepping over Elle, making no further pretense of being blind. Yes bounds onto my knees with a kind of blithe, directionless urgency, a history of present moments coiled in his small limbs. My mind is generating names, hundreds of names, none of them permanent, none of them mine. The taste of bile and Everclear fresh in my mouth, I order a cup of coffee and survey the slick blue-green ocean, punctuated by boats like divots in glass. With the bright, doomed hope of a hundred little impending deaths, I begin to wonder what Colombia will look like.

So innately serious, analytical and calculating these days she almost couldn't be tempted by the repetition of her favorite number, oh.. the blunder that could have been. When, how did it come to impact her now and back then?

                                                            ~~~

Ten years old in the 4th grade she made it a point to anoint herself the friend of a boy. Joy was shared when she showed that she cared what pattern of boxers he was wearing-- just a peak, every week, to indulge the uncouth humors of their youth. Truth had a hold when they where told, to stop squabbling at the back of the line, yet at the time there was no fight, wrong or right, just a battle of wills for thrills... and because she had a "crush."

The rush of competing to stay while the class walked away, all to see who would be the lines caboose. How obtuse for sure, yet it didn't occur to her as she won the right to stare at the back of his head. Read clear as day, in the hair shaved away, was the number 3 she loved to see.

                                                           ~~~

It could be, that she liked the number 3 simply for the fact she was attracted to the male, though it doesn't negate the apparent fate such a number has to sway her decisions.

Conditions change but the 3 remains and is the very reason she's writing for a challenge in Comedy. A tragedy though, how compelled she can be for a numerical digit of no tangible substance-- unless you make it in 3D. (Shit, there it is again!) She didn't foresee where her addiction would go, and while aspects of her life could be a morbid Stand-Up Comedy show, "do you want others to know?" is a question she doesn't ask lightly; it would be cool if someone made a $3 note though.

So she's aware it's more than the natural frown of her lips, that people ask, "Why so serious?"