#220

it's not really what anybody means when they say they want to be special. or one in a million. how about one in 8 million? i'm well-known know in my little circle, but it's a pretty small space.
speaking of circles, they are permanently under my eyes, drawn on my torso, and talked in every appointment.

i get to be a mystery. looked at, photographed, marveled over!

but i have more needle marks on my arm than a heroin addict and i'm particularly eloquent with medical terminology that people my age should never even know.

i'm one of the lucky few who get to say "hey, bet you've never seen this before!" and have it actually be true.

#219

it wasn't the effort that mattered to her.

it's hard to woo a woman who always wins. there. now you know the end of the story. that's what you want to know, right? the end? the world doesn't offer enough time to fill in all the blanks, the attention span to sift through the details.
details like a letter containing words like sunrise, loyalty, and fervent. details like the way her coat held her hand more than i did. or like the evenings i'd drive by her house with a rose, with tickets to a show, with her favorite coffee... and her car was gone. oh, i just stayed in last night.

it wasn't perfect. i was only usually on time, not always. not every restaurant served up their best food. the money was good, but my job was not.

next time, i'll go for a girl who tries hard, but often fails.

#218

the cover sprang out from the shelf, a mix of brick red and burnt adobe orange and some sort of weathered fencepost brown. that picture was so familiar, but here it was glossy, the colors set to bleed off the page, and i thought of how the edges must be lying in a dump somewhere, pieces of a puzzle and i'm holding the whole answer in my hands.
your name looks good in print.
your name... you changed the spelling but not the word. the back cover shows that your hair is different than i remember. longer. trendier.
i buy it. it wasn't in the memoir section, but i hope to find myself inside.

#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.

#216

the bar was full, except the one drink she wanted, so she ordered a name she heard him drop earlier. looking at the bottle, maybe she pronounced it wrong? at first sip it wasn't great, but he pointed to the bottle and gave it a thumbs up, so she kept raising it to her lips intermittently, usually when he was turned towards her, and this wasn't her.
thick mist spewed from a machine and covered the floor and the speakers were so loud and she wondered what it would be like if the fog and music were too thick to walk through, like running in sand or mud or the kind of wind that races across Illinois plains.
he looked older and angrier outside of the stage light, and the singer started playing a song she didn't even write.

#215

i've tried about everything just to feel something for a single moment. everything's so fast now, and in your face. we're supposed to buy buy buy, because hell, what else are we going to do with our lives? can't be uncomfortable. or inconvenienced. we socialize behind our computers, at best, more likely a phone. can't stand to feel texture under our fingers, get a papercut. who gets a papercut anymore? and if we do, we're gonna sue Mead, dammit.
all the time i spent chasing new highs- money, skydiving, fast cars, the women (can't remember the details of a single one) didn't do a thing for me. just left me here with a whiskey voice, smoker's lungs and a bad back. i never offered anyone any real kindness or hope. never did anything for anybody but myself. and for all the moments i spent enjoying the moment, i could have put them all together and had something left over. a soul, maybe.

#214

the digital clock read-out was broken, but the still-blackened windows and frosted grass told me what i already knew. for a moment i cursed myself for forgetting my staff key, then found the door to the commons area already open.
he didn't look surprised to see me, and he pointed a rough hand towards the tea kettle. still hot.
i breathed in cinnamon and cardamom, faint ginger root. "couldn't sleep?" and it was more of an explanation than a question. immediately i knew it wasn't needed. crossing my legs in the chair, i pulled a worn blanket around my shoulders.
cupping a brown clay teacup with both hands, he opened his eyes to meet my gaze. i felt suddenly comforted, less awkward, simplistic.

"even the night time is beautiful. we mustn't always sleep through it."
the words soaked into the walls, like lacquer into weathered wood.