This Dream

Last year I dated someone for the first time in years. It didn’t work out. I had the craziest dream involving him the other night. I wrote it down when I woke up. Later in the day, I decided to turn it into a short story. It ended up being strangely cathartic.

Please don’t judge too harshly. I really just wrote out the dream and filled in minor gaps. Any nonsense or melodrama I blame wholly on my sleeping brain. (I changed all the names to something generic. You know, to protect the innocent and all that.)

“God,” he breathes into my neck, “you smell so good.”

“Stop it,” I lightly smack his back. “I’m all sweaty and that doesn’t smell good.”

He slides his hand down my side, my thigh, and around my butt to pull me closer. “You’re sweaty because of me and that always smells good.” He kisses my neck, then my collarbone, my breast, my stomach.

I sit up in the dark, the image fading, his smell a ghost in the empty room. A deep breath in, then sighed out. My right hand slides idly, unconsciously over the swell of my gravid belly. Weeks have passed since the last time he was in bed beside me.

Sighing again, I drop back onto the bed and drape my left arm over my eyes. For a moment, I imagine I can still feel the warmth of his hand and lips on my skin. Then it is just cold. I pull the blankets up and turn my back to the place where he used to lay. Twenty-five weeks. It has been twenty-five weeks since he laid there.

I wonder, like I have every night since the first positive test, if I should tell him. No, I think. He walked away without a word. You don’t owe him anything. She’s your baby. He wanted out and that’s what he got. This would only trap him.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

“Are you going to tell him?” Mel asks for what seems like the hundredth time.

“No,” I answer patiently. “There’s no reason to. He never wanted children.”

“I’m just saying he should take some responsibility, help with things like college.”

“College? That’s jumping ahead just a little, isn’t it?”

Mel laughs, “Maybe a little. But still. You shouldn’t have to do this on your own.”

I smile at her, “I’m not. I have a lot of good friends who are supporting me and that’s what I need. I don’t want him back in my life because he feels guilty or some sense of responsibility. He left and didn’t bother to offer an explanation. I have to live with the consequences of that and so does he.”

Mel sighs, “I can understand that. You have to do what’s best for you.”

“And her.”

“And her.”

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

“Sarah?” his deep voice startles me. I only hear it on the radio these days, and hearing it in person sends a shiver down my back. Blushing furiously, I look up at him. His eyes are on my abdomen.

My right hand drops protectively to my stomach, as if I can hide it. “John,” I barely whisper. “I, uh…”

“2232, copy traffic,” I hear in my ear.

I turn away from him, keying up the mic, “2232.” I type as the unit talks, heat still rising in my face as he continues to gape openly.

“Hey, John, what are you doing up here? Get lost on your way to patrol?” someone calls from across the room. He hesitates and then turns away, his eyes lingering for a second before he walks away to talk to someone else. I keep my eyes on my screen, unwilling to look up to see if he is watching me or to whom he is speaking. I can hear the low rumble of his voice, but the buzzing in my ears makes it impossible to distinguish the words.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mel looks over the glass partition of the console, her eyebrows drawn together. I shake my head, unsure how long I have been sitting here, staring at the computer. “Get someone to cover you; you look like you’re going to be sick.”

After finding someone to cover my zone, I walk off the dispatch floor with Mel. His gaze burns the back of my head, but that is probably my imagination. I have never seen him so angry. I don’t think anyone else will notice, but I recognized the tension in his jaw and neck, heard the slight shake to his voice. He is furious.

Mel is right, I am sick. A few times.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Mel sounds more than her usual worried and like she might get reinforcements if I don’t emerge soon.

Coughing and wiping tears from my eyes, I stand and open the stall door. “I’m okay. I just…” But I don’t know what I just. I wash my hands, splash some cold water on my face, and stare vacantly into the mirror. “I never thought about him coming up here, never even considered it. He hasn’t been back since he transferred.” Silence. “I just need a minute.”

“Fair.” Mel gently squeezes my arm and leaves the bathroom.

After staring at my reflection for several minutes, my mind meandering without direction, I return to the kitchen.

“He’s gone,” Mel says from across the room. She is putting together her dinner. “Was just walking through when I came out here.”

“Thank God.”

“He didn’t say a word to me, per usual.” Mel finishes preparing her plate of chicken, rice, and avocado and we return to the dispatch floor together. “It’s going to be okay,” she says to me as we part ways.

I take back my zone and check my phone. There is one message from a number with no name attached, but it is a number that looks familiar. My fingers trembling, I unlock the phone and open the message.

Mine? That’s all it says.

Biting my bottom lip, unwilling to answer, I lock the phone and set it aside. Maybe he’ll let it go, I think, knowing as I do there is no chance of that happening.

Activity on the radio keeps me from thinking about my response too much, and affords no opportunity to send one anyway. I hear the phone vibrate against the desk a few times, but do not check it for close to an hour. There are several messages from Mel, encouraging me and telling me I do not owe him an explanation. I smile at this. It was just a couple days ago she was trying to convince me to tell John about the baby. She must have changed her mind.

There is a new message from him. Is it my baby?

Yes. I hesitate, think about adding more, but what else is there to say. Send.

Immediately, the ellipsis appears indicating he is typing. He had been waiting for my answer.

How could you not fucking tell me? How far along are you? A few months?

26 weeks.

26?! 26 weeks?! Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn’t be fucking bothered to tell me a God damn thing about it? Seriously, how could you not tell me about this?!

John, you don’t have to do anything. I don’t want or need anything from you. No one at work knows we were ever together and I didn’t tell anyone, so you don’t have anything to worry about. You can just walk away.

I lock the phone and put it aside again. I can see the screen light up several times, but I do not check it anymore. Eventually, he stops sending messages.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

I turn onto my street and see his black Jeep parked in front of my house. I briefly consider driving past, but he would see my car. If he hasn’t already. As I pull into the driveway, I see him climb out of his vehicle. He is waiting by the driver side door before I even turn off the engine. Sighing, I open the door and get out of the car to face him.

“We need to talk,” he says. His hands are clinched into fists at his side, swinging slightly like he is preparing to punch something. I saw him do the same thing before a boxing match once.

“No, we really don’t.” I try to walk past him, but he steps in front of me, his 6’3” frame towering over me. I take a small step backwards.

“That’s my baby. My kid.”

“No,” I say, pointing my finger into his chest, my voice rising. “It’s not. You walked away without a fucking word. You were done. This is my child, not yours.” I try to shove past him, but he grabs my left arm and pulls me back.

“Stop walking away from me,” he growls. “How could you not fucking tell me about this?” His grip tightens on my arm and I flinch away. He lets go, startled, and takes a couple steps back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I rub my arm where his hand was; it feels warm and I know there will be a mark in the morning. “You already have.” I walk around him and into the house. I lock the door and lean against it, shaking and taking deep breaths to ward off tears. After a few moments, I hear a car door and then an engine as he drives away.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

“I swear,” I say, running my hand over my distended midsection, “it gets bigger every day.”

“That’s what happens when you grow a human inside you,” Mel responds, getting up from the couch. “Do you want anything to drink?” She walks toward the kitchen.

“I can get it,” I say, starting to get up.

She turns around and points a finger at me. “Sit,” she commands. I sit. “I’m getting something anyway; do you want something?”

“Whiskey?”

“Nice try.”

“Worth a shot.”

Mel laughs. “Nice.”

“Water would be great. Thank you.”

I settle back into the couch and rest my head against the wall. Mel returns with water and a glass of Jameson. I take the water and say, “That’s just mean.”

Mel smiles and sits down. “No. I’m having a double, one for you and one for me. That’s what friends are for.”

My phone vibrates and lights up from its place on the couch by my leg. His number again. I still haven’t added his name back, but I’ve seen his number so many times in the last several days that I have it memorized. I sigh and turn the phone over.

Mel slips slowly from her glass, watching me. “Have you told him to just leave you alone?”

“Many, many times. He insists he just wants to talk, but then he starts ranting and cussing, or shows up at my house and won’t leave. I’m kind of surprised the neighbors haven’t called the police.”

“You are the police.”

“Yeah, the pregnant, light duty police. Not much use in making ex-boyfriends go away.”

Silence drifts for a few minutes while we sip our drinks.

“He’s probably just demanding to know where I am again. It’s really pissed him off that I haven’t been home for a few days. He thinks I’m hiding from him. Which, I suppose, I am.”

“Get a protection order.”

I sigh deeply. “I can’t. I’ve thought about it, but it would end his career in law enforcement. He’s just angry, and maybe he has a right to be.”

“No.” Mel sets her drink down. “No, he doesn’t. He walked away without saying a word to you. He wouldn’t talk to you at all, ignored you in person until the day he left dispatch. He never responded to your text messages those couple of weeks when you were trying to figure out what was going on. That was his choice. Even if you had told him, what if he had thought you were lying to get his attention? He only has himself to blame.”

A sad smile pulls the corners of my mouth. “I know you’re right, but I’m still having a hard time believing that these last few days.”

“Then it’s good you’re staying with me for a while. I can remind you as often as you need.”

I laugh. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

Talk to me, damn it. Time stamped an hour earlier. I don’t read the messages before that. They will just be the same as they have been for a week and a half. Demands for answers, cussing, and then demands to talk. He is as stubborn as he has always been, his anger riding just below the surface.

John, I type, I am not going to talk to you until you calm down. You left bruises on my arm that first night you showed up at my house. I can’t talk to you when you’re this angry. Give yourself some space and some time. Then we can talk.

I wait for a while, but there is no response. Maybe he is sleeping. Or working. I have tried not to pay attention to his schedule.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

I don’t hear from him until two days later. I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting. I’ve calmed down. Can we please talk? In person?

Yes. When are you available?

Now.

I tap the side of the phone. I am not busy, and do not work today, but I’m nervous. There is no way to know if he is really calm or if he is just feigning it so he can renew his demands in person. Whatever the case, I just want to have it over.

Fine. But I want to meet in a public place. Groundhouse? An hour?

Thank you. I’ll see you there.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *            *

I park outside the coffee shop, turn the engine off, and just sit. I take slow, steadying breaths, trying to calm my nerves. Never in a million years did I imagine I would talk to him like this again. I dreamed about it, thought about it, but never believed it would really happen. I never intended for him to know about the baby; I just wanted him to stay away and go on with whatever he had planned for himself.

I gather my things and climb out of the car. John is already inside; his Jeep is parked two spots away from me. I walk to the door and pull it open. His eyes instantly alight on my face, then drop to my protruding belly and remain there even after I am seated.

“It’s not an alien or anything,” I say quietly when he doesn’t say anything.

He looks up at my eyes and I look away, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “Twenty-eight weeks now.”

“What?” I glance back at him.

“You’re twenty-eight weeks now, right?”

My right hand drops and rests on the curve of my abdomen; it feels huge in that moment, with his blue eyes on mine. “Yes. Due the beginning of September. On the…” I hesitate. “The third.” I look down at the table, but not before I see the color slide from his face.

Silence for one second. Two. Three. “Are you fucking with me?” His voice catches, cracks.

“No,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t do that to you, John. Not about something like that.”

Silence again, ticking slowly. After a few minutes, I sigh. “John, I meant what I said when I told you I don’t need anything from you. I’m good. We’re good. I promise.”

His jaw clenches and he looks away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had a lot going on with your training, and besides, you were finished. You walked away without an explanation, then ignored all my attempts to understand. I didn’t want to add more stress and I didn’t want you to think I was just lying or just trying to get you back. I really am fine doing this on my own.”

He looks back at me. “But you don’t have to. For weeks, I’ve regretted what I did. I’ve been trying to decide if I could fix things because I want you.”

“How do I know you’re not just saying that because of her?”

“Her? A girl?” He shifts in his chair, leaning across the table.

“Yes. A girl.”

His gaze drops again, and lingers. “John.” He lifts his eyes back to mine. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to date again.”

“But I want to be there for you. For…” he hesitates, and when he speaks again his voice is barely audible. “I want to be there for my daughter.”

“On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You cannot leave her like you left me.”

“I promise.”

“But there’s no you and me.”

Conversations around us rise and fall as we sit without speaking.

“You realize you’ve spent most of this conversation staring at my belly. That’s not what you used to stare at.”

He laughs and meets my gaze. “Have you already picked a name?”

I smile. “Atticus Rose.” It the name we both said we would pick if we ever decided to have a child.

An Execution

Another exercise:

Conference room B. A honey colored table with twenty black office chairs pushed neatly in place. Floor to ceiling windows show the city outside just waking for the day, office buildings still mostly dark against a sky pale pink and blue. The few lit windows jar against the soft morning light, a note matched by the occasional horn from the street five floors below.

A door opens with a barely audible scrape against the carpet, admitting a worn looking man whose ill-fitting suit speaks of heavier days and too many years of use; his graying hair adds ten years to his forty. Closing the door behind him, he glances at the stack of folders placed neatly in the center of the table. His eyes skip away and he unbuttons, buttons, unbuttons his jacket. Sighing, he steps to the window and looks down, watching the traffic stop and start below. Buttoning, unbuttoning, buttoning his jacket.

The door glides open again. A woman enters, hesitates, then closes the door. Standing just inside, she smooths an imaginary wrinkle from her ivory blouse. Her black slacks are neatly pressed and her heels match the color of her shirt. The man at the window does not turn around or even glance over his shoulder.

“Good morning, Jay,” the woman’s voice is rich, with a slight rasp.

“Anna.” His voice is one that seems to vibrate in your chest when you hear it, smooth and deep; unexpected from a man so slight the wind might carry him off.

Anna tucks a stray curl behind her ear and sits in the closest chair facing the wall of windows. She scans the room, her eyes halting on a painting of a woman holding a set of chipped and broken scales and wielding a bloody sword. The blindfold across her eyes identifies her as the mistress of justice, a justice the artist must have seen as violent and unyielding.

A wall clock ticks. Traffic outside increases, more a vibration than a sound. Golden sunlight spills across the horizon, the north facing windows only catch the edges. Jay shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unbuttoning, buttoning, unbuttoning. Anna’s gaze lingers on Lady Justice, and she occasionally tucks a stubborn curl behind her ear.

The door crashes open, bouncing off the wall. “Crap. I’m sorry.” A slight woman in her early twenties breezes into the room. She grabs the handle and swings the door shut, then turns to face the room. “Sorry.” She smiles, biting her bottom lip. Jay stares at her, his fingers stalled on the button of his jacket. Barely clearing five feet, she is clad in blue jeans once much darker, a gray t-shirt with some obscure band name, and gold ballet flats. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy knot and her green eyes sparkle as she glances back and forth between Jay and Anna. “I’m late. I mean, I’m Rachel. Sorry I’m late.”

Jay clears his throat. “You work on the sixth floor.” Buttoning, unbuttoning, buttoning.

“I do. I’ve seen you around too. I don’t know what floor you’re on or what you do, really. Or what anyone does. I’m pretty new here so I’m still learning things, I guess.”

Anna turns her gaze back to the painting, the errant tendril of hair coming loose again. Tick, tick, tick. Jay smiles at Rachel, his eyes reflecting only a resigned sadness, and gestures to the closest chair.

Rachel takes the indicated seat, kicks off her shoes, and pulls her feet up underneath her; her gaze skitters from Jay to the pile of folders to Anna to the image of Lady Justice. “That’s quite a picture.”

Anna laughs bitterly. “Yes. Isn’t it?”

Jay sighs and returns to the window, unbuttoning, buttoning. “Well, shall we?”

Color drains from the faces of both women, the clock suddenly loud and insistent in the silence. Tick, tick, tick. When neither answer him, Jay turns back to the room. “It really is better if we just get on with it.”

“How do we…” Rachel stammers. “I mean is there a particular… Do we just…” She trails off as Jay walks to the table, picks up the stack of folders, and drops them back down within reach. He stares blankly at the top folder, his hands still for a moment. He sighs heavily, unbuttons his jacket and returns to the window. Buttoning, unbuttoning, buttoning.

Anna reaches out a hand, gently pushing the folders into perfect alignment. “We just,” she begins, her voice barely audible from a throat suddenly dry. She swallows, clears her throat. “We just… pick one.”

“Yes.” Unbuttoning, buttoning, unbuttoning.

Rachel swallows hard, once, twice. “Well, are these their criminal histories then? So we know which person is the worst? Is that the best way?” She watches Jay’s back, the slight movement caused by his constant fidgeting stops. Then begins again.

“They’re not criminals.” His deep, slow voice is barely audible, but rumbles through the room.

“What do you mean?” Rachel looks from him to the folders and back again.

“They’re not criminals. None of them.”

Rachel jumps up and backs toward the door. “Wha… You mean… I don’t…”

Anna realigns the folders knocked awry by Rachel’s sudden movement. “They’re just ordinary people?” she asks, the rasp of her voice more pronounced.

“Yes.”

“And we have to…”

“Yes.”

Tick, tick, tick.

Rachel’s eyes flick to the savage depiction of justice before she turns to stare out the window.

Tick, tick, tick.

Anna picks up the top folder and lays it directly in front of her, lining up the edge of the folder with the end of the table. “Jay, have you done this before?”

Buttoning, unbuttoning, pause. “Yes.” Buttoning. “This is my third.”

“Your third?” Rachel gawks at him. “You’ve done this two other times. You’ve killed two other…” She stops when Jay glowers and takes a quick step in her direction.

“You think I want to be here?” he demands. “You think I want to be the one who decides who lives and dies? You think it’s fun to play God?” He points his finger just inches from her nose, her back against the wall. “And I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he shoots at Anna, turning to face her.

She drops the front cover of the folder closed again. “How are we supposed to make a decision if we don’t look?”

“Fine. Look if you want to. I thought the same thing my first time. How bad could it be, right?” Unbuttoning, buttoning, unbuttoning. “I still see their faces.”

Rachel slides sideways away from Jay and resumes her seat, a few feet from the table. “Do you have a suggestion for how we choose?” She stares at her shoes where they sit just under the edge of the table.

Jay looks at the painting, his eyes caught by the deep red of the blood splattered on the woman’s sword. “Just pick one. Any of them. Don’t read the file. It won’t help. It’s better just to pick one.”

Anna and Rachel look at the stack of folders, then at each other.

“Then what?”

Jay turns back to the window. “Then,” buttoning, “we wait.”

The Gap

So I’ve been working on writing more often, but sometimes I am not sure what to write about. I bought a book a while ago that gives some fun writing exercises. The first one I did is called “The Gap.” The idea is to write a short scene, then skip ahead and write another related scene, leaving a gap that is meaningful but not necessarily explained. So here’s what I wrote.

The phone buzzes against the underside of her thigh, his voice whispering through her thoughts before she even views the message. At the next red light, she enters her passcode: What are you doing?

Driving around downtown. Send.

Green light means go. Shifting from first to second to third, she meanders through streets she memorized years ago. Neon from strip clubs the only sign of life beyond the occasional drunk stumbling home or police car gliding by.

Another buzz. At 1:30 in the morning? Why?

Glow from a street lamp illuminates the left side of her face, mouth twitched in a half smile. I do it all the time. I love driving the city at night. Send. Hesitation and her fingers hover over the screen. Would you like to join me? The smile is gone. Her bottom lip caught up in a gentle bite of trepidation. Send.

Right turn onto 47^th, past the four horse fountain and into the land of postcard perfection. Christmas lights perfectly line the edges of all the buildings on the street, following the same pattern as the year before. And every year since she can remember. This is the best part of the city this time of year, and this time of day.

A longer silence this time, but eventually his response tickles the back of her leg. Hitting the curve where one parkway becomes another, she slides the phone from beneath her leg.

Where should I meet you?

Eyes on the road. Another red light. I don’t know where you live. I’m almost to your city though. Send.

His city. Ever since the day she met him, it has been his city. A city she has known for years now belongs only to him; his voice, his eyes, that dangerous smile.

They meet in a parking lot, but he cannot leave his truck there. She follows him to a quiet street and parks behind his truck when he pulls over. He slides into the seat beside her, a half-embarrassed smile barely concealed by the lack of street lights here.

Pulling away from the curb, she shifts from first to second to third to fourth. No other vehicles are on the road, and she winds her way back to the heart of the city. His voice a steady, comforting rhythm in the dark.

A pause. “At the next red light, I’m going to kiss you.”

Her heart hammers in her throat, desperately trying to escape. The kiss is like him, gentle but strong. The night dissolves into a series of stops and starts, the pauses filled by his hand on her thigh, his fingers in her hair, his breath on her lips.

“That was exactly like I imagined it would be.”

****

She starts awake. A jolting dream, quickly fading in the lamp light. 3:00 am. She checks her phone. A message is waiting.

I cannot text you anymore. Please understand.

A deep breath in. I understand. Send.

A couple selections and all the messages disappear, along with his name.

Thank you.

She did not expect a response. She does not send one. One more deletion.

Then silence, and nothing to fill the pause.

Or So They Say

When someone you love dies, people will tell you a lot of things. They will tell you that it was God’s plan, the person is in a better place, the person is no longer in pain, it will get easier, time will heal it. They’ll say, “I’m here for you whenever and whatever you need.” People will do everything and say everything they can think of to make you feel better. They are trying to help, but are somewhat at a loss for how to do that. People will be particularly ill-equipped when the death was tragic and the person was young. Death is an uneasy thing for a lot of us and comforting someone is difficult when there is no tangible way to provide relief. So people will make food, send flowers, and say a lot of well-meaning things that are ridiculously unhelpful.

Let’s be honest: even if it is God’s will and even if I believe that, this is not the time for that. Maybe later. And that’s a big maybe. My personal spiritual beliefs about someone’s death are not for just anyone to address. Besides, when the person who died ended their own life, I have a hard time believing it is God’s will for anyone. Probably best if they don’t say this.

Whenever someone says “she’s in a better place” or “he’s no longer in pain”, I want to know how they know that. Have you died recently? Do you know for certain what comes after? I have my own beliefs about what happens after death, and while they would align with these particular beliefs, telling me these things when my grief is raw and new makes me feel selfish for missing the person I love. If where she is actually is better than here and he is no longer feeling any pain, why would I want to draw them back? That would be selfish, right? But that’s what I want more than anything: to have back the person I love because I think she is gone too soon and I would give anything to watch him grow up.

Anytime I hear someone say “It gets easier”, I really want to throw something at them. Instead, I say, “It doesn’t.” It never gets easier to miss a part of yourself. Time will not heal the hole left by someone you love. After much handling, the sharp edges of grief soften, but it can still leave you breathless and reeling. There is nothing easy about all the milestones that he or she will never reach. Time doesn’t heal that. Nothing does. And that’s okay.

It is okay to still feel the pain of loss years down the road. There is nothing unhealthy about wishing for your sister to see your children graduate high school nor about wishing to see your brother meet the woman of his dreams and get married. Moving on with your life does not mean forgetting those things or acting like they do not matter because the person is gone. Moving on is learning to live anyway. Learning to hold on and breathe when the grief crashes over you.

Death and grief are not easy things, but they are not meant to be. They change the shape of our hearts and reweave the fabric of our soul. Death demands honesty, so be honest. This sucks, I hate it, and I wish it were different.

Unread Love Letter

Dear Wesley,

When I first met you, I had no idea it would end like this. I climbed into your patrol car completely unprepared. Ride alongs are a part of training and my trainer knew you, said you were a good man, a good officer. That day I was terrified I was going to make a fool of myself or that we might ride around for 8 hours in complete silence. I was surprised when we talked so easily and about so many things, including deep, heart things. After eight hours by your side, I was enamored. Actually, it was probably a lot sooner than that. I remember telling my trainer that I found you attractive, distractingly so. Your eyes are dangerous and your smile devastating. I remember that day in exquisite and excruciating detail. When I walked away from you that day, I really thought we would never speak again, except for work. I imagined you thought me ridiculous and knew there was no way you could possibly feel the same way I did.

Needless to say, I was shocked when you sent me a message a few days later. With your phone number. I am 100% certain I blushed, which made me feel silly. You were just being nice, right? I didn’t use it, just kept it in my phone. A few more days and you asked why I hadn’t used your phone number. So I did. We talked in fits and starts at first; every few weeks, then every few days. Before long we were talking close to every day, and about pretty much everything. We’d flirt back and forth, but I never thought much of it. I just assumed you were charming like that with women. I’m not the kind of woman men notice and certainly not the kind they flirt with. But I was wrong about you. And about myself.

That day, oh that day, when you and your trainee stopped by, it changed everything. I hadn’t seen you for a year, but I was right about your eyes and that smile. When you looked at me, I thought my heart might beat itself to shreds against my rib cage. I still wonder if you could see the flush on my face, the shake in my hands. Did you know what I was thinking? What I was feeling? Just before you left, you smiled. Not at me, but it hardly mattered. It shattered the last of my denials and brought all my feelings crashing down on me. I told you that night that you were dangerous. You asked why so here’s the reason:

I want you. All of you. I want to feel you slide into bed next to me, feel the touch of your skin against mine, lay my head on your chest and hear your heartbeat. I want to feel your breath on my lips in the space between kisses, see your face in the early morning light and be the reason you were awake all night. I want to drive through the city with your hand on my leg, stealing kisses at stoplights. I want to feel your hands run through my hair and let you trace all my curves with your fingertips. I want to hear your voice say my name in the dark. When you break, I want to be the one to help you find all the pieces. I want to know your darkest secrets and deepest fears. I want to fulfill your sweetest dreams. I want your dark and your light, everything you love and hate about yourself.

I love you. I shouldn’t. I didn’t mean to. I understand all the reasons why it won’t work and they are all valid. My heart, however, is uninterested in all the logic and reason. We haven’t talked for two months and my feelings have remained as steady as the reasons why we can’t talk and why those feelings don’t mean anything. I keep hoping I can convince my heart to move on, but every time I think I have rebuilt my walls I hear your voice and they crumble again. And I wonder if you know, if you can hear it when I answer you.

I love you. I shouldn’t. I guess all I can hope for is someone who will make you a memory.

On Running. And Excuses.

A while ago I wrote about how I wanted to start running and this amazing plan I had to make it happen. About that… I didn’t. I went running a couple days and then just stopped. I didn’t really make a conscious decision not to run; I just didn’t do it.

Until a few weeks ago, when I did. I just started running. Close to every day. I literally went from not running at all to running 2 miles every day. I love it. Which I find strange because I’ve never cared for running, unless it was in an attempt to preserve my life. (Which, quite frankly, has never happened… so you know, I never ran.) I love yoga and I sometimes like weight lifting, but running. Not so much.

But then I just started running. I started running because I was tired of my own excuses and really, why not? That’s the thing about us humans, we have excuses for everything. We are experts at talking ourselves out of the right thing. We don’t make time for exercise, our families, our dreams. We give up before we even try… all because of excuses.

Here’s the truth about excuses: they are just smoke. They cloud our vision and keep us from seeing what we can be, what we should be. And excuses only lead to one thing. Regrets. When we talk ourselves out of what is good, what is right, we regret our inaction. Or action, as the case may be. We cannot undo, we cannot rewrite our history. Excuses will steal your time, your dreams, your life.

I could keep making excuses. But anything worth having is worth fighting for. Even if the only thing you’re fighting is your own mind’s perceptions of what you cannot do.

So I keep running.

Perceptions

I knit. I have tattoos. Visible tattoos and enough that I have started counting hours I’ve been tattooed. For some reason, these two things in combination seems to be too much for some people. I am often stared at for knitting or because of my tattoos, but when I knit while my tattoos are showing it seems to cause intense, drooling stares.

I get it I suppose. As humans, we need to categorize things in order to speed up how we process the world around us. Taking time to completely evaluate every stimulus in our environment is not efficient… thus, we get stereotypes. We make associations and assumptions based on visual cues. Completely normal, human thing to do.

At the same time, stereotypes can be so detrimental. Particularly when it comes to our perceptions of people. Based on appearances, we make assumptions about where they come from, what type of job they might do, their beliefs, their value to society. Too often, we act on those perceptions without evaluating their veracity. Many times this leads to misunderstandings and heartache. We don’t give people the space to be human.

And because we are all human, we think it fair when we make these assumptions about others and at the same time resent when anyone makes similar assumptions about us. They don’t know us, they don’t know what we’ve been through. How dare they assume they know anything about us? How dare they be so disrespectful? And we are, understandably, hurt when someone makes judgments based on limited or inaccurate information.

We are complex. We are comfortable believing others are not. And we do extensive damage on account of it because we are often wrong.

Don’t let my tattooed knitting confuse or concern you. Chances are, I’m not anything you’d imagine.

The Thing About Running

I am not a runner. Unless someone or something is chasing me. I don’t run fast and I don’t like to run for very long; however, I hear running is good for you. Something about cardiovascular health or some nonsense. In the interest of my own health, I have added running to my workout repertoire. To be honest, I have really only run in fits and starts. I’ll run one day, maybe two and then nothing for a few weeks. Partly because of my schedule, but mostly because I have a hard time committing to vague plans such as, I’ll run on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Turns out, that is not specific enough for me to follow through. Here’s the new plan: weather permitting, if I am home (and awake) at 7:30 pm, I go for a run. It works, but only when I remember that’s the plan. Yesterday, for example, I was home and it was nice, but I didn’t remember I was supposed to go for a run until 8:30 pm. Being the non-runner that I am, I decided that was clearly too late to be running. I made it today and should be able to make it tomorrow, unless some plans come up that demand I find something to do outside my house between 7:00 pm and 8:00 pm.

On the knitting front, I am making progress on my Christmas knitting. I looked at the spreadsheet yesterday and about had a mild panic attack. There are many more knitting projects than I seem to have time for and it is only June. It would probably help if I would stick to knitting exclusively, or at least primarily, Christmas things. Unfortunately, other knitting projects have been seducing me and I haven’t been strong enough to say “no”. I have some beautiful scarves and a couple extra pair of socks, but neither help with the massive list of Christmas items that silently taunt me from the spreadsheet. *sigh* To that end, I should probably knit something. A Christmas something… or this other sock.

Pants Down, the Worst Day

Me: 9-1-1, where is your emergency?

Male: I’m the manager at (gives location of large department store) and I need an officer dispatched here as soon as possible.

Me: What’s going on there?

Male: There’s a guy that’s been sleeping in the bathroom all day. I figured he was homeless and since the weather is bad, I didn’t want to kick him out. But now he’s in there with his pants around his ankles.

Me: Does he appear injured?

Male: No.

Me: Would you like us to send an ambulance just in case?

Male: I really think he’s fine. He’s snoring really loud and he must have moved at some point because he had his pants on earlier. I’d just like an officer to be here in case he causes trouble when we ask him to leave. And his pants are around his ankles and people keep walking in there. I don’t want my customers to see that.

Me: Officers are on the way. If anything else happens before they arrive or you think you need an ambulance, please give us a call back on 9-1-1.

I found out later, the man and his wife are both employees of the store where he was sleeping. She was working so she arranged a ride home for him. Now, I’ve had some pretty bad days at work before, but I have never in my life had a sleep-on-the-dirty-floor-with-my-pants-around-my-ankles-and-my-privates-out-for-the-world-to-see kind of bad day.

The Rear View

I turned 30 this past week. Before anyone asks, or even thinks it, no, I am not at all bothered by this milestone. In fact, I am thrilled to be 30 years old. My attitude about this particular birthday has surprised many people over the last few weeks.

In this instance, as in most, perspective matters. To understand why I am genuinely celebrating 30 years of life, you would have to know where I came from. For years, violence, fear, and darkness defined my life and world. I believed love was angry, black and blue, bloody. I have been beaten, belittled, raped, and abandoned, and that does not even touch the self-inflicted damage. I was certain I would never live to be 18, let alone 30.

I made a decision a few years ago to walk away from the bitterness and pain I was holding. The first years of my life were wrecked by others, but that was no reason to continue wrecking the years to come. Climbing out of the depths of my past has not been an easy journey and I would be lying if I said things were perfect now, they aren’t. I suspect life is not perfect for anyone, regardless the path.

I know this: I am better for it all. My life may not be what I imagined, but I would not change a single step. Life is about choices and I choose hope.

My plan is to celebrate all year long by doing things I have always wanted to do and ending with a trip to the beach for my birthday next year. Life is short, and you really never know when you’ll run out of days to celebrate. Age is a luxury denied many, don’t squander it.

Celebrate with me?