#44

she found it on her bedside table. it looked as if it had been folded over and over. it was not a new note, but she had never seen it before. she cried as she read it, but wasn't sure if it was relief, guilt, or sadness. whatever emotion it was, it took hold of her. she sat very still for a very long time.

"Dear Helen,
you kept teling me to stop. You said if I love you I would stop. You should know that your right. I dont think I can love anything. Maybe god didnt' give me the capabillity of love. I gess you know now that you married the wrong guy. Maybe you can tell the kids I'm in the army now or somthing. I'll find a way to get money to you. I'll try. You know I always tryed.
I dont' think its a diseese like some people say. I just dont' have the will-power. Im not a strong man, but I gess you know that too.
I love you- at least as much as I know how. If there was anything about me that was good, it was you. Thanks for seeing somthing good about me. I dont' think youll see me again unless they stop making booze. but maybe.
take care of youreself.
Jon"

#43

they told her she could say a few words. she didn't have anything written but this didn't catch her off-guard. nothing ever did. emotion wasn't something she awarded herself. not anymore. not for the last, well, not for a long time now.
so she sat in the front row. it was reserved for family members only. only three seats in the whole row were taken.
during the eulogy she scratched some thoughts down on paper. they told her to "say a few words." of course the eulogy was canned. what was there to say about him?
they motioned for her to come to the stage. she looked at her paper.
pretentious, it said.
a sketched clock, a heavy slash drawn through it.
i didn't break my leg falling out of the tree, it said.
nothing was good enough, it said.

she looked at the expectant mourners. most of them were there out of civil duty, respect (for who?), maybe a photo op leaving the funeral home with the mogul's only child.

"everybody has their secrets." she crumpled the sheet. "and my father had his too. you keep your memories of him, whatever they are. every one of you in here had something to gain from him. i don't think a single one of you was ever a true friend." she motioned to the casket, dropping her crumpled paper inside. "this is a man who has died without a single friend at his side. but i guess that's not a secret to any of you."

walking out to the sunshine, her secrets too, were gone.

#42

She'd always been told "a time and a place for everything." and on the less religious end she heard the same sentiment that "all good things must come to an end."
Getting up in the morning was difficult, not because of exhaustion, but because she couldn't bear to let him go, to leave his side, even for a minute.
With trepidation she realized that she was happy. Truly, one hundred percent happy.
With any kind of luck, religion and sentiment would fail.

Thirtythree

As she slowly walked down the dark hallway, she knew which floorboards she could step on, and which ones were off limits. Slinking in a zig-zag, on the rug, off the rug, almost to the staircase. She had made it a little game for herself. Everything's easier when it's a game. At first it was difficult, but she loved her daddy so she wanted him to be able to get better so he needed his rest so she didn't want to floor to creak so loudly when she'd go to get herself a glass of water.

For the last month, the game had been just a game. It wasn't needed, but she did it anyway. When she gets older, she'll know that this was her heart breaking, step by step.

#41

he hadn't been in church since he was 5 years old. and that's the longest he'd ever been in one place.
the sermon was on death.
apparently, church folks found the word "death" in the Bible to be synonymous with "separation."
all the towns, all the women, all the well-meaning community organizers, the support group leaders, the schools of thought, the growing number of everything he consistently separated himself from.
the multiple deaths he brought upon himself.
what a special brand of masochism.

#40

the band played on.
couples danced around him, the foxtrot, the waltz, the samba. wind swept across his face, he could see the flash and shadow of light through closed eyes. once in awhile, a brush on his arm as someone came too close.
slightly upturned lips.
in his mind, he tapped his toe with the beat of the band.
and he held his hands up, fingers wrapped around her imaginary waist, remembering her laughter at a misstep; her awkward movements.
behind him, a request for the dance. he nodded, his eyes still closed. in the middle of the floor, she released the brakes on his chair. he was spinning now. they laughed at the awkward movements.
and they danced.
the band played on.

#39

"every relationship is just an elaborate con."

"that's a cynical way of viewing life."

"think about it. we all have needs. emotional voids, intellectual voids, monetary voids, the desire to feel beautiful, wanted, smarter, faster, stronger. find someone better than you, who needs to feel that they are useful. they're your savior. they will 'make you better' and that's their weakness." he downed a shot of tequila. "or," he paused dramatically, "find someone below you and they will be grateful and give you everything they possibly can. either way, you're both just cons. you're both just getting what you want from the other."

"you don't believe in love?"

"i've lived too long to believe in anything." he stood, and headed toward the restroom, his voice trailing behind him. "everybody's a con man. you'll learn. you, me, that guy, your parents, everybody."

half an hour and one unpaid bill later, he was nowhere to be found.

#38

the manuscript was finished. only a few more things to do. thank you's. always those- mentioning the obligatory God, parents, editors, best friend from first grade.
the next page read this:

"a note on the text:
the views presented by the author in this narrative are not affiliated with the author, nor do they in any way reflect the views held by the author."

the end.

#37

since junior high that's what they told him he was. so that's what he became.
savvy, overconfident, almost arrogant. funny.
he hated being funny.
every time he was introduced to a new "business associate", a new contact for networking, it was his name followed by "and he is so funny! He always has us in stitches."
so he became funny. and charming. and smooth.
he drank rimmed cocktails and worked the room.
and at home, alone finally, he read a depressing book and fell asleep, dreaming of places void of expectation.