Piece me together like a puzzle
A complicated one
Whose pieces you have no choice but to scatter
across the table
Whose beginning must be a corner, sharp and imperfect
Because nothing else makes sense.
Piece me together like a puzzle
Whose hundreds of crooked nooks never
quite fit
Whose coming together is slow and hard
And makes you tear at your hair
Whose bits end up strewn across the floor
Thrown across the room
Lost in the carpet
Until you throw your hands up
in surrender.
Piece me together slowly
Like a puzzle that soon
Soon
Soon
Becomes something beautiful.
23 January 2016
11 January 2016
One Starry Night.
Everything feels like magic when it’s 4 in the morning and you’ve been drinking.
Gabriel hoisted me closer so that my head nestled perfectly between his neck and shoulder. An inky, starry sky stretched over our heads, concrete rooftop pressed into our backs and I closed my eyes. “Are you sure I shouldn’t be getting you home?” he chuckled, nudging me out of my drunken state of near-sleep.
“I’m sure,” I murmured and pressed a kiss to his skin. His scent was familiar and his embrace comforting, the way old ex-boyfriends always feel in the midst of new heartbreak.
“As you wish.”
“You’re being so nice tonight,” I giggled, even though logic told me that nothing funny had been said.
“I am, Lia. I think we both need it.” He brushed his lips to my forehead and pointed up, shifting the thin sheet that covered us. “You can see Pegasus right there.” Gabe’s index finger traced the constellation. It was his favourite and the only one that I could ever pick out, even though he’d always made a point of showing me all the visible ones when we'd done this years ago.
“I see it,” I whispered even though I was staring at his profile - mentally tracing the dim lines of his fuzzy beard, big eyes and smiling mouth. Why his girlfriend had cheated and left him just like that was beyond me. I nuzzled his chest where his similarly broken heart pattered out a steady, quick beat.
“Show me the Big Dipper.”
“Ahhhh...” I flipped onto my back and squinted up. “That one!”
“That’s not even... that’s nothing! You never pay attention!”
“Wait wait wait I can get this right!”
“Too late!”
His fingers dug into my sensitive waist and I burst out laughing, rolling around and tangling my limbs in the sheet while he tickled me and told me off for not listening. Breathless, I managed to hold his hands away from my body, even though I knew he was allowing it. I wasn’t strong enough to hold him off.
Not physically. Not emotionally. Not strong in any way. Not tonight.
The thought made me sob and Gabe’s eyes opened wide. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and I couldn’t stop crying.
“Lia.” He held me close and kissed my lips for a few precious seconds. “You’re okay.”
“No.” I squeezed the tears from my eyes, hiding my face in his chest. “No no no.”
It wasn’t just my recent break up. It was Gabe. It was his kindness and his softness. It was how masculine he was without being intimidating. It was how safe I felt with him - here and now and when we’d been together two years ago.
Maybe it was, too, that we were using each other. That our friendship, repaired and easy, probably wouldn’t survive our mutual rebound. That now, in his arms, kissing him to distract ourselves from loss, I wasn’t sure I’d ever fallen out of love with him.
Or was that just the confused voice of my fragmented heart?
“I should take you home.” He was breathless and I knew he didn’t want to take me home, so I kissed him again, forcing us deeper into each other and out of the clutches of heartache.
It felt like we’d been together for minutes when the sun started to creep up. We were still just kissing when Gabe pulled away by centimetres to say “He’s an idiot.”
“What?” My voice was slurred with lust and wine and a lack of sleep.
“He’s an idiot, Lia.”
I swallowed. “So is she.” Our eyes tunneled paths through each other. “Maybe we kind of are, too,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Maybe.”
Gabriel’s phone vibrating sliced through our trance.
“You should answer it,” I suggested softly.
“I don’t think so.”
But it kept buzzing and even though neither of us checked, we knew who it was.
“It’s... it would have been our anniversary last night,” he said against my temple.
“I know.”
With a harsh, rare “Fuck,” he wrestled the interrupting object from his pocket and I rolled away, physically sick.
Gabriel grabbed after me even while he spoke in low tones but the magic was gone. It had just been one perfect, starry night and it was over. All of it. Over.
End.
Gabriel hoisted me closer so that my head nestled perfectly between his neck and shoulder. An inky, starry sky stretched over our heads, concrete rooftop pressed into our backs and I closed my eyes. “Are you sure I shouldn’t be getting you home?” he chuckled, nudging me out of my drunken state of near-sleep.
“I’m sure,” I murmured and pressed a kiss to his skin. His scent was familiar and his embrace comforting, the way old ex-boyfriends always feel in the midst of new heartbreak.
“As you wish.”
“You’re being so nice tonight,” I giggled, even though logic told me that nothing funny had been said.
“I am, Lia. I think we both need it.” He brushed his lips to my forehead and pointed up, shifting the thin sheet that covered us. “You can see Pegasus right there.” Gabe’s index finger traced the constellation. It was his favourite and the only one that I could ever pick out, even though he’d always made a point of showing me all the visible ones when we'd done this years ago.
“I see it,” I whispered even though I was staring at his profile - mentally tracing the dim lines of his fuzzy beard, big eyes and smiling mouth. Why his girlfriend had cheated and left him just like that was beyond me. I nuzzled his chest where his similarly broken heart pattered out a steady, quick beat.
“Show me the Big Dipper.”
“Ahhhh...” I flipped onto my back and squinted up. “That one!”
“That’s not even... that’s nothing! You never pay attention!”
“Wait wait wait I can get this right!”
“Too late!”
His fingers dug into my sensitive waist and I burst out laughing, rolling around and tangling my limbs in the sheet while he tickled me and told me off for not listening. Breathless, I managed to hold his hands away from my body, even though I knew he was allowing it. I wasn’t strong enough to hold him off.
Not physically. Not emotionally. Not strong in any way. Not tonight.
The thought made me sob and Gabe’s eyes opened wide. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and I couldn’t stop crying.
“Lia.” He held me close and kissed my lips for a few precious seconds. “You’re okay.”
“No.” I squeezed the tears from my eyes, hiding my face in his chest. “No no no.”
It wasn’t just my recent break up. It was Gabe. It was his kindness and his softness. It was how masculine he was without being intimidating. It was how safe I felt with him - here and now and when we’d been together two years ago.
Maybe it was, too, that we were using each other. That our friendship, repaired and easy, probably wouldn’t survive our mutual rebound. That now, in his arms, kissing him to distract ourselves from loss, I wasn’t sure I’d ever fallen out of love with him.
Or was that just the confused voice of my fragmented heart?
“I should take you home.” He was breathless and I knew he didn’t want to take me home, so I kissed him again, forcing us deeper into each other and out of the clutches of heartache.
It felt like we’d been together for minutes when the sun started to creep up. We were still just kissing when Gabe pulled away by centimetres to say “He’s an idiot.”
“What?” My voice was slurred with lust and wine and a lack of sleep.
“He’s an idiot, Lia.”
I swallowed. “So is she.” Our eyes tunneled paths through each other. “Maybe we kind of are, too,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Maybe.”
Gabriel’s phone vibrating sliced through our trance.
“You should answer it,” I suggested softly.
“I don’t think so.”
But it kept buzzing and even though neither of us checked, we knew who it was.
“It’s... it would have been our anniversary last night,” he said against my temple.
“I know.”
With a harsh, rare “Fuck,” he wrestled the interrupting object from his pocket and I rolled away, physically sick.
Gabriel grabbed after me even while he spoke in low tones but the magic was gone. It had just been one perfect, starry night and it was over. All of it. Over.
End.
21 December 2015
Untitled.
A poorly constructed and poorly written poem.
You can break my heart, if you want.
I hand it over freely
over and over again.
You can remind me that the only promise made
was no promise at all.
And that even though it looked and felt special
images lie
and feelings are fleeting.
And things aren't always as they seem,
no matter how much they seem that way.
So you can break my heart, if you want.
You can strip away my veneer
Expose my everything
Devour who I am
And leave.
Why should it matter?
when you were always on your way out.
You can break my heart, if you want.
I hand it over freely
over and over again.
You can remind me that the only promise made
was no promise at all.
And that even though it looked and felt special
images lie
and feelings are fleeting.
And things aren't always as they seem,
no matter how much they seem that way.
So you can break my heart, if you want.
You can strip away my veneer
Expose my everything
Devour who I am
And leave.
Why should it matter?
when you were always on your way out.
6 October 2015
Waiting for Superman.
I get up at 5 in the morning every Saturday. It's January so the sky is pitch black and the air is freezing, but I scrub my face with harsh soap and cold water, brush my teeth and shave. Strong coffee scents flood my apartment and I swallow some of the disgusting stuff before pouring it into a canteen for the weekly, hour-long drive. Wrapping a thick scarf around my neck, I inhale and then shove my way through dirty snow to the car. I started it about 10 minutes ago so inside isn't as bone-chillingly cold as the morning air. Rubbing my tired eyes, I drink more coffee, pat my gloved hands together and wonder why I had to be an author.
Stories never leave me alone. Or at least, I've never been able to control tugging on the possibilities of people who I cross paths with everyday. Seeing kids at the park, their mothers and sometimes fathers, makes me wonder what's going on behind the smiles and laughter. Seeing teenagers holding hands makes me wonder whether they'll cling to first loves and get married and be happy. Seeing old people just sets me off on all sorts of tangents - their families, their pets, their everyday lives, the skeletons in their closets.
What must it be like, to be omniscient? I want to know. So I create stories for them all.
I back slowly out of my short driveway and head away from the city, towards the airport expressway.
The airport is always full of potential characters for the book I'm working on. It's about time travel and romance and war. Can't go wrong with that stuff. Men and women of all ages have been waiting on it since my last book was published. It was about romance and war. I've stepped my game up, obviously, but my characters haven't been working with me. They're lacking. They're not real people. So I've been driving to the airport every weekend for the last 2 months, observing, sometimes chatting, and creating the imperfect personalities that I need to make my book breathe. It's hard work, going around and asking random strangers in a cold, busy airport for their stories, but someone has to do it.
The sunrise is pretty. I always think that I've seen all the shades of greys and yellows and blues that it can possibly offer, but there are new ones every morning and I don't have the words to do them justice. How ironic is that?
I park and walk into the departures lounge. It's a few minutes after 6 and humans buzz around. I nod at the familiar staff and they nod back. Some of them don't trust me and I can't blame them. I'm six and a half feet tall with too much dark, floppy hair, dressed in a black trench coat, drinking coffee and without luggage. And I'm there every weekend. The ones who do trust me are always willing to share, though. They either know my work or read me as weird and harmless. They tell me about their children, their family members, their neighbours. The stories are interesting but there's nothing like watching emotions flash in the eyes of someone telling their own tale.
I stroll around the cold, buzzing terminal. It's loud and busy. People are hugging and laughing and talking and crying and it makes me feel alive.
There's a family saying a tearful goodbye and they make me stop in my tracks. The two sisters are embracing and then one of them, beautiful, I notice, with caramel skin, sad eyes and thick curly hair, hugs her parents. She squeezes them hard and her mother breaks down. I can hear the sobbing from where I stand and I look away, feeling like an intruder. A spy on a moment that should be in private. But I have to look back, because I know that she'll be my character. The father tells her something and she nods. Her fists close and she's shivering. I think it's from her effort to avoid bawling and not from the winter chill in the terminal.
Finally, the family turns to walk away. The young woman follows them as far as she can, waving until they disappear fully into security. She stands there looking lost. Her shoulders shake and I know I have to do something, but I don't know what.
You don't even know her, I chide the Superman inside, but it's no use. I buy a cup of black coffee and grab some cream and sugar packets and walk over to the lost-looking woman. I stand about a foot behind her and watch trembles run through her frame. Her fists open and close and even though she wipes her face and glances from side to side, she doesn't move. Sadness radiates off her in waves.
"Here you go."
She jumps and looks around, eyes wet. Her pupils are big and dark. "I'm sorry?" She sniffles.
I hold the coffee out to her. She glances down at it, then up at me and I wonder if I should have sought out my usual security guard with tales of her cousin. But I'm sure my story needs this girl more. "You look like you could use this."
She sniffles again. "Do I know you?" She looks so... so vulnerable. She wants to take the coffee but good sense stops her. I'm glad. I could be anybody.
"No... I just... I just thought you'd like some coffee."
She swallows and whispers thanks, her voice shaking the way it probably was when her parents and sister were standing in front of her.
The terminal is huge and we end up sitting together in a waiting area. The table is round with two chairs. She looks unsure of the world around her and I'm just one more unfamiliar object. "Thank you," she murmurs again and she even cracks a small smile. My heart skips its next couple beats in the cheesiest way ever. My Superman complex will be the death of me. A crying girl is all it takes.
"My family was visiting for winter vacation." The words tap on the silence between us. "They've been... They were here for two weeks."
Her self-correction alerts me to the fact that she's smart. "You look really close."
She nods. "We are." Another sniffle and she rubs her palms over her puffy, tear-streaked face. "God. Who are you?"
I can't help but laugh and thankfully she joins in rather than escaping. "My name's William. I'm an author. The airport inspires me."
She raises an eyebrow. "Am I gonna end up in your next book?"
"You just might," I smile back. She giggles and I record it mentally - high pitched, a little immature for her age, but endearing. "I promise to send you a free copy if you tell me your story."
"How do I even know you're any good?" she accuses playfully.
"Google me. William Taylor."
She does and her eyes pop open. She looks between me and her smart phone for a few seconds. "Wow. I actually didn't like your book."
I laugh out loud and watch as the rest of her he-could-be-a-crazy-white-guy worries fall from her shoulders. Her body relaxes totally and I get her a second coffee and we talk for another hour. Her name is Sarah James. She's a grad student, working part time, single, heart-broken and sworn off men until "the one" comes along.
"How will you know him?"
She tips her head to the left - she's done it a number of times and it always makes her curls drop over her shoulder in a distracting way. "I'll know. I think he'll know, too." She drinks coffee. "I think our eyes will meet randomly, and he'll come over and say 'where have you been?' or something."
We laugh but for some reason, her answer makes me warm. I get her a third and a fourth coffee and then I offer to drive her home. In my car, we're quiet and I figure Sarah is seriously questioning her judgement. I don't blame her.
"So do you always do this? Buy coffee for crying girls and then take them home?"
I chuckle and turn where she indicates. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't happen once or twice, but generally no." I pause. "When I saw you and your family, I didn't see anyone else."
She's quiet and after that she only gives me directions. We get to her apartment. The building is ten storeys high with snow-covered balconies jutting out everywhere. The parking lot is mostly empty, which makes sense since we're in the middle of the city. She lives in a decent area, fairly close to her university and the snowy streets are busy with young adults. I wonder what they're doing - are they drunk, hungover, depressed? Are they wondering what to do after graduation? Are they broke or spoiled or... just lost?
Aren't we all a little lost?
"Do you want to come up?" Sarah's quiet question cushions my return to the present. Her eyes are glued to the dashboard.
"Yeah."
So I do. In her apartment - small and clean, the sofa bed that she and her sister were sharing still folded out - we stand awkwardly in the doorway.
"I don't usually invite up random men who buy me airport coffee," she says, quiet and doubting herself. "But I'm so lonely. Listen to this place. It's so quiet." Her shoulders tremble. "I'm the only one here."
"Not today." I bend down and we kiss and somehow it's perfect. I pick her up off the floor but her coat makes her slip back down and we burst out laughing. "Not my best moment," I admit.
She's still giggling like crazy and I'm not sure, but I may be falling for Sarah James. We make love and take a shower and watch terrible sitcoms while the snow whitewashes the world outside.
"There's no way these are better than my book," I fish, nudging her in the side. Sarah laughs and I don't want to go another day without hearing it.
"Not all of them, I'll give you that. But it was pretty cheesy. I think you know it too!"
"Why do you think that?"
"You're smart." She smiles up at me, frizzy ringlets bouncing around her face. "I think you know what lonely little women want to read about, and you write that."
"You don't think I write what I really want to write about?"
"I..." She trails off and thinks about it. "I think you do. But I dunno. You don't seem terribly romantic."
"My book was that romantic?"
"Terribly, and you know that!" We laugh but go quiet and thoughtful. "So what's your new book about?" I groan. "Now I have to know!"
I tell her that it's the first one, but with time travel and Sarah laughs so hard that she slides off the couch and onto my feet. I laugh too and roll her onto the carpet. She lies there, tears streaking her cheeks, hair fanned around her and I slide down and kiss her for a long time.
It's late when she walks me to my car. With just a coat on over her pajamas, she's shivering and flushed from the drop in temperature and our... well, from our day together. "I'll bring lunch tomorrow?" I feel like a teenage boy, and then realize that we don't even know each others' ages. I take some comfort in the fact that she's a grad student. It can't be that bad. Definitely same decade. Right?
Sarah smiles. We didn't actually mention tomorrow until now, and I can see her thinking about it. "Sure. Let me know what's on the menu."
"If you give me your number, I will." We exchange numbers and then stand in the cold, snowy parking lot. "Go on inside. Do your homework or something." We laugh and I lean down and we kiss again. I watch her disappear back into her building and I wonder, when she gets back upstairs, whether she'll replay the whole day and hate herself. Will she hold her shoulders and cry over how alone she feels, now that her family has left and the random author she just slept with has gone home? Is she sliding down to the floor right now, waiting for Superman? For me?
She looks down from her balcony and waves. I wave back and drive away and I wonder where the heck she's been.
End.
Stories never leave me alone. Or at least, I've never been able to control tugging on the possibilities of people who I cross paths with everyday. Seeing kids at the park, their mothers and sometimes fathers, makes me wonder what's going on behind the smiles and laughter. Seeing teenagers holding hands makes me wonder whether they'll cling to first loves and get married and be happy. Seeing old people just sets me off on all sorts of tangents - their families, their pets, their everyday lives, the skeletons in their closets.
What must it be like, to be omniscient? I want to know. So I create stories for them all.
I back slowly out of my short driveway and head away from the city, towards the airport expressway.
The airport is always full of potential characters for the book I'm working on. It's about time travel and romance and war. Can't go wrong with that stuff. Men and women of all ages have been waiting on it since my last book was published. It was about romance and war. I've stepped my game up, obviously, but my characters haven't been working with me. They're lacking. They're not real people. So I've been driving to the airport every weekend for the last 2 months, observing, sometimes chatting, and creating the imperfect personalities that I need to make my book breathe. It's hard work, going around and asking random strangers in a cold, busy airport for their stories, but someone has to do it.
The sunrise is pretty. I always think that I've seen all the shades of greys and yellows and blues that it can possibly offer, but there are new ones every morning and I don't have the words to do them justice. How ironic is that?
I park and walk into the departures lounge. It's a few minutes after 6 and humans buzz around. I nod at the familiar staff and they nod back. Some of them don't trust me and I can't blame them. I'm six and a half feet tall with too much dark, floppy hair, dressed in a black trench coat, drinking coffee and without luggage. And I'm there every weekend. The ones who do trust me are always willing to share, though. They either know my work or read me as weird and harmless. They tell me about their children, their family members, their neighbours. The stories are interesting but there's nothing like watching emotions flash in the eyes of someone telling their own tale.
I stroll around the cold, buzzing terminal. It's loud and busy. People are hugging and laughing and talking and crying and it makes me feel alive.
There's a family saying a tearful goodbye and they make me stop in my tracks. The two sisters are embracing and then one of them, beautiful, I notice, with caramel skin, sad eyes and thick curly hair, hugs her parents. She squeezes them hard and her mother breaks down. I can hear the sobbing from where I stand and I look away, feeling like an intruder. A spy on a moment that should be in private. But I have to look back, because I know that she'll be my character. The father tells her something and she nods. Her fists close and she's shivering. I think it's from her effort to avoid bawling and not from the winter chill in the terminal.
Finally, the family turns to walk away. The young woman follows them as far as she can, waving until they disappear fully into security. She stands there looking lost. Her shoulders shake and I know I have to do something, but I don't know what.
You don't even know her, I chide the Superman inside, but it's no use. I buy a cup of black coffee and grab some cream and sugar packets and walk over to the lost-looking woman. I stand about a foot behind her and watch trembles run through her frame. Her fists open and close and even though she wipes her face and glances from side to side, she doesn't move. Sadness radiates off her in waves.
"Here you go."
She jumps and looks around, eyes wet. Her pupils are big and dark. "I'm sorry?" She sniffles.
I hold the coffee out to her. She glances down at it, then up at me and I wonder if I should have sought out my usual security guard with tales of her cousin. But I'm sure my story needs this girl more. "You look like you could use this."
She sniffles again. "Do I know you?" She looks so... so vulnerable. She wants to take the coffee but good sense stops her. I'm glad. I could be anybody.
"No... I just... I just thought you'd like some coffee."
She swallows and whispers thanks, her voice shaking the way it probably was when her parents and sister were standing in front of her.
The terminal is huge and we end up sitting together in a waiting area. The table is round with two chairs. She looks unsure of the world around her and I'm just one more unfamiliar object. "Thank you," she murmurs again and she even cracks a small smile. My heart skips its next couple beats in the cheesiest way ever. My Superman complex will be the death of me. A crying girl is all it takes.
"My family was visiting for winter vacation." The words tap on the silence between us. "They've been... They were here for two weeks."
Her self-correction alerts me to the fact that she's smart. "You look really close."
She nods. "We are." Another sniffle and she rubs her palms over her puffy, tear-streaked face. "God. Who are you?"
I can't help but laugh and thankfully she joins in rather than escaping. "My name's William. I'm an author. The airport inspires me."
She raises an eyebrow. "Am I gonna end up in your next book?"
"You just might," I smile back. She giggles and I record it mentally - high pitched, a little immature for her age, but endearing. "I promise to send you a free copy if you tell me your story."
"How do I even know you're any good?" she accuses playfully.
"Google me. William Taylor."
She does and her eyes pop open. She looks between me and her smart phone for a few seconds. "Wow. I actually didn't like your book."
I laugh out loud and watch as the rest of her he-could-be-a-crazy-white-guy worries fall from her shoulders. Her body relaxes totally and I get her a second coffee and we talk for another hour. Her name is Sarah James. She's a grad student, working part time, single, heart-broken and sworn off men until "the one" comes along.
"How will you know him?"
She tips her head to the left - she's done it a number of times and it always makes her curls drop over her shoulder in a distracting way. "I'll know. I think he'll know, too." She drinks coffee. "I think our eyes will meet randomly, and he'll come over and say 'where have you been?' or something."
We laugh but for some reason, her answer makes me warm. I get her a third and a fourth coffee and then I offer to drive her home. In my car, we're quiet and I figure Sarah is seriously questioning her judgement. I don't blame her.
"So do you always do this? Buy coffee for crying girls and then take them home?"
I chuckle and turn where she indicates. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't happen once or twice, but generally no." I pause. "When I saw you and your family, I didn't see anyone else."
She's quiet and after that she only gives me directions. We get to her apartment. The building is ten storeys high with snow-covered balconies jutting out everywhere. The parking lot is mostly empty, which makes sense since we're in the middle of the city. She lives in a decent area, fairly close to her university and the snowy streets are busy with young adults. I wonder what they're doing - are they drunk, hungover, depressed? Are they wondering what to do after graduation? Are they broke or spoiled or... just lost?
Aren't we all a little lost?
"Do you want to come up?" Sarah's quiet question cushions my return to the present. Her eyes are glued to the dashboard.
"Yeah."
So I do. In her apartment - small and clean, the sofa bed that she and her sister were sharing still folded out - we stand awkwardly in the doorway.
"I don't usually invite up random men who buy me airport coffee," she says, quiet and doubting herself. "But I'm so lonely. Listen to this place. It's so quiet." Her shoulders tremble. "I'm the only one here."
"Not today." I bend down and we kiss and somehow it's perfect. I pick her up off the floor but her coat makes her slip back down and we burst out laughing. "Not my best moment," I admit.
She's still giggling like crazy and I'm not sure, but I may be falling for Sarah James. We make love and take a shower and watch terrible sitcoms while the snow whitewashes the world outside.
"There's no way these are better than my book," I fish, nudging her in the side. Sarah laughs and I don't want to go another day without hearing it.
"Not all of them, I'll give you that. But it was pretty cheesy. I think you know it too!"
"Why do you think that?"
"You're smart." She smiles up at me, frizzy ringlets bouncing around her face. "I think you know what lonely little women want to read about, and you write that."
"You don't think I write what I really want to write about?"
"I..." She trails off and thinks about it. "I think you do. But I dunno. You don't seem terribly romantic."
"My book was that romantic?"
"Terribly, and you know that!" We laugh but go quiet and thoughtful. "So what's your new book about?" I groan. "Now I have to know!"
I tell her that it's the first one, but with time travel and Sarah laughs so hard that she slides off the couch and onto my feet. I laugh too and roll her onto the carpet. She lies there, tears streaking her cheeks, hair fanned around her and I slide down and kiss her for a long time.
It's late when she walks me to my car. With just a coat on over her pajamas, she's shivering and flushed from the drop in temperature and our... well, from our day together. "I'll bring lunch tomorrow?" I feel like a teenage boy, and then realize that we don't even know each others' ages. I take some comfort in the fact that she's a grad student. It can't be that bad. Definitely same decade. Right?
Sarah smiles. We didn't actually mention tomorrow until now, and I can see her thinking about it. "Sure. Let me know what's on the menu."
"If you give me your number, I will." We exchange numbers and then stand in the cold, snowy parking lot. "Go on inside. Do your homework or something." We laugh and I lean down and we kiss again. I watch her disappear back into her building and I wonder, when she gets back upstairs, whether she'll replay the whole day and hate herself. Will she hold her shoulders and cry over how alone she feels, now that her family has left and the random author she just slept with has gone home? Is she sliding down to the floor right now, waiting for Superman? For me?
She looks down from her balcony and waves. I wave back and drive away and I wonder where the heck she's been.
End.
5 September 2015
9:00 A.M.
My eyes jumped between my computer screen and desk phone for the hundredth time. It was 8:58 in the morning. I'd been at work for half an hour but hadn't done a thing, with my hands shaking, palms sweating and feet tapping uncontrollably. The phone was going to ring. I could all but feel the electricity shooting through the lines on its way to connect me with the mysterious caller.
"Good morning, Lainey."
I jumped a little and my eyes darted up to Shane. He smiled but it fell away quickly and he took two steps across the floor to my desk. He wasn't particularly nearby but his stride was strong and swallowed the ground in much the same way his strong personality swallowed me whole every single day. "M-morning," I stuttered and dragged my hands over my pants.
"Is it still happening?" he asked. Raw concern focused his hazel eyes on my face and his deep voice dropped to a near-whisper.
I started to nod but my line rang. I didn't have to glance down to know that there was no caller information. The calls were never routed through the receptionist. The caller never left a message. Even basic tracing devices that Shane had tried out couldn't place it.
The phone rang again and I wanted to cry. I was such an idiot. How could I ever have thought that this would remain a secret?
Shane grabbed up the receiver. "Good morning." His eyes narrowed and he turned away but I still heard his next mutter. "Who the hell is this?" He paused. I smiled and tapped away at my keyboard when another co-worker walked pass. I served as secretary and receptionist to Shane and two other important men, so my work space was in the open.
Not that there was anything "out in the open" about my and Shane's relationship.
"Stop calling this office or I will have you found and exposed."
It struck me that Shane was the one who should worry about being exposed, but I didn't mention it. He turned around to place the receiver on its holder with practiced control, though the tight grip on the phone betrayed his anger. Even so, with his brow furrowed, eyes dark and lips pulled tight, he made my heart speed up pleasantly. "Maybe you should take the rest of the week off."
I shook my head with a calm that I certainly didn't feel. "That won't help anything."
"It would make me feel better to -"
"To not see your shame taking notes in your meetings?" The quiet words fell on thin ice between us. His gaze searched mine and Shane turned away. He headed towards his office, wedding band winking at me in the fluorescent lights. The door clicked into place and I sighed and glanced at my clock. Five minutes after nine. Maybe I could get some work done.
End.
"Good morning, Lainey."
I jumped a little and my eyes darted up to Shane. He smiled but it fell away quickly and he took two steps across the floor to my desk. He wasn't particularly nearby but his stride was strong and swallowed the ground in much the same way his strong personality swallowed me whole every single day. "M-morning," I stuttered and dragged my hands over my pants.
"Is it still happening?" he asked. Raw concern focused his hazel eyes on my face and his deep voice dropped to a near-whisper.
I started to nod but my line rang. I didn't have to glance down to know that there was no caller information. The calls were never routed through the receptionist. The caller never left a message. Even basic tracing devices that Shane had tried out couldn't place it.
The phone rang again and I wanted to cry. I was such an idiot. How could I ever have thought that this would remain a secret?
Shane grabbed up the receiver. "Good morning." His eyes narrowed and he turned away but I still heard his next mutter. "Who the hell is this?" He paused. I smiled and tapped away at my keyboard when another co-worker walked pass. I served as secretary and receptionist to Shane and two other important men, so my work space was in the open.
Not that there was anything "out in the open" about my and Shane's relationship.
"Stop calling this office or I will have you found and exposed."
It struck me that Shane was the one who should worry about being exposed, but I didn't mention it. He turned around to place the receiver on its holder with practiced control, though the tight grip on the phone betrayed his anger. Even so, with his brow furrowed, eyes dark and lips pulled tight, he made my heart speed up pleasantly. "Maybe you should take the rest of the week off."
I shook my head with a calm that I certainly didn't feel. "That won't help anything."
"It would make me feel better to -"
"To not see your shame taking notes in your meetings?" The quiet words fell on thin ice between us. His gaze searched mine and Shane turned away. He headed towards his office, wedding band winking at me in the fluorescent lights. The door clicked into place and I sighed and glanced at my clock. Five minutes after nine. Maybe I could get some work done.
End.
12 August 2015
Marionette.
Pretty little doll
Dangling from one too many strings
Has been tugged up and down
And dragged across one too many stages
One too many times.
A few chips and scratches, she owns
Hastily covered by expensive paints
But that's all paint does.. covers.
Charming little doll
Not too delicate looking
Made from strong materials
But even those wear down with time
And with the wrong attention.
Her glass eyes are just a little cloudy
Her joints are so loose now
Not even the puppeteer has much control anymore.
She's cherished, but utterly useless
Only a sense of duty saves her from the trash
Perhaps this is not such a happy thing..?
Dear, dear doll...
How sad she would be
If she but had feelings to feel.
Dangling from one too many strings
Has been tugged up and down
And dragged across one too many stages
One too many times.
A few chips and scratches, she owns
Hastily covered by expensive paints
But that's all paint does.. covers.
Charming little doll
Not too delicate looking
Made from strong materials
But even those wear down with time
And with the wrong attention.
Her glass eyes are just a little cloudy
Her joints are so loose now
Not even the puppeteer has much control anymore.
She's cherished, but utterly useless
Only a sense of duty saves her from the trash
Perhaps this is not such a happy thing..?
Dear, dear doll...
How sad she would be
If she but had feelings to feel.
28 July 2015
A quick note on characters.
So I tend to have a few of the same people appearing in my stories, particularly Sadie Prince, Chris Mendel and Mason Michaelson. But why?
I wish I could tell you. I created them for Drive (http://goo.gl/lQMWXC), then used older versions of them in a longer (hopefully) novel-to-be piece and they have stuck. I guess each of them represents pieces of me and of my very close friends. Of all the characters I create, I know them. I know how to write on their behalf. Is this something that all artists face? - painters with subjects, people developing for story-heavy games and other writers?
This can't just be me -___- lol.
I know that as a writer, aiming to publish one day, I need to explore other characters. I'm definitely working on that (as seen in Mistake (http://goo.gl/9pVY6l)). Bear with me and thank you for reading!
I wish I could tell you. I created them for Drive (http://goo.gl/lQMWXC), then used older versions of them in a longer (hopefully) novel-to-be piece and they have stuck. I guess each of them represents pieces of me and of my very close friends. Of all the characters I create, I know them. I know how to write on their behalf. Is this something that all artists face? - painters with subjects, people developing for story-heavy games and other writers?
This can't just be me -___- lol.
I know that as a writer, aiming to publish one day, I need to explore other characters. I'm definitely working on that (as seen in Mistake (http://goo.gl/9pVY6l)). Bear with me and thank you for reading!
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