#226

it made him sound decades older than he was, the aching, tired sigh. maybe he is older, she thought. he has lived so much more than his 34 years on this earth. sandpaper hands, crooked shoulders, sloping scars, testaments to a harsh life and Country.
she lay still, eyes closed, as he pulled their shared blanket over his legs, stomach, up to his chest. his arm draped over the covers, around her waist, and rested lightly, still cold from the night air. the chill seeped through the blanket, but she didn't mind. it reminded her of childhood. of coming in from the winter's cold, peeling back layer after layer until the shirts weren't wet from snow, but from sweat. she would squat by the fire, knees up, pressing her nearly frozen nose to the heat of her chest. it was a safe feeling. a reminder of normalcy; that the cold wouldn't reach her there by the stove, here in her sleep.
briefly, her mind played with the question of whether he ever felt young again, or if he could isolate any happy memory from the all the rest.

#225

a light shone out from the house. this one bluer, more piercing than the glow illuminating the windowsills, the green checkered curtains her mother made from the leftover bolts of fabric cluttering the spare room.
as she turned, the sharpness of the light found her eyes, stinging for a moment, a far too rapid transition.
for a moment it made her feel hazy, concussed, floaty. stifling the little bit of clarity that might allow flight AND fight. it struck through her thoughts of the talking head's public service announcement. his polished hair and calm tone nothing close to the severity of the teleprompter's words.
whoever was holding the flashlight didn't bother to call her name. the figure just moved noiselessly forward, swinging the light side to side. not that she would answer anyway.
she wanted the safety blanket of night, the quiet, the solitude. she wanted to stay lost for just a little longer, that was all.

#224

she practiced her handwriting in junior high study hall, behind the third most popular boy in school. she would scrawl his name slowly, shading every other letter, sketching one eye and then the other, noting the speck of light in the left, the ever-surprised uptick of thick eyebrows. never displaying it to anyone; instead turning in recreations of A+ work from other students in other schools. still in 8th grade, practicing delicate gestures, the self-assured walk of the pretty girls.

reading descriptors of women with french names and subtle beauty. understanding the allure of sponteneity- of the pixie-like, the idiosyncratic, women who are both sexual and childlike.

and here, a month left of her twenties, a chance to show courage. one choice that could alter a life of fiction into reality. a moment that could give her definition.

yes or no. the difference between always becoming and never being.

#224 is not fiction.

"I haven't written a creative word since April ," she thought. "And now, 4 months later, it is still on my mind." That familiar, creeping sensation came that, of all things, her writing would be shuffled along like an old woman, the store is closing now, move along, get outside where we don't have to bother with you anymore. And it would be compliant. Oh, well dear old Writing would say. I wanted to purchase this lovely blouse for my granddaughter. But I'll go along now and not be a bother.
It would be overlooked like so many other pieces of her life.
Consistency.
She sighed. The only consistency seemed to be her ongoing struggle to stay with one passion long enough to mold it into something meaningful.

#223

why had he been in the city that day? how long did he stay?

even with tightly closed eyes, he couldn't remember. those weren't the kinds of details that etched their way intp his mind.
there was a dog, he told them, with a blue and silver collar waiting patiently outside a shop, scruffy and homely, like a well-loved teddy bear. his eyebrows lifted as he tried to think about the shop, wondered aloud if it was a bakery perhaps?

the detective's hand wrapped more tightly around his pen. didn't he remember anything about the area?

there were handwritten signs on the door. each letter was slanted enough for a southpaw's pen to reach all the way around. like you, detective! you know about the Geschwind theory right? that maybe left-handedness isn't really genetic?

detective greer tried to steer him back on track.

on the fifth row of the bus there was obviously some sort of apple perfume; the smell was too candied to be the fruit. i don't think the girl was still there. no, he said, no i don't know which bus line.

did he remember anything important? anything that would be of help?

i remember a lot! he said. everything's important. did you know that non-fiction writers use more semicolons and commas than fiction writers? it's true. because everything is just as important as everything else.

#222

sure it was a little kitschy. polka dot skirt. long, fake extensions for hair and eyes. hair, of course, is the only thing we want thicker on a woman. i'm happy to oblige tonight. in my right hand is a gin and tonic. i'd never had one, but i ordered like an old pro, a little pleased at myself when the bartender gave me an approving nod. it came with ice and a tiny slice of lime and i think if it weren't for booze and guac, limes wouldn't be on anyone's grocery list. it's interesting really, garnering such attention when you're playing a role. being outside of yourself. the freedom in being unrecognizeable. the freedom in adopting a lilting and flirty fake laugh. i worry about the ethics of this particular brand of freedom.

#221

there's a softness to his song that never pervaded our relationship. he sings that he's learned his lesson. that he's heard i'm with someone new. during the bridge, he asks will your new love sing you to sleep at night?

picturing his wide brown eyes closing parentheses around each phrase, his song is undeniably sweet. i know that every girl listening is clutching her radio, falling for him, sighing longingly. i can't blame them. it was so easy. he knows how to make a woman fall in love with a guarded heart.

watching the sunset from the rooftops is so lovely. it was so lovely. our rose-colored dance was only one harmonious evening out of all the nights of shouting and crying. even knowing the truth behind these lyrics, i still find myself feeling sorry for him. for his broken heart.

i've never heard anyone make such a shit excuse for a relationship sound so damn beautiful.