Unreal

My heart hadn’t been my own for so long, I wonder what life was like without you. I don’t want to know. I just read and re-read everything I’ve written and the only common theme is blue eyes and dimpled grins and dirty blond hair. I’ve murdered you, begged for  you, loved you, lusted over you- I’ve tried a million times to convince myself that I can cut you out of my life, carve you out of my heart. It’s never worked, I don’t think it ever will. I don’t want to. I want you babe, I want it all. The house and the kids and the dog that you told me once you wanted, the dreams I found when I was still more girl than woman, I want them all now more than ever.
Maybe this time it will work.
Maybe this will break me beyond repair.
Either way, I’m not willing to not try. You’ve been in my dreams for too long, I would rather be broken than live in this purgatory forever.
I guess this post is my one in roughly three of everything I write that’s about you.
I don’t care.
I love you. Now and probably forever.
So there’s that.
I hope you wait for me.

Whoosh

The day is warm, but not uncomfortable so. Summer is finally starting to turn, and for Charles this means more people walking the trails. More people to watch. More people to save. Every stride  he takes up and down the uneven stone steps is learned, he’s been walking this path every day for the last five years. Ever since she left him. He’s watched as the trail changed, noticed as trees fall over the cliff banks one by one and change the course of the creek subtly; in a thousand years the whole course of the falls will have changed, evened out- this land is living memory and Charles is a part of it.

He walks for her. 

Up and down the stairs like they used to do, when things were good and happy. Some days he feels like she’s still here with him. He always wears the same thing he was wearing the day she left- black shirt, black shorts and a smile. 

Today he’s watching a woman who’s standing on one of the bridges. He’s already passed her twice, once she was lying on a rock near the parking lot, staring at the canopy of leaves overhead. He didn’t recognize her then, but then she and her companion passed by him on the stone stairs  and their eyes met. Even as his mouth opened for his customary greeting he recognized her.

“Good day.” 

“Hello.” 

The couple is gone before anything else can be said, but now she’s standing there alone again- too good to be true, it must be a sign. She’s come back at last. Charles's  pace quicks towards the bridge, she is reading the graffiti on the rail, absorbed in the scratchings of faded romance and family vacations. Too easy. It’s too easy. 

Charles  is standing so close to her by the time that she realizes he’s there that she tries to step back, but the bridge railing cuts her flight short. It’s always this way, animal instinct is outsmarted by human preparation. 

“Good day, Elenor.” 

“Um, hello- I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” 

She steps to the right, and Charles shifts his weight almost imperceptibly to counter her.

“Oh no dear, I know you- don’t you remember me?” 

She’s starting to look frantically over his shoulder now, trying to find her boyfriend or fiancé or whoever she’s cheating on Charles with this time.

“No, I don’t know you and you’re sort of making me uncomfortable- I’m sorry I have to go.”

She turns to step to the side and in one fluid motion Charles’s hand is on her wrist and twisting it so that she turns involuntary, his other hand clamps tight over her mouth. For a middle aged man, Charles is in very good shape.

She’s writhing now and trying to throw off his hand to scream- but even if she gets does there is no one to hear. The cuckolder is already dead. 

“Elenor, come now. You don’t need to be this way.” Charles puts an arm around her neck and slowly, gently begins to apply pressure. She fights at first but eventually sags, and as she drops he scoops her into a fireman’s lift. 

With a grunt, Charles walks up the trail two steps at a time until he comes to Their Waterfall, the one with the cave cleverly hidden behind the cascading water. The whoosh of the falls are deafening, but Charles doesn’t mind. No one can ever hear Elenor over the noise. 

He slowly deposits her on a moss covered boulder, and moves further back into the cave to gather the necessary equipment. On his way he greats the other Elenor’s he’s collected, 9, 8, 7, 6, and 5 still have white bones, 4, 3 and 2 are covered in a soft fuzz of  algae. 1 is almost completely greenish  brown now. 

But ten, ten will be perfect. 

Charles hums as he prepares, singing their song to himself. 

He always finds her. 

Always. 

The first time

It's hot, it's always hot and sticky on nights of any importance.  Or maybe that's just how this emotion feels, hot and sticky with desire and need.  The bar was loud and smoky and perfect.  My hair is large and out of control, there is no amount of pomatum that can smooth it into the waves.  The are are  moments here, in this place, in between the overly false exuberance and sweat and dancing that I am finally LIVING.  There are moments when the demons are asleep.
***
She's at the bar, and she's the only one who has any truth to her.  She's not pretty, not really.  Her hair is too big and her face is too-well nothing.  It's unremarkable.  She'll probably have that face, looking just the same until she's an old woman.  She's leaning into the music in her chair, not really dancing but leaning all the way in.  I think, finally, it's time.  She's worth it.
***
There is a man at the end of the bar.  He's awkward, and he's watching me.  It's wonderful to be noticed, so I take extreme pleasure at being creeped out. He looks like he's never been out of the advanced mathematics field in his life.  Maybe, for him, I can be the glamazon the world thinks I should be.  I let my fingers trace the mouth of my glass beer bottle, slowly.  Maybe it doesn't look sexy.  Probably it looks ridiculous.  But he's watching. I lean into the bar, thrusting my breasts toward the ceiling in a ridiculously feminized motion, laughing at nothing when the bartender glances over.  Now I know I look ridiculous.
***
She's playing to me, I can tell.  She's arching her back and letting her too-big hair skim down the back of her neck.  This is my moment, if I don't look like a total nerd this could be it.  I put my glass down a little too hard and the water with lemon that I ordered earlier spills down the side.  It might not be liquid courage, but somehow she beckoning to me without even looking at this end of the bar.  I can feel my throat constrict, I'm sure my nerves are showing in my adams apple.  I don't plan what I'm doing and all of a sudden I'm in front of her and she's looking up at me, waiting for me to speak.
***
"Buy you a drink?"  He's forgotten to say the whole sentence out loud.  He doesn't know how to get the bartender's attention, that much is obvious.  I order two whiskey sours.  I'm not drinking alone.  My world is suddenly bright and shining, and he's lost all his awkward tendancies.  He's Cary Grant, or Clark Gable, or Humphry Bogart.  Electrified, I take his hand.
"Dance," I whisper shout in his ear but I don't have to explain, because we're already halfway to the dance floor.
***
She's become beautiful.  She's not a good dancer but she thinks she is, and the whiskey is making me realize that I don't need to worry, this is something I'm good at.   I'm good at women.  We're spinning and I'm trying to catch the rhythm of her hips but it keeps changing as she rolls and dips with this song that I know.  Everyone is watching her and I don't mind, because they're watch me too.  Her glory enfolds me and then we are both beautiful.  She is the one, this is what I've been waiting for for since I discovered myself in my mother's basement.
***
I think it would be delightful to take him home.  I'm not a predator, but he looks like he needs kind word and a kinder hand, and I can give him those things.  I've never done this before-taking a man to bed without knowing his name-but it looks to me as if he's never been to bed with a woman so I guess we're even.  It's my good deed for the night, and I'll wake up tomorrow morning to revel in the guilt and the shame of it all.  We're walking back up the long hill to my house and he is holding my hand.  The bar was delightfully warm and throbbing and now this air is perfectly freezing.  I need this.  I pull him under a street lamp and when we kiss for the first time, I feel every muscle of his body giving in.  He is mine.
***
She's beautiful still, standing on the grey-brown linoleum of the mid-century house that she must call home.  Her jacket is thrown carelessly on the table piled with old bills and the everyday detritus of pockets.  My hands are on her, grabbing her hips, pulling them into mine.  When she kisses me it's sour, hinting of the beer she had abandoned in favor of something stronger.  We stand there, clutching each other, willing our bodies together through the protective layers of clothing.
"Come with me."  It's whispered in my ear and it's too cheesy to be sexy, but it's sweet.  She's pulling me into the bedroom that must lie deeper in the house, but I can't help myself as a I slow down.
"I've never done this before."  I'm talking to my shoes, but she answers.
"I know.  I'll teach you."
I know she will.
***
He's on the bed and straining, he can't get his belt off and his hands are shaking.  He doesn't want to pull his pants all the way off for some reason, but he's fumbling with his boxer shorts beneath as if with  enough willpower they will just disappear.  He's awkward again, not a black and white movie star.  I can feel the self loathing creeping back and I will it to stay away for just a few moments more.  I prop myself up on my elbows, thrusting my chest toward him in what I'm sure is a ludicrous pose.  It works.  He stops fumbling and looks at me.  Then, he reaches into his pocket.  Good, he's brought protection- that saves me an uncomfortable search through the dark.
***
She is here and I am ready.  She's leaning up into me, and I know I can't resists much longer or the moment will be lost-I'll explode all over her bedroom and wouldn't that be a scene for her roommates to find.  I look down at her and she looks up into my eyes, greedily.  Pulling her face into my neck, she nuzzles my ear and whispers,
"Hey, You're amazing!"
It's time.  My pocket is empty, but my hand is full.  As the knife slides between her ribs she looks momentarily ecstatic, then confused.  She dies without fanfair.
She's the one.
She's mine.
My first time.

Feelings of yesterday

How does it feel now?
I was at your wedding you know, the first time he tore my heart out. Thinking about that night still makes me sick. I knew it was wrong, all wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe the truth of my life- not for years. You laugh, you and the rest of everyone who said I should know better. At 19, my virginal heart should have known better according to you.

So how does it feel?
It hurts, sure. You thought you built a future, and when you realized you were the only one with bricks and cement it was too late. I know how it goes, you spent moths thinking

“But it couldn’t happen to me!”
Oh but darling, it can.

The embarrassment it will fade, as you settle into your new place in society. You will define yourself on your own terms, because unlike the others (the ones you tortured) it couldn’t be YOUR fault, could it??

But here’s the secret, darling:
I’ve known since the very beginning. But why listen to me? I dated a whore, my woes is inherently flawed. I hope you enjoy the heartbreak, darling.
I did.

Don't (The man in green)

I have dreamed about you three times in the last three days, each time with increasing detail.  It's so real that when I wake up I have a sense of peace, a feeling of having it all figured out.  You're there and somehow everything makes sense.  And then I open my eyes and reality creeps back in along with it's favorite bedfellows, uncertainty and guilt. 

WHY.  Why are you in my head, in my heart.  I have spent the last decade of my life asking myself this question (Yes, it's been ten years of this.)  I have had a slew of bad relationships, a few golden moments with men who could have otherwise been THE ONE.  And now, I feel myself sliding towards the end of another greeted by the familiar harbinger of relationship death: dreams of you. 

Except, this time it's not so simple.  This time he's good and kind and we have built a life together.  This time, it's my fault and I must be the cruel one in order to break it off.  And if I don't?  If I keep living this fairy tale lie and escaping every evening to waltz with you through my dreams, am I still at fault?  The passion, the yearning that I have to be around you, to speak to you, feel your fingers on my skin: it's like nothing I've ever found before or since. 

Have you been dreaming about me, too?  Is this the universe in on some cosmic joke against us both?  Perhaps, in another world and another life we found each other at the right moment and things were different.  Perhaps, the world is truly trying to tell us something.  Or maybe, it's just me.  Pathetically holding on after a decade to what could have been my first love.  I gave my heart as if it was, and maybe it's not so easy to get back something so rashly given. 

In the end, I hope I'm not alone.  I hope that you're in this torture too.  If you are, please tell me so that I might end this for both of us, finally take a leap of faith and pick up the phone to call.  And if not, well darling, I'll see you in my dreams. 

When the gunman comes for me

It’s 2016 and I could be next.  There are shootings, bomb threats, violence on every corner, human against human, man against woman against child against the world.  My job has become dangerous, going out at night could be lethal; people die at grocery stores in the morning and at bars at night.  And that’s just in Williamsburg. 

I ask myself almost daily if all this risk is worth it.  I’m not negotiating peace treaties in a war torn province or doing humane work for the United Nations.  I’m talking about our history.  It’s not even my families, like millions of other Americans, my roots in this country are barely a century old.  I’m talking about people that I have no real reason to defend, no tangible connection to.  Except that they’re human, and so am I.  They are our past, our present, and our future. 

Every time I hear of another shooting, I wonder if this is what it felt with stamp act riots rippling up and down the east coast.  If citizens lived in fear of being dragged out of their beds just for looking the wrong way, saying the wrong thing, being on the wrong side.  This is not a new struggle, the idea of “national identity” is  contrived out of nothingness.  And isn’t that the beauty of it?

So If I’m next.  If the gunman comes for me and I can’t run or hide, for the love of god don’t send prayers.  I’m not a saint.  I’m not a martyr.  I lie and I am vain and filled with human foibles.  Don’t make it a call to action; don’t put up ridiculous black and whites of my vacant smile (but in all honesty, choose a flattering photo.)  Don’t talk about my childhood dreams or how I was going to save the world.  The world cannot be saved by the countless innocent lives snuffed to soon. 

Instead, listen.  We are bothers and sisters, black and white, brown and red and every color in between.  There are so many good sane people in the world, we cannot be held hostage by the violent few.  I am living my life to the greatest purpose I can imagine.  I am trying to connect the past to the present, to learn from our wounds instead of just picking at the scab until it becomes infected.  If I’m next, I want it to count for something. 

Make me count. 

I want to believe it's cold in my memory, but in reality it was nearly eighty.

Pitch black- I've closed the store again and an hour past midnight I'm finally speeding towards home.  Just stay away- my silent prayer.  Don't let me have persevered to die here, on the side of the road mangled into the white sheet metal of my brand new Corolla.
The phone rings five times before you answer.  A month ago, it would have been once.  Six weeks ago and you would already have sent me five concerned messages.  I would have yelled at you, don't you understand that ever one costs me three quarters?  How things have changed.
 When I hear your voice it sends such a shock of relief through my body that I let out the breath I don't realize I've been holding too fast and my first word is lost.
"Hmm?"
"Hey, I love you."
"Mhhm."

Clickity click click.  They keyboard is the giveaway of what I have known since the third ring.  Distantly I can hear the other people, the headset that you won't-can't? take off.  And so, I try to talk.  I don't know how to do this.  I've never had a boyfriend before and then you, you called me a goddess.  You told me I'm beautiful.  You chased me.  The first one, only one to do so.  Though the whole conversation I get five words, maybe six.  Forty five minutes later and the silence stretches into endless tears.  You don't hear, or you don't care.  Probably both.  I try again.

"Let's play our game....I'll ask you a question but you have to answer truthfully.  No lies."
"Sure."
"Most embarrassing high school moment?"
"I don't have one."
"First kiss?"
"I told you that already."
"If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?"
"I don't know.  Hey Prot, I need heals!"

Just like that, I'm shut out.

Did you know then, I wonder.  Did you have any idea that I was taking every nice thing you said, locking it into a box deep in the back of my mind for the days when there was nothing left to say.  Were you already propositioning them, in between sending my pictures as bragging rights?

I wanted to give you the world.  You handed it back to me.  Literally.  The plastic globe that I had spent six months searching for, you put it right back in my hands.

So instead, I locked away my love.  I learned to apologize for your shortcomings.  I learned the art of fear.  Of my own worthlessness.  Meanwhile,  I gave everything I had.  I love you, without fear or distrust.  In a way that I never will be able to again.  I took care of your dog.  I loved him as my own.  I went to the hospital with your sister when she had her child.

And I learned to write murder stories.  I learned it was safer not to say things out loud.

Until you found this.  I won't make that mistake again.

Now I love cautiously.  I apologize too easily.  I don't make decisions for fear that I will make the wrong one.  I look for violence and fear and I'm surprised when I'm met with love and a gentle hand.

You told me sex was better when I'm scared.  Better when I'm hurting and crying.

You made me believe that was the only way.

Some days, I can still hear your voice, still see the crooked tattoo on your shoulder blade.  You will not be my nightmare.  I banish you.