B sides

Second chances are almost a deed long gone and yet,
I gave you one.
And myself, in a strange way, even though it wasn't me who screwed up.
You felt lonely, you say, in the voice which is yours but that so rarely comes through.
And I melt.
My whole plan for staying strong and aloof is but a drawing on a napkin in a weakening pen.
You try to tell me what happened. What the hell did happen back there. You can go as long as you planned but not much more and I have deep questions that do not get satiated with a pre-scripted plan.
I try to milk you for more (and this is, by the way, if you had any suspicion, how you now know) complements, misses, missings, musings, I wants...and hope for a glimpse of it'll get better. You can't give that to me though and the conversation becomes not much more than a rehash past midnight.
I allow you to come up for a visit the following day. That's actually a dignified joke. I want you to come. I want to see you again and talk. And at the same time, I pray that you'll pull the predictable escape and disappear from my iPhone screen, not making it to our date.

It's the next day. When it becomes clear--around 7 or 8--that you aren't going to show, I pour vermouth into my very best crystal, two large cubes of ice, and head to my sparkling kitchen to make dinner. A treat of wild mushroom pasta with roasted pine nuts in a fine wine and butter reduction for a sauce.
I can't help but smile. I amuse myself and I can't decide by what most. Is it my spot on anticipation or by my enduring faith. Did I really think overnight you'd change? I laugh at my idiocy. A magnificent gift of hope...or is it hopelessness?

Next time,I want to say in case you're reading this, when you're home from a trip and you feel all alone, please forget that I'm there and call someone else. It'll make things much easier for you (although much less dramatic, I agree) and much more appealing to me. Should you care. Just in case.

Me.

Man. This would have been such a fine time for a drink'n dial.
A couple of martinis (Greygoose, 3 olives), a skirt, tall leather boots, and I'm ready.
Where the hell am I? can you come get me?
Thank God there's no police around. I'm not sure I'm responsible right now.
It says left turn but I think it's wrong. Where's the 101?
Yup. Totally wrong. I'm in Sausalito. Funny coincidence. Our first official date. The one when you called me soulless and had little to no interest in anything I had to say. You just watched me. Like a hulk. Then you filled gas and put your hands on my head when I said what I said. You looked, for one tiny moment, like a compassionate human being- and then it was gone. The rest is all in my head. High maintenance and all. You said it. That, at least, I can recall.
Thank God I'm past the Drink'n Dial. I would have called you to say "come over." " Now." And you would- just as I was parking my car. I'd meet you breathless at the door front. Skirt and all. Leather boots. This side of me which you like but are afraid of. The side not made of marble, counter to what you thought.
Am I on the right path now? No. I think I'm lost.
What a fine night.
I want another martini and a smoke- but I don't. Smoke, that is. I'm a responsible adult.
Where are you right now? In whose arms? You proved to be such a piece of work. Who would have known. I think I did. Early on. Then I let you bamboozle me and fell right in. A little fly in your intricate web. Marble crackling to reveal so much. After all.
I think I got it now. Left turn. Bridge. Oh good.
I can't tell if I'm driving fast or slow. It says 40. I show 60. Must slow down. No time to get caught in my misery. Take out fast-rack. Bee-beep. Done. watch out car on left. Merging. Thank God I'm sobering up. No Dial.
I'm home. Park car. Devour the keys. More, more, more. I want a burger and onion soup. Absinthe, if you must ask. Now. So organized, proper, most of the time. That's what you like. I'm so much more though. There. I said it. More than you can handle or want. Go away. You said you would.
Another Greygooose. A movie. If I only had fresh popcorn. Maybe you would bring some--whenever it is that we are friends again. For now, an early night. A good night. Dreamless, I hope. As you stay up.

Remember to note moments that bring you joy.
Let that inbox folder swell with notes to self.
Remember that small index cards can hold big thoughts.
And that your thoughts are just that--thoughts. And as such- they're not all real.
Remember to put on your beanie when it's cold outside.
And to put the top down and turn the heater way up.
Remember to breathe.
Remember to laugh.
It's one of those things I liked most about you. Your laugh.
Remember to dance.
(People do get better at it)
Remember bursting with stories from the day.
Remember endless nights.
The End Up. Ruby Skye. The Unit. The secret.
Remember to write.
Remember to cry.
Don't forget. Remember to remember. Remember.
Re-member. Remem-ber. Re-me-mber.

Just keep doing what you're doing

There was the door opening incident.
I was confused and focused at the same time. People coming in, coming out- hands intermingling as they try to reach for the metal bars to pull/push the heavy glass panels in and out. Excuse me’s. Chuckles. Apologetic smiles. And there you were. Behind the cicada mass of Russian-speaking women in velvet training suits and plastic bags. You opened the door for me. Tried to, anyway. I was already half way through my own movement- arm stretched forward, hand in a grip position, I ended up yanking the door open for you. You took a step to the side to make way for me, your shoulders caving in ever so softly. My jaw tightened as I passed. My nostrils flared. I hated myself for not slowing down. For not stopping. For not making eye contact. For not saying thank you.

Every time I returned I pretended not to look for you. Out of the corner of my eye. In the mirror. I arrived one evening as you were leaving and wasn’t sure if we saw one another. Actually- I was sure I saw you. Or a version of you--you guys all look alike in your shorts and gray shirts.

I stretched. Put my headset on. Wheeled my iPod to the loudest, most energy-inducing track on my Workout playlist and got on the treadmill.

The following week I returned a little earlier to meet your time. Those who leave early usually get to bed early. You’re either a garbage collector, you do an early morning workout, or you’re in the financial industry. Your blue suit dismissed the first. The time and place at which we met barred the second. I vote for the third. Which means you’re probably really good at math.

And that’s excellent. Because you seem to have done your math and today you came later than usual. I met your eyes by the entrance. You were already in action. Arms and legs in perfect synchrony. Strong body. Head high. No TV. I climbed on the machine next to you, picking up speed to match yours. You stayed on for an additional 15 minutes passed your time as I progressed into my workout. Then got off. You left your sweatshirt by the window. As long as it is here- so are you. I finished my run, and before heading out to the weight room- left my sweatshirt, semi folded, by yours. They were like two puppies at same bench leg—getting to know one another while their owners busied themselves at a nearby Café.

I turned around from the window. You stood by the water cooler. I met your eyes. Eyebrows scrunched together. When I was younger, I would say you were angry. Now I know it can also come with the uncertainty and internal dialog of what’s next- what’s the right thing to do. Were you standing there by chance? Were you waiting for me? I walked past you, feeling like I was walking on marshmallows. Large steps, gulping space. Zero finese. Ever more aware of my pants clinging to my thighs.

Why do these casual encounters seem so...what's the word I'm looking for?--possible--elsewhere? At a bar, a Café? Why is it so difficult here?

From the weight room- I peaked back. You weren’t there anymore. I worked my Arms, legs, abdominals. And when my iPod’s battery gave in, I put the weights back, picked up my sweatshirt from where I had left it--careful not to drop anything--and headed out.

In the past, situations like this would result in a persistent inner-dialog about all those things a guy should have done. Or should do. With you, I just felt content. I was alright. With you, i just want you to keep doing what you're doing. Notice me. Stay focused and centered--don’t let me throw you off; that pushes me away. Find your comfort zone. Take your time. As you do so, so will I. Even though you wouldn't know it from looking at me, I like to follow your lead. And keep me in your mind- in a small little place—don’t let time and inner-talk push me away. And we’ll see.
We always have Mondays on the treadmill and our sweatshirts--resting side by side, my sleeve on your hood--getting to know one another.

How do men walk this world?

Men walk in full gear. Helmet and fatigues and boots. A weapon in their arms. At every step of the way, they are ready for the perpetrator to swing down from the trees, rise up from the ground, aim arrows from afar. They get ready to defend, deflect, and protect. Arms strong, biceps bracing, Pecs pushing.  They hit with accuracy and force.

And women?

Women fight with their words and their tears and their anger and fear. Also with their love and with their bodies. They can turn them on to glow in the dark or turn them off to blend in with the silent forest in which they live.
While their men walk the land, crushing leaves under their boots, steel clicking with each movement—they, women, become one with the air and the earth and the water and the moonless sky. Their men walk through them, pave way in their soil, bask in the comfort of their trunks just a bit longer before getting up again and heading back out into the dark field.

And when do men see their women?

Just before they fall asleep. In those moments when their vision blurs and one tree becomes two and then three. Or when they bend down for fresh snow water and they meet their reflection—an origami image of what they thought they knew. (Men don’t like to drink water.)
They also see the women when they turn on their night vision goggles. But then they see them differently—restless green grains making up a skeleton, hair, breasts, teeth, hiding their naked face in the leaves. The vision so unpleasant, these men immediately turn away.

And do men ever meet their women?

Rarely. Mostly they stay in packs as they travel the earth. Quietly, methodically. They follow orders from above. They take turns sleeping, eating, carrying supplies. They follow protocol in the night—defending their ground, and in the day—they conquer more.

But sometimes, in the early dawn hour, between night and day, between wakefulness and sleep, as the mountains stand still and the trees arch to listen in, they see them in what they can only call ‘a dance.’ Wisps of warm air, their breath hums as it rides the hills, their toes stir snow atop a creek, leaves gleefully swirl before they return to caress the ground below. They see them taking their positions between the trees as they wait, prepared for their men to take their turn again…and come back the following day. They cross lands, walk through vast forests, sail through oceans never once realizing every night they come back to the same place.

It’s been two, three weeks between us and now I can’t tell anymore where you are or when you think of me. I feel a space where you used to live, occupying a desert land with your stubborn roots and flags. A bare weed, all bones and thorns, refusing to let go.

You wanted me until you didn’t know that what you wanted was me. You ran to me happy and afraid and excited and you held on to my sleeve tugging as I walked digging your heels in the ground in protest until I stopped—just for a moment—to hear your pleas.

“Don’t go.” You begged. “Let me stay. Please” I refused and refused again but with two-three weeks between us, I acquiesced in my own mind- on my own desert land, I agreed to let “it” be and you- to raise a flag.

What “it” was- wasn’t clear. Not to you, not to me. You wanted- I knew that much. Wanted me. There, ready, at Her Loneliness’ disposal. A part of you wanted and another part wanted something else…to not want?   Perhaps.

With two-three weeks between us, you found an answer as you always did: fast, mercilessly, indulgingly. It’ll take a week, a month, three months…a year. You’ll laugh and drink and make passionate love or sex—whichever it may be. You’ll feel you’ve grown, evolved, accomplished so much. You’ll travel and come back with great stories to tell in your sweet-plum voice. You'll later use them to accompany a slideshow to a client on some phone line in some office. But when Her Loneliness comes back for a visit, all this will be shed and drop away like leaves in October and you’ll be back to your desert land and warm sands back here.

There were...

...one hundred photos...

A few of golden sand dunes.

Some of clear waters and laughing kids.

Of jellyfish and shells.

And red sunsets over white sails.

There were photos of family.

And friends.

And places we went to...and things we did.

There were photos of old houses.

Of blue doors.

Of a street corner where I dropped my ice cream on my sister's toes.

One of a friend wearing chocolate mustache.

A photo of a birthday boy.

Another of his proud mother.

There were one hundred photos.

One camera in the wrong hands.

And now they're all gone.

It's early morning. About 7am. He finished reading the Wall-Street Journal's headings and one article on page 3. He put his cereal bowl in the sink and ran the water- medium pressure, cold- sufficiently rinsing it without spurting back up at his shirt.

He stands in front of the iron-rimmed mirror in the entrance and puts on his tie. Cool blue silk with a light yellow pattern. He likes this tie- the patter reminds him of fish. It's 7:10 on his diving watch. He funnels his arms through his jacket sleeves, tugs on his cuffs, turns his right cufflink until it's in the proper position and smoothes the jacket's front. When he pulls out the left pocket's flap, his hand stops on a sharp yet light object in his pocket. He reaches in. It's a black plastic fork; one tine broken. 

He remembers almost immediately. The woman he saw. Tall and statuesque, her long hair just barely resting on her back, glistening waves, as if on good behavior- waiting until they can swell again. She stood there puzzled. He got up- didn't even know why or how, excused himself and crossed the room in two long steps. He stood across from the young woman, a warm light shining through the window, dancing in his eyes.

"Excuse me." He said to her, leaning his diving watch on the counter. "Can yo tell me where the forks are?"

She looked up at him, distracted, her eyes were clear, her look kind yet direct. A moment lingered. A nanomoment. She moved to search with her eyes and pointed with an index finger to the bin containing black forks.

"Thanks," he said. Not sure how to proceed. She looked at him and almost smiled. And then a man passed by- a short, scruffy man carrying a tray and said hello to her. And off her beautiful eyes went- gone, and a strange emptiness swept over him, like that moment after you've touched ground and your chute landed behind you, releasing its hold, turning into mere fabric.

He took a fork from the bin- what else was he going to do, and stepping out of the near blinding light, he marched back to his table, tucking the fork into his coat's pocket- index finger probing until one tine broke.

As he sat down he sneaked a look. She was walking out the sliding doors into the warm summer wind, her hair free again to sail on the air's soft current. Like a bird, or a fish in the the Mediterranean sea.

'Maybe I'll come back next week,' he remembered entertaining a thought.  But that was a while ago and, he almost laughed, partly embarrassed- he's no teenager anymore. He picked up his briefcase, one last adjustment on his tie's knot, and out he went- into the cool morning air, closing the door behind him.

I imagine light. Rings of light. Around my body. They move up and down- from my toes to my head and back again. Small hoops of light. I don’t think I ever told you about the light or how it feels differently when I remember to imagine it. I tell it to your eyes instead. We have conversations, your eyes and I.

Do you miss me, I ask. Your eyebrows closing, lips shut tight- pursed No, but your eyes nod yes.

Remember when we did the cough? I send my words for a tickle: Wah-ha-eh-ah. A moment freezes as you try to hold it in…but you burst out laughing. I smile and exhale- it works every time.

Are you avoiding me?

No, your eyelids are heavy and your eyes flat. Just really tired. I knew you’d think that. I don’t care what you think- I can’t worry about that.

I didn’t, I say. I was just asking.

Whatever. It has been a long week.

Was seeing me at all a factor?

I don’t know, Maybe. But mostly I’m just tired.

Ok, fine. You coming next week?

Not sure. Complicated.

I want to say- it’s because it’s the weekend, isn’t it? And you do that thing you do… but I don’t because I know you know what I think anyway and I don’t want to start a fight. Let’s just go to sleep.

Good morning, I say to your eyes as I open mine. Feeling any better?

Yes. But busy.

You want to be left alone, I know. I can’t help it though- I’m not doing anything. It just happens. I can tell you are going inside again….hasn’t anything changed in all this time that has passed between us? You’d think so, you say. And your eyes remind me that time is a factor not an equation. You look miserable now. I’d put my palm against your cheek- and let you rest in it, tilted, scruffing back and forth, ear cupped until the warmth of your face and cold of my hand blend to a perfect hot cocoa- the kind children drink in a sippy cup next to a bowl of macaroni and cheese. But it’s too early to think about that. I don’t know what to do, you say, is it ever going to end? You’re so sad in my palm. Go do your thing, I tell you. You’ll feel better afterwards. See you later, you say as you walk into my horizon. Inside you hope that you don’t- at least not like this. When you don’t see, I put my hand on your heart- like you once did. I hear its beat coming closer, it lays its rhythm against your chest yearning for a way out. What is it going to be, little one? A few moments of freedom, a pure ocean green, and then it's time to go back inside. I'll see you soon, I call as you fade into a blessed white silence. A light. Rings of light. Small Hoops. Up and down....

Nap

Thank you for letting me sleep, you say as you leave. I look over your shoulder- my sofa is wrapped with your sleep, your body still in it, slowly awakening.

You're welcome. I say and lock the door behind you.

I watch you rise like morning steam from a green lake. My toes at the edge of the carpet. They dig into the seam. I take your place and disappear. Into thick dreams and a forgotten day.  And night. I sleep.