It's a fullness, you know? A fullness that starts near the back of my throat and ends up all the way in my toes.
I've lived this life for so long, straddled the line between decency and complete fucking depravity, that it hardly registers anymore.
I hear the knocking on the door, loud, impatient. It's not Tony's hand, that much I know. This sound is big, just as I'm sure the man behind the door will be; you can tell everything you need to know from the way someone announces them-self.
I throw on the black slip, take one last swig of gin, and open the door.
He eyes me, up and down. He's sizing me up, wondering "Is she worth this money?".
The answer, always, is yes.
He's a large man, just as I suspected, with wide-set dark eyes and graying hair. He seems kind enough, there's no mean behind his stare.
No words are exchanged. I motion to the table, and he drops the money on the elephant-shaped dish my mother bought me when I was 13. He unzips, sits on the bed, and becomes shy. This usually happens with the guys who carry some extra weight. I never tell them I prefer it that way.
Outside of the room a bird is calling to her mate. A basketball is bouncing maybe three rooms down. Inside it's only us, grunts and moans, wetness and satiation. He can't look me in the eye, but he has no trouble grabbing on to the back of my head, pushing me further, just as I like it.
Release. Release and catching of breath and staring at the ceiling.
I should be ashamed. I'm not.
I should hate myself. I don't.
I get just as much out of it as they do, enjoy the power. I enjoy the way they beg, the way they force.
I need them to want to me.
I need to make them happy.
He stands up, cleans off, and heads to the door.
He turns the knob, stops, and looks at me.
"Thanks" he says, with a quiet tone.
The fullness inside, it's there again, and I lay back to enjoy the fleeting moment.
"
I can't even shout up to him, I can hear him, but there's no way he'd hear me with all of this shit rushing past between us. This is all my fault, I shouldn't have traded shifts, I knew I wasn't ready for the night raid, and yet, I wanted to be there when Doreen had the babies. Stupid, stupid stupid!
The smell... oh, the foul stench these creatures create. It should have been simple, all I needed was to watch, to keep track of how often they came in, to see the best way to bring our troops in. And yet, here I am, swimming for my life.
"Stay der, Pauly, I'm gonna git the guys, we'll be right der!" Banky's gruff voice can be heard over the grumbles from the creature, the sound of the falling missiles. I try with all my strength to leave, but even as I get myself out of the water, the opening is blocked, and there's nothing I can do.
A light. A bright light, oh thank god the opening is unsealed. The creature has gotten up, and he's... oh god. No! NO!! What about the kids? Doreen? Nooo!!!
The creature pushes a lever, and all of a sudden WOOSH! The water begins to swirl, I fight against it with all my strength, missiles hitting me in the face as they dance around with me. I flap my wings, but the water is too heavy. I'm being sucked down... faster, darker... I hold my breath and close my eyes, and feel myself slipping away...
***
"DAD!!! Ew!! Come quick, there's flys all over the toilet!!!!"
_________________
This was an intersection week. My partner's entry is here: http://dslartoo.livejournal.com/323254.html. His topic was "closer". Please take a look at his as well!
This is supposed to be awkward, right? I’m not sure, as I haven’t gone on many dates myself. From the look of it, he hasn’t either. The Jim who is in the car with me now is not the same Jim who jokes around with me in Chemistry class. He seems serious tonight, or at least he’s attempting to be serious and gentlemanly. It’s coming off as sheer nervousness.
“It’s pretty cold tonight,” he says as we drive down the backroad slowly. He was right, it had been rather winterly the past week and even now there was a very faint coating of snow on the road. He drove cautiously, though just looking at him I could tell that all his concentration wasn’t on the road. I would’ve laughed except I was afraid that it might make him even more nervous.
“We don’t have to go out tonight, you know?” I offered. “It’s supposed to be warmer next week. Maybe the roads will look better and…”
“It’s alright,” he said. He looked at me as he did so, smiling a very fake smile. I could tell that pretending to be a stoic boy on a date was pretty tough, especially when driving in weather like this. Was this his first date? I couldn’t imagine him on a date with anyone else as I had practically been the one to initiate this one.
His eyes went back to the road, but there was a new expression in his face – fear. At first I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on, but then I realized that the car wasn’t exactly driving straight down the road. We seemed to be slowly, but surely, drifting off the road. He was trying hard to correct the steering, but it was no use. We caught a patch of ice or snow and we were no longer in control of the car. I had no choice but to watch as we slowly made our way off the road, over the icy shoulder, and into a tree, head first.
For a moment, neither of us did or said anything. The car seemed to be running still, and we barely hit the tree with any force. But still, Jm just ran us into a tree!
“Are you okay?” he asked. I nodded. He didn’t say another word, nor did he turn off the car. Instead he slowly got out and walked to the front of the car. Through the front windshield I could see him looking at the front of the car. His expression never changed. Even now he was trying to be as stoic as ever, even though I knew he had to be freaking out inside.
Finally, he got back into the car, closed the door and simply put the car in reverse, pulling away from the tree. We were back on the road and the car was in drive again. He had yet to say anything.
“Is your car okay?” I asked?
“Oh,” he said with another fake smile, as if the very concept of me asking that question was something he had never anticipated. “Yeah, it’s fine.” He went back to concentrating on the road again, as stoic as ever and without another word about our near disaster.
Dates probably shouldn’t be this awkward, I thought. They probably shouldn’t involve head-on collisions with trees, either. I was looking ahead to the future, long after this date was over, when I could joke about tonight with Jim in between taking Chemistry notes.
You loved me, once. It was a love so nuclear we burst from the heat of it. It takes too much energy to keep a love like that alive, and we carry the burns from it still. Burns, yet also a warmth that surrounds me in the rare moments I allow myself to reminisce.
It was warmer than expected as I made my way out of the store and back to the apartment you've never seen. Frankie was there, naked ass sticking to the couch as he snored loudly. His scent, not as familiar yet, but sweeter than yours ever was. We don't talk about our pasts, he and I. Our lives spent in the present, talks of the future. I love him, that I don't question. It's a different love, a slow burn. It's a passion that is allowed to mellow, a build up to forever. He loves me too, calls me his Angel.
I miss you, sometimes. I miss the heat. But as I watch him sleep, I realize this is where I belong. My heart, and my naked ass right along side his on the couch.
She was born with a puff of orange hair and wild eyes. I knew she would be someone magical, someone who forged her own path through life. “Poppy. Her name is Poppy” I said to the nurses as they cleaned her off.
Her cries were deep-rooted; they came from the depths of her, and they came often. I was able, always, to soothe her, to meet each need as it arose. She was everything I was not – strong where I was weak, light and orange where I was dark and brown. She screamed for what she wanted, I sunk into the background. As she grew, it seemed all that I disliked in me became opposite within her.
As she aged, I allowed her to make her mistakes, watched as she flitted from idea to idea, boy to boy, breaking hearts and leaving all those around her speechless. She was a beautiful child, and that beauty grew into something altogether mysterious as she aged. I loved to look at her, to stare into her bright green eyes for hours on end.
At 22 she left home, set off on adventures I could never allow myself to imagine. My wild child, smart and brassy, full of bravado and sass. Postcards came often, every truck stop, every gift shop. She was independent, yet she loved me as deeply as I her. These postcards became the highlight of dull weeks, each story became a film in my mind. Stories of parties where she danced around in tulle, stories of hikes through darkened woods.
She continued this way, exploring and learning, for years. She didn’t visit home again until she was 30, older and slightly more calm. As she floated through the door, bags dropping around her, I couldn’t contain my happiness, my joy. I drunk in her scent, held her like a child once again. This woman, this piece of me, finally back home where she belonged.
We’d stay up late, her telling me of Paulo, and Olli, Henrich and Gustav. Men with exotic names that she met on untamed beaches. I’d drink in each story, bask in the warmth she created. I felt the sand at my toes and the ocean at my back. I craved adventure too, but fear and doubt kept me locked in my little town, in my little house.
I turned 65 this year, my daughter threw me a party full of cream cakes and umbrella drinks. I longed for something I couldn’t express, until the moment she handed me my gift. A beautiful wooden box, the color of strawberries, thin and light. There was a carving on the front, two women, one older, staring past flowers. Inside, a card that said simply “Drink up life. Drink until you are content”
And under that card, a set of plane tickets. Tickets with no return dates, tickets to see the world. One for my daughter, and one for me.
***
I had no intersection partner, apprently I smell or something!
I was 6 months old when my birth mother left me in a foster home, two before my father's family gained legal custody of me. My father's mother became the only one I knew, and I called her mom. She, however, spent my life referring to me as her granddaughter, a blow I may still not have recovered from. There's a complicated world that exists between mothers and daughters, maybe even more so between those daughters who have been adopted or taken in. We see in our parents the disappointments, the failures we knew we posses. Mothers see their insecurities glaring back at them through identical eyes, daughters feel pressure to be smart and beautiful, to gain approval that sometimes never comes.
I often felt like my mother hated me, though as an adult I know this wasn't the truth. But as a child, and especially into my teen years as I understood more and more how I came to be, there was what felt like a mutual dislike radiating between us. Looking back, I can see that it was not hatred, but fear, that she showered on me. Fear that I would end up like the woman who birthed me, fear that I would become an addict like my father. She knew no other way than to hold on too tightly, to criticize a little too freely, to try and make me see all the potential I had.
I, of course, rejected it at every turn. I felt suffocated, felt beaten down, hated her for allowing my parents to leave me, hated her for allowing my uncle to abuse me. I couldn't understand that what I really hated was being terrified all of the time, of thinking I would never find love, find acceptance, find peace. I never hated her, I hated my circumstances, myself. I fought against all she asked of me, left home too young and made stupid choices with long lasting impacts.
As a child, I always believed that someday I would find my birth mother. I hated her, but craved her love at the same time. I imagined a reunion like Sally Jessy would have- emotions and tears, I'm sorry and I love you. I wrote a million over the years, threw each one away, I wanted my birth mother to find me, to explain herself, to say she missed me. I needed a reason, a concrete explanation for why I wasn't enough. It never happened.
Instead, a few years ago, after having tried many times before to find her on the internet, I thought to myself, "One last shot. One more time I will try to look her up, and if I don't find her now, it was never meant to be." I found two women on facebook with the same name, I sent them both the same message, about who I was, and who I believed her to be. I gave information about my father, my age, and that if she wasn't the woman I was searching for, I was sorry to bother her.
Not five minutes later, the first woman wrote me back: 'I'm not the woman you are looking for, but I wish you the best of luck". I felt defeated, until another five minutes passed and I got this in my inbox:
yes i am the woman you are looking for. i cant believe that you found me because i have also been trying to find you. i do want very much to talk with you and hope that get right back to me as soon as you get this. i know there are a lot of questions that you have and will answer any that you ask. i will be here at the computer waiting for you to contact me back. ask me whatever you want and i will answer you the best way i can. roseann
We began to email back and forth, and spent hours that night speaking on yahoo messenger. I wasn't ready to speak with her over the phone, I was angry, and unhappy with answers to my questions, unhappy how she blamed both my father and his mother for things. My rational was, he's not here to defend himself, and regardless he had been in my life for as long as he was alive.
The next morning, two phone calls. One from my grandmother, Roseann's mother, and one from my aunt Toni, her sister. I spoke with them both for what felt like hours. We cried. We laughed. We couldn't believe it. My grandmother lived in Vegas with another aunt, and my brother. My brother whom I knew I had, and was dying to meet. My aunt Toni lived in Norther NJ, about two hours from where I was. She asked when we could meet, and I don't know how it happened, but that very same weekend my exhusband and I were driving to New Jersey to meet a family I didn't know I had had three days before.
I was terrified. Nervous. I may have shook the whole way there. I was almost unable to make myself go into the front door, felt like I was going to be sick numerous times. And then? Then I went through that door, and I crossed over from a life of incomplete into a family that loved me and held me and made me feel so secure. We talked for hours, my aunts and cousins and I. We cried and looked at photographs, we kissed and held hands. Not for one moment did I feel as though I didn't belong there, not for one moment did I question my choice. They embraced me, and filled me, and simply loved me. I was enough.
I didn't tell my mom at first, I was scared of how she would react. I knew she wouldn't be mad, and I was right. She put on a cool front, a brave face, though I knew deep down she was as terrified as I was. Terrified that I would love them more, maybe. Terrified I would speak ill of her, perhaps. She had nothing to worry about though, only praise was spoken of her from my lips, praise and thanks. In the years since, she and I have grown even closer, have formed a bond I wouldn't be able to put into words. She loved me when no one else would. She raised me, fed me, clothed me. She housed my child and I when we had no where else to turn. She tells me constantly how capable I am, how intelligent. She is no longer my enemy, she is my allay, my friend.
I flew to Vegas that summer and met my other aunt, my brother, my grandmother. I spent a week learning about the family I been thrust into, learned that they were just as complicated and fucked up as my own. And then, after my marriage ended, after I had been a part of my birth mother's family for quite some time, I finally met her in person.
There were no tears. There was no emotion. Not from my end at least. She was a woman, nothing more, nothing less. She was flawed, and she made me sad, but for her, not for myself. I have another brother and a sister that I have never met. She continued to have children she did not take care of. She is selfish. She is juvenile. She was all of the fears my mother had held for me personified, and I finally understood why so much pressure was placed on me through my life. I wanted to find Roseann, to confront her and to have her love me. Instead, after meeting her in person, I only wanted her to find some peace within herself, because I found so much inside of me.
I'm not whole, by any means. I don't know that I ever can be, but I am closer to it. I am happier and more content than I have ever been. Finding that side of my family allowed me to realize that I was never ME who was not enough, that it was never my problem. I am capable of love, amazing love, and I am able to express it and hold on to it, not run from it as I had always previously done. I found the true love of my life after finding my family, I was able to embrace it fully. I found the parts of me that I never was aware of, but had always felt an acute longing for. I was able to build a bridge, from who I had been, to who I want to be, and they have helped me being that long journey. I am able to see all of the things in Roseann that I never want to be, all of the ways a parent should not act, all of feelings a grown woman should be able to let go of.
I have also finally allowed myself to understand how amazing my mom is. How truly remarkable and wonderful she is. She is not my enemy, she is my champion. She is brave, and tough, she is strong and resilient. She is who I hope to become as the years move on.
***
This week, I was partners with 
jacq22. Go read her entry, it's wonderful! Beautiful imagery, and wonderful story telling, and a sweet as pie woman to boot!
* edited for html fail!
Not this past Saturday, but the one before, Jakob and I woke up early with the itch to bring a new lovey home. We took a ride to the shelter, convincing Michael it was just to look, all three of us knowing we wouldn't leave without a new family member.
Jakob liked a large gray boy, though his sign said "unknown" in regards to being house broken. Michael had no preference. And I like a sweet little girl who was brand new to the shelter and may have had a family still looking for her. We visited each cat, poking fingers through to be licked, laughing at those cats putting on a show. There was one cat no one could ignore. A large, dusty pale pinkorange, huge, and very vocal. She was the first we had all seen, and for some reason I kept coming right back to her. She wouldn't stop talking, rubbing against our fingers, looking at us with so much longing.
We had wanted a younger cat so Cleo wouldn't feel too threatened. Zazzy is sat least 2 or 3.
We wanted a boy because Cleo had only been around males. Zazzy is a lady.
We wanted someone calm and quiet, again to make Cleo feel more at home. Zazzy talks more than I do!
And yet, much how I have been known to pick boyfriends, everything I thought I wanted was out the window when I met our girl.
"She's just like me... in CAT FORM!", I exclaimed. And she was. Ohhh how many "pretty face" comments I had gotten, how many "you talk far too much" remarks? I loved her more and more and by the end of our time there, I knew she needed to be ours.
We were told we could pick her up Tuesday, as she needed to be fixed. So we went home, and we cleaned, and we waited. I looked at her picture a few times that weekend, sent it to my best friend, and decided to name her Zazzy. Many names were vetoed, including Porkchop, Jenny, and Queen LuLu.
Monday morning, Michael called to check on her, and it turns out she had already been fixed and could have come home with us Saturday! ARGH! We brought her home Tuesday, and let me tell you, she has been well worth the wait. This cat? She's amazing. She's the sweetest cat, not afraid of anything, super affectionate, and obviously already feels at home. Her and Cleo are getting more used to the idea of one another, and it's less and less that Zaz has to stay in the safe room. She's ballsy, beautiful, loud, and knows just what she wants. She also is three times the size of Cleo, just about as big as the dog! Exactly me, in cat form =)
This little addition to our family is already well adored and completely spoiled. I'm so glad we've brought her home with us, and that she seems just as happy to be here with us.
I moved in for a closer look, feigning the need to find a better view of the boys on stage. “Accidently” brushing against him as I made my way past, he turned and gave me the slightest smile. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough for me to make my move.
“Alice” I said, calmer than I felt, as I offered my only slightly damp palm.
He looked at me, eyebrow cocked, and said “James”, sounding more like a question than a statement.
I turned his hand over, and traced the solid black letters. His right hand read “Et Tu B”, his left “rute ?”.
“Shakespeare?” I asked, “Story of my life” he replied with a wink.
The band played behind us, but for three hours we talked. Talked about ourselves, our homes, our lives. 2am, closing time, our clothes barely stayed on the cab ride to his place. 3 weeks later I had moved in, just a few bags and my old gray dog.
We were honest with one another, we spoke only in truths. I hated his mother, his sideburns, his drinking. He hated my spoiled nature, my neediness, the smell of my feet. His hands on my chin were home, though, and every night dinner was on the table waiting for me. He loved the small of my back, my spirit, and how tiny my hands looked when wrapped around him.
We made a life. Through the fights and the drama, through the laughs on the couch. In 3 years there was not one night we spent apart, and it was impossible to imagine one of us without the other.
And then one day, something inside flipped. His touch made me cringe. His voice grated every nerve in my body. There was no actual explanation except to say I no longer loved everything about him, that I was no longer sure there was ANYTHING about him I liked.
And so, on an unseasonably warm February day, I packed one suitcase more than I had arrived with, not completely sure I was making the right decision, grabbed my much grayer dog, and gave James one last hug. He seemed unphased, a little sad, but not completely surprised.
I walked down the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and looked back up at the window. He sat there looking solemn, a childlike glare in his eyes. He called down, “Hey!”, and shoved his fingers against the window screen. I had to laugh a little, the only “fuck you” he could manage to give me. I put my bags down and called back, “Help me bring these things back up, will you?”
For a while, I felt the destruction I caused in every pore, in every whisper.
We bumped along, together, hoping our feet would grab hold of the ground, hoping our apologies and good intentions could ever be enough.
I should be ashamed. I should feel guilt and remorse.
I do not.
Through you, I found myself.
Through you, I gained the courage to fight, to hold strong to that which matters.
Through us, I learned to let go, to let love.
There is a warmness in you I've never known before, a gentle kindness I can't always understand.
Your strength and courage to walk away from the life you knew so that you could give happiness a try inspires me.
Your ability to understand that at my very core I am terrified and worried and scared all of the time; to take that fear and anxiety and soothe it, strengthens me.
You have held me when I thought all was lost.
You have wiped my tears when worry consumed me.
You have understood the complex relationship I have with my family, and have embraced them.
You rubbed the small of my back when you could see the emotion wanting to escape when I met my birth mother for the first time.
You encouraged me to go back to school, and cheer on each accomplishment.
You took me to finally get my license, and have yet to yell at me for the damages to your car.
You kept me upright at the funeral, were the only reason I made it through without a panic attack.
You stand by me, you laugh with me, and you motivate me.
This road we've taken, it's never once been clear.
Some would say we made mistakes, that we were selfish and indecent.
I say to hell with them.
We started this thing running- running from our lives, our pasts; running towards one another.
There's no more need to run, this life we're building is not something to rush.
You are the reason I still have the ability to smile, to laugh.
You are the reason.
**
This week's topic was to pick a current Lj Idol contestant and use them as your inspiration. I thought I would play it nice and write with all the cheese I could muster about
rumplebuttkins.My cousin Amanda was beautiful. She was as beautiful as she was sweet, and hilarious. We grew up together, always more like sisters than cousins. The best memories I have from childhood all involve her, and her brother and 4 sisters. She and I were always close. When I had my son, she was so excited- she watched him, bathed him, loved being around him. When we were young, we would have all night sleep overs; laughing well into the night and watching movies we shouldn't have. We snuck liquor and ate Slim Jims by the pound. Summers when she would stay at our house for weeks at a time were always a blast- she was 5 years younger than I was, but was always the beauty and fashion expert. We would tease my sister together, take the dog for walks, play endless boardgames, swim for hours. I loved her, even when she drove me crazy the way only younger relatives can.
At 21, Amanda had two kids. She worked full time, and she wanted to be a nurse. She never had it easy- her parents were more like children and had issues of their own, and she was always left to take care of her younger siblings. She became their mother, their discipline. Amanda was always popular with the boys, and the father of her two children was someone who was in and out of Jail for various reasons. The night he got out of prison for the last time, she picked him up and they headed to a party at the house of an old friend of hers. Mostly, she was going to pick up her younger brother, Ryan. The boy who was throwing the party, Brandon, had always been in love with Amanda, and while I wasn't there and don't know exactly what happened, I do know that he wasn't happy she showed up with Enrique, her fiance.
I can't be sure the exact order of events, all I know is that words were exchanged, anger was tossed about, and while Amanda and Enrique drove away as fast as they could, a bullet meant for someone else lodged itself behind her ear, killing her almost instantly. The last time I had spoken to Amanda was when everyone urged me to talk to her about having a child. The last words we said to one another were filled with anger and venom. I had seen her, two weeks prior to her murder. She had been at my mother's house, with her babies, and we said not one word to one another. I wanted so badly to talk to her, but my stupid pride kept me from speaking. I later learned she talked about it with my sister in the driveway, telling her she wished we could be close like we had been. I have one regret in my life; I regret not swallowing my stupidity and hugging her.
The night we found out, my uncle called at 4 or 5 in the morning. I remember collapsing. I remember screaming until my lungs felt like they had burst. I remember crying so hard I had a panic attack, crying so hard I threw up. I remember my mother and sister grabbing onto me. I remember dying that night as well.
I still haven't forgiven myself. I still haven't allowed myself off the hook. My father died when I was 8, and that was horrible. But Amanda dying was the worst thing to have ever happened to me, until my son's father died. Those two moments have been life-defining, have been traumatic enough to change who I am at my very core. I miss Amanda more than I can express, I miss laying on the couch together watching chick flicks. I miss her telling me how to do my hair, I miss teaching her how to give a blow job. I miss holding her hand walking down the street. I miss hearing her burp the alphabet, miss her eating giant pickles.I miss the part of me that died that day with her. Most of all, I miss the amazing laugh she had, the giant smile, her beautiful eyes.
There was no real explanation as to why Greaby wanted to be in two places at once, he had simply woken up one morning with the notion stuck in his head, and that notion quickly grew to obsession. Think of all the possibilities! He could mow the lawn AND feed the chickens. He could go to the store AND cook dinner… AT THE SAME TIME! Most importantly, he could go to work AND spend the day sleeping . It simply blew his mind, and he knew he had to make it happen, despite no technical or scientific training to speak of.
Night after night he toiled over how to make this possible, and night after night he sank into bed disappointed. Realizing something would have to change, he decided to sign up at his local adult school. Despite resenting the name a bit, “Inventing for Dummies” proved to be a smart use of $75; Greaby was able to learn just how stupid the rest of these “inventors” were, making himself feel, for the first time ever perhaps, far superior to others. An alarm clock that starts your car? An automatic dog poop picker upper that resembled a rumba? Who would use such silly things?? For the life of him, Greaby could not imagine the practicality of those inventions, and sensing how dim his co-students were, he kept his idea to himself knowing there was no possible way they would get it.
At the end of the seven week course, an “Invention Fair” was held, much like an elementary school science fair. Rumor had it that a big wig at one of those home shopping networks would be walking around, looking for the next big As Seen On Tv product. Booths were set up, each with multi-color presentation boards, and mock ups of the inventor’s design. Greaby walked around, taking in all of the designs, growing more and more confident of his own. The first booth he stopped at, a mop that doubled as a broom, showed Margaret’s lack of imagination, he thought. The next, Amy’s aroma therapy helmet made him roll his eyes. At the last table before his was a machine meant to massage your back and give you a hair cut at the same time. Better than the rest, sure, but still not quite awesome.
Finally, Greaby’s booth. An elaborate silver setup, with wires and buttons, boops and beeps. He worked day and night for weeks to get it just right, even calling out of work a few times to put it some extra time. The big wig was getting closer, and Greaby’s palms began to sweat. This was it, this was the moment where everything would change. He took a deep breath, began his presentation, and pressed the “start" button.
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
Tilly ate those potato chips with all of the power her little jaws could muster, staring right in the face of Grace who was stuck chomping on carrot sticks with icky brown humas. Hummmmm asssssss. Tilly loved that word, if only because it allowed her to sort-of-but-not-really cuss, and the idea of humming on someone’s butt was too hilarious for words.
So, while Grace was busy thinking of how big her thighs would get if she ate even one chip, little Miss Tilly delighted in the double torture of eating the chips in front of her sister while getting crumbs all over Grace’s prized purple and yellow pillow case. At 13, Grace was tall, beautiful, and smart – all the the things a big sister should be, and those were all the reason’s Tilly despised her. Sure, secretly, she wanted to be just like her, but she would never admit that.
Tilly watched as Grace studied every inch of her body in the pink-framed mirror she had gotten for Christmas. At the slightest sag or wrinkle, sags and wrinkles Tilly couldn’t see at all, Grace would gasp and pinch the skin tight till she couldn’t stand the feeling anymore. It baffled Tilly; in fact, it baffled her so much she said “Grace, you baffle me”. Grace just looked at the younger girl, rolled her eyes, and went back to staring at herself.
They used to have fun together, the two Jakowski sisters, creating vast worlds made from plastic forks, rubber spatulas and crayons. They would walk around the neighborhood for hours, round and round, talking about their favorite my little pony, and debating the likelihood that Belle could ever fall in love with Beast. The two of them were inseparable, always sharing a whisper or laugh. It wasn’t until Grace started 7th grade and they no longer went to the same school that she started to see Tilly as a bother. Tilly just didn’t get why it was so important for the other girls to like her, or why it mattered what color shoes she wore. Middle school seemed crazy.
Tilly ate one more chip, loud as can be, tumbled off the bed and slammed the door shut behind her. She picked up Farty, their ancient calico, and went to see if her mother needed any help in the kitchen, or at the very least, if she could sneak a snack or two.
***
Grace stared at her hips, her brain screaming violently over the lone purple stretch mark forming. Stupid Tilly, she just doesn’t get it. To her, everything is snoopy sno-cones and purple barrettes. It doesn’t matter that secretly Grace would rather braid Barbie’s hair than practice sucking in her cheeks, or that make up and dress was much more fun before she was being judge on it. Her teeth are too crooked, and her eyebrows arch in a weird way, and her hips just keep on stretching. Everything changed when middle school started, every way in which Grace was inadequate shined brightly, and all she could see anymore were the imperfections.
Grace picked up her hand mirror to look at the back view, noticed a stray dimple on the back of her thigh and felt the tears well up.
"He knows", all she needed to say.
Looking out the window at the thick clouds I felt a sense of relief. He knew.
It started innocently enough, the two of us sharing a work space, fighting over the printer. Sharing lunch, grabbing coffee, talking about our fucked up childhoods. Until I couldn't stop looking into her eyes. Until I couldn't help but brush hair behind her ears. Until I realized everything was right in front of me and if I didn't kiss her right that moment nothing would make sense ever again.
Conversation turned to the what ifs, and the maybes. The some day and the always. She was convinced he would kill her, then I, then possibly himself. I thought about running, leaving and going to Wyoming, or North Dakota, or some other absurd place so we could just be.
Part of me wanted him to find out, wanted to hold her without feeling her hands tremble. What was the worst that could happen? He would find out and we could be free. Free from his rage, the black and blue marks that would randomly appear on her arms. I wanted to kill him, but she just held my arms and convinced me she would be okay.
And now he knew. He knew and something was about to happen. I felt excited.
"He knows. I told him. I... I told him."
Her hands, shaking and so small, still held tight to the knife. I pulled it out of her hands and placed it on the table. I pulled her to me, kissed the top of her head and said, "So he does."
There were plenty of reasons for me to distrust him, reasons to end it sooner than I did. But when I said I do, I meant it with every fiber of my being. I could look past the fact that he never worked, that he spent all of my money on liquor and cigarettes. I could look past the fact that we never had sex and that he was constantly passing out at 8 or 9 pm. I could even overlook the fact that when he was more drunk than usual he would get extremely mean. Never physical, but plenty of horrible words were exchanged, many tears were shed. I overlooked it because he *was* so damn charming. Because he cleaned the house and did the dishes. Because he took care of my son when I was at work. Because he helped my mother at her house. Because he wanted to be me.
The relationship began taking it’s last breaths when we went to Las Vegas to visit the family I had only recently discovered. I saved and saved until we had a good amount to spend while there. We booked a room, car and hotel for cheap. We had so many activities planned, we were both so excited. When we got there, however, things did not go as planned. All of the money I had saved went like water – he ended up withdrawing the account by about $500. He drank constantly the whole time we were there, causing fight after fight. The trip was a disaster, and when we got home I asked him to get help, or to leave. He refused to get help, and after 2 years I knew I couldn’t stay any longer.
It wasn’t an easy breakup, he had no job, no money, no where to go. I had to get an order of protection against him, and ended up breaking my lease and moving to a new apartment to ensure the safety of myself and my son. It wasn’t until well after that my son informed me that there were times when my husband would pick him up from school while drinking a beer. Or that he would be passed out at dinner time and so my son ate little more than crackers. This only happened a few times, but it killed me. I felt like the worst mother in the world, and if I had believed in god, I would have thanked him with every ounce of my being that my son was okay. My biggest fear was that something would happen to my son because I made a shitty choice in mates.
My ex-husband and I are just that, exes. As far as I know he’s alive, and supposedly sober, though I have no idea if I can believe that. I married him because I loved him, though deep down a part of me knew it wasn’t the right thing for me. I ended the relationship because I loved myself and my son more than I loved the broken man my ex had become. It was one of the hardest things I had ever done, but in the end, it was also the smartest.
**
The Theme this week was to pick a current event / news story locally and use it as inspiration. Mine was: http://abclocal.go.com/wpvi/story?section=news/bizarre&id=8532848
When Jakob was born it was much like a first date- he was cute and I was excited, yet nervous and unsure. As time went on, I grew more and more used to his presence in my life, became accustomed to him, though I was still very much terrified and unable to be the parent I should have been. Eventually, I fell madly in love- I can pinpoint the exact moment, one where I had come home from work and this tiny bundle of amazing was so excited to see me, and so happy I was home, and reached for me with his fat little arms. I didn't deserve such unabashed love, but I realized I had fallen deep for this perfect extension of his father and I.
Completely opposite of me his father fell right into being parent, fell madly for our son from the first moment. As he grew they became the best of friends. I often felt shame and guilt that I was unable to be half the parent Armand was. But through that I became a better parent, forced to live up to the impossibly high standards he had been setting. I digress, however, as this isn't about how I came to be the mom I am today, or how amazing his father always was.
We didn't have much money when Jakob was a baby- scratch that, we didn't have any money, and for the three of us our world was my old bedroom at my mother's house. This was not a happy place to be and I wonder sometimes how different our relationship would have turned out if we had gotten out of there sooner, together. Up until he was about 6 months old the only bed we really had for Jake was a bassinet that he was quickly growing out of it. And not one of those beautiful rocking models either, this was a vibrating, low to the floor, no baby should really live in type deal. But we both worked hard to make sure we had diapers and food and clothes for our son, so a crib was just not affordable- no matter how used or worn.
We were lucky in that Armand's godfather and uncle had had a baby a few months before Jakob was born, and so hand-me-downs were fairly common. There had been mention of getting a crib from them but we didn't know if that would actually happen, so when Armand brought home the pieces one day when Jake was 6 months old, we were besides ourselves. I remember attempting to put it together - one or both of us sitting in the middle of a metal frame trying to figure out what the hell we were doing. I can't say for sure, but I am almost positive a few fights were had. We had no instructions and were working off of nothing more than an idea in our head of what a crib should look like, how it should function. Jakob looked on from our bed, big blue eyes questioning the movement around him. Finally, it was compete. Complete...and huge. I honestly can not tell you how we managed to fit a queen sized bed, dresser, changing table, full sized crib, wall of shelves, and other crap into our bedroom, but we did it.
After putting the mattress in with only the bottom sheet we decided to put Jake in and see how he liked it. I don't remember every thing from his early childhood (it's safe to say I have even blocked a lot of it out), but there will never be a day in my life where I can not recall the sheer happiness we all felt in that moment. We sat Jakob in his brand new bed and the happiest squeal I have ever heard escaped through him. I have no idea how he could have known, but somehow the knowledge that this was his bed overtook him. He laughed and then suddenly began rolling around, back and forth in all his pudgy, tumbly, baby-glory. That was the first time I had felt the pure joy mentioned above, a feeling so honest, so strong that I still get emotional when I think about it. My son had a bed. His father and I could not give him much but a safe, warm, soft place to sleep was something we could now provide.
We broke up sometime after his first birthday though we still lived together and tried to make it work for a little while, it just wasn't possible. There was a lot of struggle, fighting, a lot of anger. My behavior during that time in our lives is embarrassing, and I wish I had been able to tell Armand how sorry I was for everything. I guess though, I don't need to, he knew. That crib was not the only thing we built together- through the next 9 years we not only built a really strong friendship, but also the ability to co-parent in a way that makes me swell with pride to think about now. When Armand died, the pain was overwhelming- it continues to be. But I hold on to that moment of pure happiness, to the lessons he taught me through raising our child, and I know the foundation he built inside of our son and myself is strong enough to get us through anything.
I left my father’s home at 17, headed straight for anywherebuthere, and landed a job waiting tables in a crummy diner. Micah followed me, and though I pretended not to know him half the time, secretly I thrilled at his sleeping body on my worn couch.
We ate breakfast together every morning- hot oatmeal and cold juice, always in silence. Micah was never one for banter, pointless conversation made him irrationally angry and so we chewed without so much as a word passed between us. In the 7 months we lived together, the silences became so comforting, so inviting, that I dreaded being around other people and their inane babble.
He left, suddenly, in the middle of the night, and I was lost. I had never felt his hands on my body, nor his breath on my neck, and yet the loss of his soft footsteps on the wooden floor left an aching inside deep enough to make me feel split in two.
It was a year before I saw him again. I had moved to another town, one which was smaller and had the constant scent of cabbage in the air. My apartment was one room, with a small fire escape I liked to use as a smoking lounge. Drinking a glass of lemonade out there, I looked across the alley and there he was- shaggy hair, dark circles under his eyes where sleep had evaded him. No hugs or sounds of joy from either of us. I simply opened my front door, and he took his place on the couch as though he had never left.
This pattern continued, he’d leave without warning, I’d move, and some time later there he would be. I never questioned how he found me, content to know he would always just be there.
There was only one time when I tried to make him touch me, wanted him to physically fill the hollow his leaving left inside. Coming out of the shower one night, I left my towel behind, and walked out in front of him. He stared only into my eyes, never allowing me to see his want. I took his hand and placed it on my breast, letting him feel my heart. Magic passed between us, a tangible burst of electricity was in the air. I made the mistake, then, of taking my hand from his and the moment became real. Micah was up, making his way to the door, as I stood there with tears in my eyes.
I waited. I waited years for him to show up again, as was his way. I left forwarding addresses, moved less often, settled eventually in the west. He had always come to me, until the day I finally welcomed him completely, and he no longer needed to search.
Last year my father sent me a card with a picture of barren trees on the front. The blank inside of only a newspaper clipping with perfect cut lines. “Local man, Micah Rhodes, found at bottom of Lake Reardon with large stone tied to waist.” The picture accompanying the article looked nothing like I last remembered him- here was a man staring at me with sad eyes, though the Micah I knew was never anything more than a boy. That hollow he once started turned into an abyss, and peace became impossible. Only the memory of his hand held briefly under mine, and that newspaper article taped to my window allowed me to sleep at night.
"I'll get a better job, we can move to Florida- there's bigger boats there."
She nodded, slightly, curled into a ball, and pretended to sleep.
***
His body felt worn, looked much older than it's 26 years. His thin arms bulged with veins, his skin yellowed. He had a mixture of professional and homemade tattoos telling the stories of his life- jail, pain, death. He worked too hard; the constant labor keeping out thoughts of where he went wrong. It was a difficult pace to keep up with and when the drugs became more than recreational it didn't surprise him as much as it could have.
***
Five years old and nothing but bubbles and energy. She missed her daddy but he was coming home that day. She counted down until she could hug him, take in that smell of fish and sweat and an underlying sweet something she couldn't identify. No one else seemed excited, they were too quiet, on edge. She heard shouting, suddenly, and her daddy racing toward her. "DADDY!!!!", she screamed and he scooped her up into his arms, high above the world. A fork, or something sharp and pointy, suddenly pressed into her head as he held her out towards his mother yelling things she no longer remembers. "I should be scared right now, but I'm not. This is my daddy and he loves me", and that was enough for her to stay calm.
***
Mother's day, 1989. He makes promises of fun and trips, promises her she can come stay with him for her birthday. Maybe he knew, maybe he just wanted to leave her with something good to remember him by.
***
It's not like he didn't try. It's not like he didn't know better. He understood the risk, knew he should stop so she would have at least one parent who was there to make her feel as though she belonged. It wasn't a choice he could control, and he hated himself for it. It just felt so good, and there was so much to forget.
***
He loved his daughter, that much was true. Everything inside of him told him he should move back home, to be with his little girl and to keep her safe. There were forces inside of him, forces that were stronger than his love, and though he knew better he gave in.
***
He loved her so much that he did finally come home. She loved him so much she insisted to be the one to hold his urn until the very last moment.
You rest your head on my hip and ask why I haven’t run. Your hair moves slightly against my thigh and sends a thrill through me.
“Run? There’s nothing scary about you, darling."
I remember your eyes the night we first met, made up with too much eyeliner and reddened by wine. Tonight they seem so clear that it makes me smile.
The freeway provides a steady drone in the background, and I close my eyes. I can feel the tension in every inch of your body, always ready to explode.
There’s words to say, three of them at least, but your nails digging into my wrist tell me it’s not the right time.
I’m not ready for the moment your eyes cloud over and your feet take off. I’m not ready to lose this moment with you.
“Do you think I’ll ever be full?”
Your lips tremble as you wipe them with the back of your hands. My hand throbs, and I open my eyes. I kiss the top of your head, and reach for something to stop the bleeding.
Someday, maybe.
Let’s face it- Freud was an asshole. Cocaine and penis envy aside, his personal issues clouded many of his otherwise well thought out theories. I hate his beard and smug face too, but that’s beside the point. One thing I have always found interesting though were his theories on psychosexual stages of development, especially the oral stage. Freud theorized that individuals who develop fixations during this stage, those who were not able to nurse at all, or for long enough, become selfish, envious, sarcastic people.
I find this interesting because I was never breastfed. I didn’t even meet my birth mother until I was 28, and at that point it was much too late in the game to ask her to whip the girls out, you know? I have a myriad of issues stemming from that woman, but I wonder if the fact that I was never allowed the pleasure of nursing explains why I’m such a jackass most of the time.
Selfish? Well, I suppose the fact that I believe the world does and should revolve around me would fit into that.
Pessimism? It’s not my fault that the world is crap and everyone sucks and nothing goes right, you know? I don’t think lack of breast milk is the reason for any of that.
Suspicion? WHAT EXACTLY IS IT THAT YOU ARE IMPLYING? ARE YOU EVEN SOMEONE WHO CAN BE TRUSTED? WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT??
Sarcastic? I’m about as sarcastic as your mom is.
So what that I like to chew on pen caps. And suck on lollipops all the time. And give a great BJ? Yeah, and maybe I do crave affection and being held close to someone. How would that relate to the lack of being coddled as a child? I don’t need to have been nursed to be a well balanced, happy and optimistic person. Fuck Freud.
We had spent a good amount of time before actually arriving at his Aunt’s huge house talking about how this would be the weekend. THE weekend. You know the one. He was 20, I was 18, and neither of us had gone very far with the opposite sex. His experience up to that point was with some crusty punk girl whom I hated without ever having met; mine consisted of some kisses and a traumatic blow-job. We had discussed the ins and outs (heh, heh) ad nauseum, and were pretty sure we knew what we were doing. Once we actually set foot in Texas, however, all talk was done, and we were a pile of nervous, awkward, raging hormones.
I was at the tail-end of my period when we had arrived, and while I had been assured by the boyfriend that it didn’t bother him, it bothered me. So, patiently we spent a few days hanging out with his family; I learned to play pool, learned what rocky mountain oysters were, and was serenaded my his uncles’ many fart-wars. We snuck off for kisses and dry humping, somehow getting turned-on by the idea that his whole family was morally opposed to us even cuddling. I was living my very own pg-13 erotic novel!
I woke up the morning of Thanksgiving, and just KNEW. I went to the bathroom and sure enough, no more period. I didn’t know how to bring it up, so I said nothing at first. Around 10am we made our way to the grocery to find the makings of our own vegetarian feast and to rent some movies to keep us busy during the day. Once that was done and we were sitting in the car, I leaned over and told him he might want to stop at the pharmacy and get some condoms. Whoa boy, was I smooth one! You never saw a chubby hardcore kid run faster in your life, and in under 3 minutes condoms were procured and we were driving back.
All through dinner, there was tension between us. Our hands did terrible things under the table and I couldn’t help but give him The Look. The one he said drove him crazy, the one that I loved to tease him with. Looking back there was no way we were subtle about this, but thankfully no one said anything. We ate, watched a little football, and then went into his room (he was in one guest room, I was in another) to watch the movies. We started with Blair Witch which scared the shit out me and knocked all lust right out. That was followed by What Dreams May Come, and the (admittedly corny) discussion on how we would go through hell to find the other and were obviously soul mates got my 18 year old self RARING to go. I told him I was going to take a shower and ended up scrubbing and shaving every single inch of my body, convinced hair and dirt was the worst thing possible for LOVE MAKING. PJs on, we said our good-nights to everyone and settled in for one more movie.
A movie we both loved and had picked out together, not knowing it would forever be linked to that night. Somewhere at the midpoint, clothes came off, words were whispered, noses were bumped. Neither of us had any clue what we were doing, and it took a good 10 minutes to figure out if everything was where it needed to be, and no not there, no... no... NO HIGHER. But we got it, eventually, and unlike many of my friends, I can say with all honesty it was romantic and sweet and actually pretty good, as far as first times go. The movie ended at the same time we did, and for 20 minutes or so we just lay tangled together. At some point I whispered to him, “We had sex!”. He kissed me softly, looked into my eyes, and whispered back, “Inconceivable!”. Our laughter quickly broke the mood, and we went to bed in our separate rooms.
And that was how, 12 years ago on a brisk Thanksgiving night I lost my virginity, and the ability to ever watch The Princess Bride again.
He worded it so well, I'm stealing his wording too. Let's try it and see what happens, yes?
We all have things we want and things we need. Sometimes we're afraid to ask the people around us for help because we have too much pride or are just afraid they'll say no. Sometimes we ask but the people we ask don't have the skills or resources we need.
We also all have things we can do or things we don't want anymore. Sometimes the things we can do are as simple as pointing people to a website that offers jobs or training, sometimes it's a big thing like giving away that extra car you have laying around. Whatever it is, it's helping.
So here's what I'd like you to do:
Make a comment here and list things you need or want. Big, small, anything. Just put it out there for the world to see. Then take a moment and look through other people's comments, read their list, and see if there is something you can do to make the world a better place for someone else.
Maybe we can all help someone and get a little help in return.
Take a few minutes, dare to dream, and help someone else's dream come true if you can.
Feel free to pass it along, too.
subluxate at postgandolforf's brother, Eric Lee Bark, pictured above, was last seen in Maquoketa, IA, on November 4, 2011. He gave no word to his family as to where he was going.Eric was born December 19, 1987. He is 6'2" and weighs approximately 170 pounds. He has hazel eyes and brown hair, and there is a 6" scar on the outside of his left arm, near his elbow. The last time he was seen, he was wearing a dark blue hoodie and blue jeans. His car is also missing; it's a green Jimmy with rust marks.
If you see him, please contact
gandolforf at gandolforf@gmail.com, on Twitter at gandolforf, on Tumblr at http://gandolforf.tumblr.com/, or let me know. I will let A. know about anything as soon as I hear. You can also contact the Maquoketa Police Department at (563) 652-2468.There is a Facebook post here; please pass it on if you can. There is also a Tumblr post here.
This post is public. Feel free to pass it on, in part or full, if you so choose.
I take another cigarette and place it between my dry lips. I reach for my lighter but can’t find it, search through my pockets and give up. I take a sip of water, and make my way to the roasting pit. As I fill my plate with 3 different meats, I think about heading home. Maybe after some corn bread.
I chew through the food slowly, savoring every bite. Watching the fire keep time with the music, I see a new face. Thick, well groomed eye brows almost hide the glint in her eyes, but I see it. Pretty and fresh, she looks just like trouble.
She can feel someone watching and catches my eyes. Without so much as a smile, she begins to sway her hips. Denim shorts 3 inches too small and cowboy boots make her legs appear twice as long as they really are. Side to side her hips move, eyes locked now. She turns away from me, no doubt wanting me to see just how tight her ass is, and her arms go up over head. In slow motion, she takes her top off and drops it to the ground.
The fire is casting a glow across her perfect back and I see an intricate tattoo making it’s way down her left side. As if she can tell I want a closer look, she slowly dances closer to where I’m sitting, never once turning around. The gray and black lines of ink curve around her, showcasing both the artistry of the work and the beautiful shape of her body. White and yellow Narcissus flowers bunched together, with letters I can’t quite make out.
She looks over her shoulder, smiling slightly, invitingly. Her head motions for me to join her, and I think about quickly. I stand up, wipe my greasy fingers on my pants, and make my way from where I was sitting. When I’m close enough to touch her, I lean into her and whisper, “Not this night.” I see the fire reflecting in her eyes for a brief moment, and she dances away from me as slowly as she had before.
I head through the crowds, and try to remember where I parked my bike. I see a blue lighter on the ground, and light myself a cigarette. She was beautiful, all right, but no. Not this night.
“Well, looks like the shipment has arrived” was what I thought to myself as I made my way back to the storage area.
Jim was there, in all his sweaty glory, squatting in the middle of 30 or 40 boxes. His hair was every which way, and there was the slight odor of tuna that seemed to follow him even though I had not seen him eat it even once in the 4 years I’d known him. He looked up at me, sighed, and struggled to his feet.
“I hate Tuesdays” he said as he casually kicked a box and walked to the back entrance to light a camel.
I had hired Jim to work three days a week at the dollar store as a favor to his sister. As meaty and sweaty as he was, his sister was just as beautiful and dry, not a trace of tuna about her. A very young looking 40, with red hair and green eyes, she was a regular at the coffee shop I liked to stop at in the mornings. Three months of seeing her every day with her little french cruller and even littler skirts drove me crazy enough to go up and talk to her. Beautiful and witty, we became fast friends. Damn that woman and her skirts, teasing me with those legs! It was no wonder when she asked me if I could maybe help out her recently divorced brother I said yes without thinking about it. Three days a week turned in to six, and soon he became my right-hand man. One dollar store turned into three “Six and Under”s, and Jim was the most dependable employee I’d ever had.
“Heya, Jim, is Carrie still seeing that lout? What’s his name, Barley?”
“Barry. And no, she dumped him last week, she said something about his penis being too big and his wallet too full? Of course she’s still with him, you dope.”
I forgot to tell you, tuna-man fancies himself a comedian.
“Alright, alright. Forget I asked. Let’s get these boxes unpacked.”.
I get all my shipments from Mexico, wholesale. I never actually know what they are sending me till they get here, and it’s not unexpected there will be some shit here and there. Hell, for $2 a box, who’s complaining? The first few boxes were the usual, packages of hair clips and discount toothpaste, a few bags of underwear with the days of the week printed across the bands. There was a box of Jason Bobber calenders that I knew would sell out in days, and even a box of fake turquoise rings that the grandmas would eat up.
“So. Be honest. Do you think I have a shot, or what?” I asked Jim as we sliced open the boxes, and sorted the goods onto shelves.
“Sure, she’s always been crazy for guys with beer bellies, glasses, and three hairs on their head. You’ve got it in the bag!”.
Why I keep paying this guy...
There was one box left to open, and I let Jim take his lunch while I took care of it. Inside were various odds and ends, and a smallish box labeled “Rare and Precious”. Curious, I opened it and found 6 gold necklaces with the most unusual medium sized pendants. Polished and shiny, with spirals and markings that were different in each one, I realized I must have gotten the box by accident. The browns and blacks, the reds and grays told me that these necklaces must be made of a very special stone, and I would be a fool to sell them for six dollars!
Then, a brilliant thought occurred to me. What woman could say no to jewelry? The next morning at the coffee shop I would present Carrie with the most beautiful necklace in the bunch, and call it a “token of my affection”. She would MELT, that’s for damn sure. Looking at the choices, I picked a red and brown oval shape, with a mid-length chain. I slipped it into my pocket and finished putting the rest of the goods away.
The next morning, I chose a red shirt to compliment the necklace, and combed my hair. Hrm. Maybe Jim had a point, things were looking a little sparse up there. I brushed my teeth, grabbed my best blazer, and headed out the door. As expected, Carrie was sitting at the window in a cheetah-print mini, those legs taunting me. Carrie worked at the Natural History Museum as a curator, and I often wondered how she could get away with such short clothing. She saw me walking up, grinned, and waved just bit.
“Ah. Um. Good morning, Carrie.”
“Good morning, yourself. Nice shirt, is it new?” She smoothed out a wrinkle on my shoulder as she asked this, and I got weak-kneed. This woman knew exactly what she was doing to me!
“Uh, no, my mom gave it to me for Christmas last year. Anyways, I, um... I wanted to give you something.” Those big green eyes smiled up at me, and I had to sit down.
“Just as a, you know, token of my infection... AFFECTION for you, and our friendship. Just a little reminder of me for you to wear.”
I pulled out the necklace I had wrapped in tissue, and presented it to her. Her cheeks glowed, and she opened it quickly. I saw a smile light across her face, and she touched my hand.
“How thoughtful... do you by chance know what type of stone this is?”
“I do, actually! The box said coprolite, I believe it’s a rare stone native to Mexico.” I was talking out my ass, but I hoped she would buy it.
“Coprolite? Well, ain’t that some shit!”
Comments
In some ways, many women trade favors for money, even as wives to husbands for security. At least sex workers are upfront about it and authentic.
Very unique take on the prompt.