Why?
Why do I bother?
What is it?
What is it about him that makes me hang on his words?
He told me to believe.
He asked me to believe.
I want to believe.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, September 26, 2016
Saturday, August 01, 2009
As she greeted and chatted with friends the room momentarily brightened as the light refracted with the opening of the glass door. She looked up and paused, mid-sentence, shock melting her easy smile.
She should have known he would come to support others. But she had thought she was safe. His attendance was not something she had remotely considered as alternative circumstances deemed it highly unlikely. In retrospect she should not have been so careless.
She compelled herself to resume her conversation, which she concluded with slight difficulty, as she surreptitiously watched him settle into a chair. She politely retreated, silently damning herself for her stupidity. There was nothing she could do at this point but that which she was hired. She would remain professional; stifling every muscle which urged her to flee.
The afternoon commenced as scheduled, though she tripped a bit on her opening speech. Simple words were hindered by the flood gate of emotion. She settled in the back and vainly attempted to concentrate on the scenes. She forced her focus to the piece of beige paper attached to the clipboard in front of her. She traced her finger over the swirling logo. Her fingers ached to twirl the tufts of his hair; to trail down his face, caress his cheek. She yearned to smile up at him, to warmly meet his eyes with her truth.
A cue word snapped her out of her imagination. Shame instantly colored her face as realization dawned on the path of her subconscious. The room gently spun as her hearing deafened. She gripped the stand for precious balance, and wholly concentrated on the pattern of her breathing. She was in tentative command by the segue.
Returning to her mark she chastised herself for her mental mirage. Resolve borne of timed weekly dialogue seemed to have dissipated. She struggled, and she was always struggling where he was concerned, to regain stasis. She channeled all her cerebral energy into a review of her program notes. Her organization had instilled confidence in the others and the same was inspiring her calmness now. Normal breathing was no longer a chore.
During the reception she occupied her hands, which kept her thoughts corralled. Finally, the array thinned. She did not have to seek; she sensed his absence.
Invitations were offered and gently declined. Walking to her car, professionalism disintegrated into attempered tears. She would rebuild fortitude tomorrow.
She should have known he would come to support others. But she had thought she was safe. His attendance was not something she had remotely considered as alternative circumstances deemed it highly unlikely. In retrospect she should not have been so careless.
She compelled herself to resume her conversation, which she concluded with slight difficulty, as she surreptitiously watched him settle into a chair. She politely retreated, silently damning herself for her stupidity. There was nothing she could do at this point but that which she was hired. She would remain professional; stifling every muscle which urged her to flee.
The afternoon commenced as scheduled, though she tripped a bit on her opening speech. Simple words were hindered by the flood gate of emotion. She settled in the back and vainly attempted to concentrate on the scenes. She forced her focus to the piece of beige paper attached to the clipboard in front of her. She traced her finger over the swirling logo. Her fingers ached to twirl the tufts of his hair; to trail down his face, caress his cheek. She yearned to smile up at him, to warmly meet his eyes with her truth.
A cue word snapped her out of her imagination. Shame instantly colored her face as realization dawned on the path of her subconscious. The room gently spun as her hearing deafened. She gripped the stand for precious balance, and wholly concentrated on the pattern of her breathing. She was in tentative command by the segue.
Returning to her mark she chastised herself for her mental mirage. Resolve borne of timed weekly dialogue seemed to have dissipated. She struggled, and she was always struggling where he was concerned, to regain stasis. She channeled all her cerebral energy into a review of her program notes. Her organization had instilled confidence in the others and the same was inspiring her calmness now. Normal breathing was no longer a chore.
During the reception she occupied her hands, which kept her thoughts corralled. Finally, the array thinned. She did not have to seek; she sensed his absence.
Invitations were offered and gently declined. Walking to her car, professionalism disintegrated into attempered tears. She would rebuild fortitude tomorrow.
Friday, June 19, 2009
They were lead to a four top table. She quickly scanned the restaurant to see if a booth was available. They had been given the best option. She chose her seat, placing her purse in the chair to her right. Instead of sitting across from her as she intended, he pulled the chair to her left. She started to protest but decided to remain silent. His chosen seat would allow her better cover from his inevitable inquiry.
The waiter introduced himself and asked if they'd been there before. She nodded in affirmation and inwardly sighed at the unintentional irony. They gave their drink orders and were left alone to review the menu. She was not in the least bit hungry. The waiter returned with alcoholic drinks (she needed the courage) and they placed their order.
Filling the silence he asked how she thought the previous hours felt. She admitted she had worked hard, and she smiled because she knew she had nailed it. She was very satisfied with her obvious improvement, and his matching smile told her he was in agreement. She could see the pride registered on his face and in his voice as he talked to the waiter who was setting down full plates.
She could not match his gusto as he dug into his food. Instead, she held her drink in her hands, thankful for the condensation of the glass. She busied herself with clearing the frost. She could hear him chewing.
The pretending she had done earlier had taken a toll on her. She could no longer be anyone but the raw core of herself. She knew he was watching her; knew his question was imminent. As he put down his fork and wiped his mouth with the thick black napkin, she could no longer contain herself. A tear grazed her cheek. Her breath stilled as his voice queried.
She reached for her own napkin as her shoulders started to quake. Cloth napkins do not absorb well, she errantly thought. She dabbed at her eyes, attempting to salvage her mascara, and finally met his gaze.
She caught his slight intake of breath at the conflict and pain marring her face. In his eyes she could see she had confirmed his fear; one he'd expressed within the first month, and again the previous summer. She started crying; burying her face in the impermeable napkin.
His one word response, a man's name, was not a question. Still, she nodded.
He finished his drink in a single gulp, and motioned for the waiter. She struggled to regain control of her frail emotions. He quickly paid the bill and reached for her hand. He did not want to provide further dinner conversation for the other patrons. They walked wordlessly to her car.
She turned to face him in the passenger's seat. She started to apologize and offer up the honesty in her head, but tears erupted again at the sight of his damp eyes. She miserably wondered if there was something seriously wrong with her that she could be the impetus for such grief. A line from a movie, something about shooting horses, flitted in her memory.
He finally spoke, a question posed to her in the present tense. She raised and dropped her shoulders in an answer befitting a teenager. He looked at her, and saw that her confusion was honest, but he knew there was more. Gently he pressed her, vowing to listen with an open heart and mind.
She softly admitted to a lack of a definitive answer. She whispered of many months spent in consistent anguish; crying, pondering, questioning and praying. She was afraid of her possible feelings; terrified she was a textbook example. She spoke of vain attempts to align her heart and her head. Defeated, she again met his eyes. Amid the flashes of anger and hurt she recognized the emotion she felt she was not worthy. Tears sprang anew.
He despised the warring inside her; hated that she was so full of doubt of herself. He wished for her to clearly see! Still, he understood he could not accompany her; this battle was hers alone to fight. There need be only one victor and he whispered his hope that it would be her.
Tears subsided, and she reached her hand toward him. He fit his palm within hers and pushed all his strength through to her. She squeezed back; a gesture that provided both with reassurance. They both knew they would be okay.
The waiter introduced himself and asked if they'd been there before. She nodded in affirmation and inwardly sighed at the unintentional irony. They gave their drink orders and were left alone to review the menu. She was not in the least bit hungry. The waiter returned with alcoholic drinks (she needed the courage) and they placed their order.
Filling the silence he asked how she thought the previous hours felt. She admitted she had worked hard, and she smiled because she knew she had nailed it. She was very satisfied with her obvious improvement, and his matching smile told her he was in agreement. She could see the pride registered on his face and in his voice as he talked to the waiter who was setting down full plates.
She could not match his gusto as he dug into his food. Instead, she held her drink in her hands, thankful for the condensation of the glass. She busied herself with clearing the frost. She could hear him chewing.
The pretending she had done earlier had taken a toll on her. She could no longer be anyone but the raw core of herself. She knew he was watching her; knew his question was imminent. As he put down his fork and wiped his mouth with the thick black napkin, she could no longer contain herself. A tear grazed her cheek. Her breath stilled as his voice queried.
She reached for her own napkin as her shoulders started to quake. Cloth napkins do not absorb well, she errantly thought. She dabbed at her eyes, attempting to salvage her mascara, and finally met his gaze.
She caught his slight intake of breath at the conflict and pain marring her face. In his eyes she could see she had confirmed his fear; one he'd expressed within the first month, and again the previous summer. She started crying; burying her face in the impermeable napkin.
His one word response, a man's name, was not a question. Still, she nodded.
He finished his drink in a single gulp, and motioned for the waiter. She struggled to regain control of her frail emotions. He quickly paid the bill and reached for her hand. He did not want to provide further dinner conversation for the other patrons. They walked wordlessly to her car.
She turned to face him in the passenger's seat. She started to apologize and offer up the honesty in her head, but tears erupted again at the sight of his damp eyes. She miserably wondered if there was something seriously wrong with her that she could be the impetus for such grief. A line from a movie, something about shooting horses, flitted in her memory.
He finally spoke, a question posed to her in the present tense. She raised and dropped her shoulders in an answer befitting a teenager. He looked at her, and saw that her confusion was honest, but he knew there was more. Gently he pressed her, vowing to listen with an open heart and mind.
She softly admitted to a lack of a definitive answer. She whispered of many months spent in consistent anguish; crying, pondering, questioning and praying. She was afraid of her possible feelings; terrified she was a textbook example. She spoke of vain attempts to align her heart and her head. Defeated, she again met his eyes. Amid the flashes of anger and hurt she recognized the emotion she felt she was not worthy. Tears sprang anew.
He despised the warring inside her; hated that she was so full of doubt of herself. He wished for her to clearly see! Still, he understood he could not accompany her; this battle was hers alone to fight. There need be only one victor and he whispered his hope that it would be her.
Tears subsided, and she reached her hand toward him. He fit his palm within hers and pushed all his strength through to her. She squeezed back; a gesture that provided both with reassurance. They both knew they would be okay.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
It was circled in pink ink, this specific June date. Pink to signify a celebration-an indication of life given-though no reminder was really necessary. She was aware of the date, as she had been the previous year, and the year before that, and the 17 years before that.
Over the years, she had developed a ritual. As soon as the monthly calendar was turned, she began increasing her time spent in the greeting card aisles of a myriad of local merchants. She scoured Hallmark cards, American Greeting cards, even Shoebox cards, in a futile search for the one containing the perfect sentiment. It had been so much easier for her when the girl was 3, and 8, and then 13.
She picked up many cards that caught her eye, especially those with the impressively colored embellishments. The poems were always thoughtful, though rather generic, and thus the pretty cards were replaced. She tried to stay away from the relationship specific cards, but she was always drawn to that section. It was the love that threatened to overwhelm, more than biology, that allowed her to consider the special cards. And while the sentiments were more accurate, ultimately she did not feel she was deserving of the defined relationship. Years before she had willingly, and legally, relinquished that right.
She always departed the stores feeling increasingly saddened. She desperately wanted the girl, now a young lady, to know she was thought of on this pink-inked day. Once again, the perfect card was not discovered. And, for yet another year, the mailbox remained empty. For many nights following the circled date, she would escape to a quiet corner and allow the tears their freedom. She felt an absolute failure; she abhorred being the cause of possible disappointment.
Recognizing the importance of shattering the defeating routine, she recently visited the stationery aisle of a well-known department store. She felt a smile playing at her lips with the self-scanning of the items she selected. Hope was blooming.
Over the years, she had developed a ritual. As soon as the monthly calendar was turned, she began increasing her time spent in the greeting card aisles of a myriad of local merchants. She scoured Hallmark cards, American Greeting cards, even Shoebox cards, in a futile search for the one containing the perfect sentiment. It had been so much easier for her when the girl was 3, and 8, and then 13.
She picked up many cards that caught her eye, especially those with the impressively colored embellishments. The poems were always thoughtful, though rather generic, and thus the pretty cards were replaced. She tried to stay away from the relationship specific cards, but she was always drawn to that section. It was the love that threatened to overwhelm, more than biology, that allowed her to consider the special cards. And while the sentiments were more accurate, ultimately she did not feel she was deserving of the defined relationship. Years before she had willingly, and legally, relinquished that right.
She always departed the stores feeling increasingly saddened. She desperately wanted the girl, now a young lady, to know she was thought of on this pink-inked day. Once again, the perfect card was not discovered. And, for yet another year, the mailbox remained empty. For many nights following the circled date, she would escape to a quiet corner and allow the tears their freedom. She felt an absolute failure; she abhorred being the cause of possible disappointment.
Recognizing the importance of shattering the defeating routine, she recently visited the stationery aisle of a well-known department store. She felt a smile playing at her lips with the self-scanning of the items she selected. Hope was blooming.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
My head is full today; too full, I think. Thoughts are running amok and emotions are bouncing off my brain. At times I find it difficult; to remember even to breathe.
I never thought I'd be here again; didn't want to ever be here again. And yet, I am out on the dance floor. I am swaying to the music, hypnotized by the beat and blinded by the lights. I paid to enter this club; I never get in for free.
Slow and sensual, I am alive! There are times when the bass is too much. Reverberating my heart; so close to exploding I feel. It is infectious and dangerous. I am free and possessed.
The music changes, as it always does. I am terrified that I will not, cannot keep up. The crowd is too much; my air is dissipating. I can see the exit, clearly marked. So very close; the neon lights tantalize me. Wish me to remain, and dance uninhibited.
And I cannot forget that I paid to be here. I never get in for free.
I never thought I'd be here again; didn't want to ever be here again. And yet, I am out on the dance floor. I am swaying to the music, hypnotized by the beat and blinded by the lights. I paid to enter this club; I never get in for free.
Slow and sensual, I am alive! There are times when the bass is too much. Reverberating my heart; so close to exploding I feel. It is infectious and dangerous. I am free and possessed.
The music changes, as it always does. I am terrified that I will not, cannot keep up. The crowd is too much; my air is dissipating. I can see the exit, clearly marked. So very close; the neon lights tantalize me. Wish me to remain, and dance uninhibited.
And I cannot forget that I paid to be here. I never get in for free.
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