#217

i got home after reading her story aloud to a room full of strangers. i changed only the last paragraph. she wasn't there to hear, i knew she wouldn't be, and when i got home i was in the kind of haze that people describe after having just one glass of wine past buzzed. you don't have to drink to get it. for me, it was that 3am feeling, when you know you should be sleeping or at least trying to sleep, but you're not. it's late. past the time that stray cats fight in the street. later than the local taco bell is open. it's too late even for the "shake-it-weight" commercials with the steroid popping, airbrushed-abs models.
in this kind of haze i feel more honest, consequentially more vulnerable. i want to call someone, but everyone's asleep or with someone else. i wonder which is true for her.
this is the kind of honest that doesn't come to me easily, the kind of happy-scared-where-is-my-life-headed that social constraints and long developed emotional inhibitions usually supresses.
most people say it's nothing that daylight or a cigarette can't handle. but daylight is waning faster these days and for once in my adult life i'd like to breathe the free air.
i watched her read it to a room full of strangers; i hid in the shadows of the back door. the audience was hushed and tearful and beautifully heartbroken when she finished.
tonight i read her story. the audience was left hushed and hopeful and warm. i only changed one paragraph. i only changed the ending.