Tomorrow

He's sitting there and he's perfect. Sure he's in an old blue t-shirt and the glasses that he hates and his hair is too short and sticking up in the back. But perfectly so.
Here I am too, playing country music. I hate country music. But for now, it goes along with this cramped storage shed of a room and the cheap space heater and the plastic bins that hold my clothes.

I'm trying hard not to let the tears slide, it makes him feel horrible I know. But tonight I can't help it, when he leaves tomorrow I will go back to black and white film, leaving the splendor of technicolor behind.

Slowly try to pull myself together. For him, but also for me.
I start with my fingers. In my head I am shouting, commanding: stop shaking! Mouth next, harder this time to turn the corners up- smile! Eyes are the most difficult, I leave them for last.
Stop misting over; stop the tears, stop. Stop. STOP.

It works, visibly at least. So tomorrow I will show up to the same old same old and life will continue.
Continue, continue.

"Maternal love."

Go ahead, tell me it's impossible. Tell me that I'm going to fail, and that even more then failing people will point and laugh and I will lose and friendship or self respect that I ever had.
And yet, I'm going to wad cotton in my ears and hum a little and not listen to your poison.
Deep down you're jealous, you see me so close to things you dreamed about once. And maybe I will fail, and in five years, ten years I'll end up sleeping on an old mat in some alleyway; trying to convince strangers that I didn't drink myself into this condition.
But in failing, at least I will know that I'm alive.

Scene

Lights up.
I know what you did last night.
Said you were going out, said you were headed to the bar with the boys. Smiling I kissed your cheek and murmured "I'll be waiting for you when you get back."
Shut the door and passed the hours, reading and watching the old half broken tv that sits in the corner. Show after show after show, finally a marathon about PI's that catch wayward husbands and fiancees. Silly women, girls really, to be conned by the same tricks over and over and over again. At some point, don't they deserve what they get?

1:45 exactly and the door slams. unzip the old ratty hoodie and toss it aside, trying in my lacy tank top to keep some illusion alive.
"Hey baby...." Your arms are around me, I look for a kiss by get a squeeze instead. You detach yourself and go to the kitchen; I can hear the faucet filling one of our cheap plastic glasses with water.
"How was the bar?"
"Smoky."
Silence. You lean against the doorframe, old green and yellow t-shirt draping casually off your frame. I remember when you bought that shirt, we were together and I said it made you look distinguished. Now it's bleach stained and hole ridden, but it goes well with your unshaven face and calloused hands.
Sliding off the couch and striding towards you, I wrap my arms around your waist and look up into your eyes.
"I got our wine. And dark chocolate. Want to watch a movie? Just like in school..."
"Not tonight baby. I'm tired, work tomorrow, up at five am..."
Trail off and I nod in agreement.
Climb the stairs with a slow and deliberate tread, and I open my dinosaur of a laptop looking for more virtual solace. An instant message waits for me, not ten minutes old. Kara.
"It's so nice of you to trust him like that, going to visit her at this hour."
Visiting her? Her her? He did have a strange lack of booze and cigarette odor. Deep breath, one...two...three. Reply.
"I just trust him that way. He wouldn't lie to me."
"Still, tell him to be careful! The hill gets pretty slippery in the winter and we just had our first snow..."
"Thanks. I'll tell him."

Snow? In October? I hadn't even noticed. Snap the computer closed and walk to the front door, ease it open. Sure enough, about an inch of white clinging to the ground. Snow changes everything, the whole world seems innocent, the whole world is beautiful. And then close the door, snap out the light. Walk upstairs and climb into bed with my own beautiful deceiver.
Blackout.

Lunch Break

It's bitter. Not freezing just bitter. I bit my tears and keep on keeping on. Faces passing don't look, we are all well trained to glance away from hurt and confusion and pain.

Trapped is a hard word, two P's and a D. It smells like sweaty bulges of people and dirty money and cleaning supplies. Everyone here thinks they're in paradise, call it Eden if you like. But everyone here is running from something, reality most of all. And so this is my reality, a make believe world with words like "luxurious" and "relaxing." We are all really just begging for human contact.

Put your arm around me. Pull me into an embrace. Lovingly slip a kitchen knife into my heart.

Explosion

Kaboom!

My life is disappearing in a cloud of blue and gray and little orange tongues. I never thought that my whole existence could be packed into seven bankers boxes. Seven, what a lonely number. Seven ash boxes of cinders in the shell that used to be a compact SUV.

New auburn hair, I can't bring myself to say red. It's in my eyes and mouth and so now the world tastes like hair dye as well as smoke. The chemicals create the most delicious palate.

In that car in one of those boxes is a laptop. Technological genius to devise something that can store so many stories in one sleek piece of plastic. I did some digging, before I set it to sleep for the last time. A time capsule of stale emotion, I should have known better.

Meridith was cold this night. And who's to say that she did not deserve to be cozy? It's not like he wasn't enjoying himself...if he wanted more he had a phone full of names he could try. She knew this, and somehow it made her feel better. Being used was infinitely easier then using people.

Funny. Looking back today those words seemed to have been written about the wrong person entirely. And so I closed the laptop and placed it gently on top of a pile of black and gold trinkets and a high school playbill. It was one easy move to put the lid on the box and the box in the car and walk away. The spark had been trickier, I didn't know how quickly the thing would catch, never having torched any sort of vehicle before. First I had tried tossing matches at a kerosene soaked interior, but they extinguished mid-flight. Bigger, I told myself. think bigger. That's when I remembered my brother. Well, he's not my brother anymore I suppose. He used to tell me that I always overdo things, that sometimes I should just take the simple way out. Looking around at the empty kerosene containers that littered the ground I grinned at what he would have said. Sis, you always have to be dramatic, don't you? Simple is better, just get the job done as efficiently as possible.

My bag beside me, the few essentials I had decided to save. Why did I think I would need hairspray, anyway? And it's perfect, I suppose, that I should use an old white shirt, something that I knew I shouldn't save to begin with. The last drops of cologne would only make it burn faster. Knot it and spray it- a routine usually performed on my own locks pre-shows.

Burn baby, burn.

The Kaboom! was in my mind. In reality it was a poof as the knotted shirt hit the seat and my old life went up in smoke.

Blue eyes open and I see you in the back seat, body struggling to return to consciousness. Your shirt rests beside you, and for the first and last time I see terror. And now I turn and walk away, new red hair swinging in the breeze.