Losing, me (originally posted on March 1 2010 on K)

You're losing me. I tell you no but it's not true. Every day our conversations get a little blanker, every day we say less and less with more and more words.
I live mostly in remembrances.
When we first started talking, when we unwrapped the truths of each other layer by layer. It was more then a first kiss or a first night spent together, it was the first time you asked me a question and I asked one back; the first starry night and the first freezing cold walk.
I tried, once, to remember that night with you.
Too cold, let's not stay out long, ok? Just around the block? Ok I'll agree, but in that moment I have lost the magic and so stumble beside you trying only to keep up.
Everyone goes through this, I tell myself. Everyone comes to the end of the honeymoon and the beginning of reality. But it's more then that. I see you slipping father away day by day, living more and more in Virtual Reality. Some days I ask you questions, things I don't care, will never care about. But you seem excited when you answer them, as excited as you once were to have me in your life.
So then, there is a time limit I suppose. I'm sick of watching you slip away minute by minute, retreating father and farther into your cave of a room. There will be a time, soon I think, when I will say ENOUGH.
You will lose me then, but looking on perhaps we will both realize in years to come that you lost me ages ago.
 

Sleeping Fits (origionally posted on March 22 2012 on K)

You fell asleep again today. We were in the middle of a conversation, I was trying to be coy. You were there until all of a sudden you weren't. I want to know why.
Why?
Am I not smart, pretty, funny, interesting enough?
Because it must be me. It has to be me. I can't hold you for five minutes and yet tonight you played a game for three hours, three hours spent on something that's not real.
I want to yell at you and show you that I am real and I am here, at least for now; that I love you. But I choke and only the last part comes out. Then you tell me that you don't want to hear it anymore.
All we ever say is I love you and I miss you.
But this is my life I scream in my head. I am nothing but missing and loving you.
You have other things in your life, other voices to talk to and other worlds to explore. Even if they don't exists they must have something I don't.
I failed you.
I'm sorry.
I just want to know how I went wrong.
How?

Cheers, Darling.

-->

The beer was warm that night and she was gone in a flash of brilliantly red hair that set his heart on fire.   Home was too empty, so instead he threw a jacket over his arm and went searching for loneliness down at Hooligans.   The walk didn’t take nearly long enough, and he wasn’t drunk enough not to notice Andy and Jade watching him from the booth by the pool table; Jade, surreptitiously fingering her phone under the table.  Small town news, he supposed, traveled faster than even modern technology allowed.

“Heya, Ty.  Beer and fries?” 

“Just the beer, thanks Jack.”  His normal seat was surrounded by a second cousin with overly bleached hair and a grade school friend turned ex.  Catching the beer as it slid across the bar, he turned and moved to the other end of the bar where the only company was a stranger.  It wasn’t that unusual to have unknowns stop by the bar, it was a popular midway stop for truckers and the yearly migration of loggers, but it was usual for them to be female wearing grey business skirts and heels.  Ignoring her company he settled into his beer and his anger.  With every sip he drowned out the looks he was getting from across the room; when it was too much not to notice he set the empty back with a force that made Jack raise a brow before wordlessly refilling it. 

Turning his back on the bar and digging quarters from his pocket he grabbed a cue from the wall and headed for the green felt topped table.  Methodically he knocked ball after ball into the pockets, playing until his pockets were empty of change and then silently handing Jack a five and waiting as he counted out ten more games worth of quarters.  Three games and six more beers and the seven ball rocketed off the table and rolled past Jades handbag towards the bar.  Cursing he didn’t notice her until she was too close to look away.

“You favor the left and center, but every time you try to make a shot to the right your angle is off.”  She was too close and dressed to nice, but more importantly she was the only person in the bar who didn’t know better than to leave him the hell alone.  

“Your timing is off.  I came here alone, I mean to leave here the same way.”

“You’re drunk, Tyler Long, and you live too far away to get back alone.”

“And you’re a nosy bitch- I don’t know who you are or how you know me, but you should leave.”  He looked towards the bar, hoping to catch Jack’s attention, but the bartender-bouncer had slipped into the back room.

“You’re wallet, Tyler.  You left it at the bar after you bought your weight in quarters.”  She held up the worn leather and he quickly shoved it into his back pocket.  Looking closer he realize that she wasn’t unattractive, blue eyes danced under dark auburn curls.   “You’re drunk and you should go home.”

“Course I’m drunk, that’s why people come to Hooligan’s, to get wasted.  It’s nonea your business if I am.”

“Yes, but since I’m here as a concerned citizen, I’m making it my priority to get you home.”  She was making fun of him, he thought.  Teasing.  A crooked smile cracked his lips.

“You tryin’ to take me home?”  She sighed, annoyed.

“I’m not going to have sex with you.  I’m going to make sure you get home and then you’re going to let me stay on your couch or your floor, if you don’t have one.  My car’s got a bad sparkplug, I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future until I get it replaced.  Going to see the guy downtown on…Franklin street? Tomorrow.”

“Mike’s a good guy, he’ll get you what you need. Guess you can stay, if you need, but I hope you’re not planning on comin’ back in those.”  He cast a dubious eye at her three-inch stilettos.  She smiled, wryly. 

“I’ll manage.”

            The house was chilled, autumn was turning to winter and soon it would be wood-fire weather again.   Tyler switched on the lights, and as a courtesy to his guest, turned the heat up a few degrees.  Sticking his hand in his pockets, he turned to find her surveying the small living room. 

            “Live alone?”  He shrugged.

            “Since recently, yeah.”  His eyes strayed to the throw over the armchair, quilted lilac and salmon, clearly not his own decorating style.  “Well, Miss…”

            “Ms. King, actually.” 

            “No first name?” 

            “Not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow when you’ve sobered up.

            “You sure you don’t want to come upstairs?  The bed is much more comfortable than this old couch….”
            “Good night, Mr. Long.”  Grabbing the throw, she threw it decisively over the couch and pointedly sat.

Upstairs Tyler threw his keys and phone onto the bedside table, (Not “her” bedside table, he reminded himself) and plucked a long red hair off the pillow.  She couldn’t even keep her damn body to herself; in that moment he let himself feel the ache that the beer had only begun to dull.  Tomorrow, maybe he would find out the name of the pretty young woman who was staying on his couch.  Tomorrow, he would find out what she did and where she came from.  Tomorrow…

Somewhere, there was bacon sizzling.  His head was still swimming but there was light pouring through the open blinds.  What the hell?  Where was she?  She always closed the blinds on days that he went down to the bar…joked that as a future housewife she better get used to her place in domestic society.  Where…? 

Oh.  Memory flooded back, it wasn’t his fiery vivacious sweetheart downstairs, it was the mysterious woman who wore heels in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania.  Dragging on sweatpants he hauled himself downstairs.  She was wearing the same clothing as last night, but her shirt was un-tucked and she had a spatula in her hand.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

“Hmpf.”  He filled a glass with water and leaned against the counter, watching. 

“I made enough for two.  I don’t normally do the whole making breakfast thing, but then I don’t normally sleep on strange men’s couches either.  I walked into town for eggs and bacon this morning.”  He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to, that he liked his bacon crispy, that there were already eggs in the fridge, but instead when he opened his mouth he couldn’t help himself.

“Who are you?”  She sighed and wiped her hands on a towel before pulling a black bag across the counter. 

“Isabelle King, Special Agent.”   She pulled a black badge out of the bag and with a practiced flip revealed an ID showing her face, before quickly closing it and turning back to the bacon.  He stood there, staring at her as she casually slid the bacon out of the pan and cracked an egg into the grease.  Finally, he wordlessly crossed to the fridge and pulled out bread and butter and began making four slices of toast. 

Breakfast was silent; he concentrated on his plate, every now and then he felt her eyes on him and looked up, only to see her equally absorbed in her food.  Finally, she met his gaze.

“Ask me.” 

“What?” 

“Ask me about being a Special Agent, ask me what I’m doing here-ask me.”

“Is your sparkplug really shot?”  He laugh was nice, he thought, as it exploded around the kitchen. 

“What?”  He smiled too, it was contagious.

“It’s just…normally the first thing people say is ‘Do you have a gun’ or ‘But you’re a woman’ or ‘Can I know a secret….’ And you’re worried about my sparkplug?  Yes, it’s really and truly a goner.  Believe me I wouldn’t have ended up here if it wasn’t.”  

“So, why didn’t you tell me last night?”

“With the way you were looking at me?  I wanted to sleep on your couch, not keep one eye open all night fending off advances from the drunken stranger I met in a bar.”

“What makes you think…?”
            “Oh please.  A fairly attractive woman from out of town shows up at a bar, you already can’t keep your hands to yourself and then you learn that she’s also a government spy.  You really would have left me alone?”  He snorted and she smiled.  “I’m glad I met you, Tyler Long.  You’re a decent and honest.  You would make a horrible spy.”

“Don’t count me out so quickly, lady.  I can be as cold blooded as the next guy.” 

“Don’t be- it changes a person.” 

She was very pretty, he thought, especially now that her eyes were dancing and he hair had a way of escaping its tight restraints.

The garage was full but as promised Mike made time for the out –of-towner.  She had tried to insist on walking down, but Tyler argued that it was cold and he had to go into town to get milk anyway.  He waited in the hard plastic chairs, watching out of the corner of his eye as she flicked through the Outdoor Life and Motor Trend.  She seemed oddly at home here, and then he remembered the glock she had pulled out of her bag earlier when she was looking for her keys.  She really was something else. 

“Yup, she’s good to go.”  Mike tossed the keys and she caught them, smiling widely.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.  I would have been here for days waiting for the company to send another car.”  Tyler had noticed that in public she didn’t refer to her line of work except through vague terms, but everyone seemed to accept that she must be a high level executive in some large corporation.   Mike smiled back.

“Well, I’m sure Ty here would have taken care of you.  He’s a good guy, you know.”  Tyler cleared his throat,
            “Yup, best be getting home I suppose, you’ll want to pack up before dark so you can hit the road.”  He ignored Mike’s pointed stare as he walked out of the garage and climbed into the truck he had parked across the street. 

She packed quickly and neatly; in the space of fifteen minutes the only trace that there had been another person in the house was a half eaten package of eggs and a bottle of orange juice in the fridge.  Tyler watched her, ignoring the pricking at the back of his throat.  At least for the last forty-eight hours he hadn’t been alone; the prospect of her leaving only made his new solitude seem harsher. 

“You can stay another night if you need.  It’s getting dark out there.”  The words were out of his mouth before he knew that he was thinking them; she flicked the zipper of her bag closed.

“I’m sorry, Tyler.  I have to go save the world and all that-“ she grinned but this time it didn’t meet her eyes. 

“Oh, right.”  They stood there staring at each other for a minute, and then she was walking across the room and her arms were on his shoulders and she was kissing him.  It was a good kiss, he thought later, not too soft and there was a moment right before their lips touched where he was looking right up into her startlingly blue eyes. When they separated, she had a sad little smile on her face.

“You’re a good man, Tyler Long.  I hope you remember that.”  He didn’t ask her to stay again; instead he slung her bag over his shoulder and held the front door for her.   

The car door slammed, and she gave a funny little half wave-nod, and then the dirt crunched under her tires and she was gone.

Inside he found a big black trash-bag and stood in the middle of the living room.  The salmon throw was the first thing into the bag, followed by the decorative pillows and the artistically arranged sticks in their vases.  He didn’t stop until the whole house was purged, and then he stood there panting with five bags of womanly comforts.  He thought briefly of dousing them with kerosene in the front yard, but instead he hauled them into the bed of his truck and covered them with a tarp bound for the goodwill in the morning.

Tonight, the beer tasted sweeter and the house was less empty than it had been in weeks of cohabitation. 

Thirty Seconds to Hell

The worst thing in the world is when you treat me like shit just so other people can see.
For their benefit, I know, you snap and push me down again and again and again.
I am worth more.
I am better off on my own, this I know, and yet even on my own you still have the power to punch the wind out of my stomach and make me run crying for the hills.
I am better than that.
I am know you care(d) about me, and I know you don't always show it, but I am so much better than that.
I am pretty and intelligent and I am worthy of being loved (keep repeating and it will come true.)
Maybe someday I'll really be swept away by someone who is kind and thinks I'm "a goddess" and won't sour towards me in the time that it takes my heart to grow.
Maybe someday.
Not today.

Revenge

The bar-stool is half an inch too high, balancing myself precariously my fingers search blindly through my clutch for what my ex-pastor referred to as my "tar deathsticks." The idea of my pastor seeing me here lifts the corners of my scarlet lips a little, the Eternal Struggle for my Soul is lost amid men with dirty beards and my too-tight faded jeans.
Across the bar, a man with dirty blond hair consults with his friend dressed in a tar splattered orange jumpsuit.  They send surreptitious glances my way; I begin a mental countdown.  Five...he snuffs his half-smoked cigarette out, four...he picks through his wallet for a crumpled bill, three...he downs the rest of his beer, two...he slides off the stool. 
One.
"Hey there, buy you a drink?"  Wait, count to ten Mississippis, then glance slowly up through smoky eyes.
"I'm good, thanks."
"Well shoot, what's a guy gotta do around here to show a lady a good time?"  Forcing a laugh I slide off the stool, knowing full well that when I do I'll be standing an inch too close and be forced to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. Cue the smolder.
"What's a girl gotta do to enjoy a beer in peace."  I've got him, his look of longing betrays him and all the swagger in the world won't save him now.  He moves a hair's breath closer and I let my chest heave a little, knowing that it won't escape his notice.
"Well I know a place with plenty of beer and no strange men to bother your."
"Oh?"  My fingers are closing around my clutch before the words are out of his mouth.
"Come back to my place."

The kitchen is shabby, filled with cheap plastic plates staked neatly in cupboards with no doors.  He sets a beer in front of me and swings the door closed with his hip, I survey my surroundings as I bring the bottle to my lips.
"You been in town long?"  He is eying me, hasn't taken his eyes off me since we walked through the front door.
"No, not really.  Just passing through."  He smiles, nods in what he must think is a comforting manner.
"Girls like you should watch yourself down at Jimmy's, it's a rough crowd."
"Girls like me?"  He is around the counter now, hands reaching to caress my body.
"Pretty little things with no one to watch out for them."  I step back, gripping my clutch in one hand and my beer in the other.
"I can watch out for myself."
He lunges, and pins me against the counter, Struggling my beer crashes to the floor and explodes in a rage of foam and green glass.
"Oh, come on don't fight it, you want this.  You can't walk into a bar dressed like that and not want this-"  His fingers scrabble at my chest, my hair- I lean back and dig my nails in.  I don't see his left arm until it's too late and my face is screaming in pain.
"ENOUGH."  I'm angry now- in three seconds the gun is out of my clutch and with a quiet pop the struggle is over. 

Red mixes with my beer's foam, through his back pocket I can see the led of a cell phone screen light up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- the phone shows a picture of him and a beautiful brunette standing on a sandy beach embracing.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- I flip it open.

"Hi, it's me.  I'm sorry to tell you that you're right, he did take me home.  He won't be laying a hand on you again."

Snapping the phone shut, I am careful to tread on him on my way out the door.

Thurston Classic

I am so happy, I can't even express it in words.
Yes, at night it starts to hurt and I roll over and tuck a stuffed blue dog closer under my chin.  But right now I'm sore exhausted and happy.
Some part of me has re-awakened, I want to giggle and dance in the rain and write sappy wonderful love stories.
Today I'm not going to think or worry about tomorrow, today I am happy and still in love and remembering my once forgotten passion for life.
As one of my favorite literary characters once said, "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it-yet."

Hard Love

Tonight, the man with blond hair and blue eyes is unhappy.  He is staring at my folder instead of looking at me, and this is normal.  He doesn't like to look at me, not for any length of time.  Instead he finds constant reasons to shift around the contents of my file, glance at the guard behind the double pane of glass, or clean his glasses.  Surly, this can't be normal shrink behavior.  I've never been to a therapist before, though in the back of my mind something long ago learned reminds me that this is a psychiatrist, not a therapist.  Or maybe he's both?  Surely the county women's penitentiary doesn't have the budget for both.  They don't even have the budget for proper shoes.

He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers.  Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts?  He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more. 
"Anna.  Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday."  Megan?  My friend?  I suppose.
"Yes?"  He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me. 
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight.  You called her after, didn't you Anna?  Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging.  They heard something hit the wall.  Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me.  I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms.  Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next.  Breath.  In.  Out.  Reply.
"No.  No, I don't want to talk about it."  This was the wrong answer.  He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze.  I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna.  This is going to help you.  I want to help you.  Did you and John argue often?"  If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned.  Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face. 
"No.  We didn't.  He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on.  He likes it ready when he gets home.  I was tired and I forgot and we fought." 
"Did John hit you, Anna?"  This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks.  He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table. 
"No.  John would never hit me.  He loved me.  The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall.  John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive."  The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file.
"All right, I think that's enough for today.  We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready."

After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist.  A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.